Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940-45: Strategy, Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Eastern Mediterranean (Studies in Military and Strategic History)

Studies in Military and Strategic History General Editor: William Philpott, Professor of Diplomatic History, King’s College London Published titles include:

Martin Alexander and William Philpott (editors) ANGLO–FRENCH DEFENCE RELATIONS BETWEEN THE WARS Christopher M. Bell THE ROYAL NAVY, SEAPOWER AND STRATEGY BETWEEN THE WARS Peter Bell CHAMBERLAIN, GERMANY AND JAPAN, 1933–34 Antony Best BRITISH INTELLIGENCE AND THE JAPANESE CHALLENGE IN ASIA, 1914–41 Antoine Capet (editor) BRITAIN, FRANCE AND THE ENTENTE CORDIALE SINCE 1904 Philippe Chassaigne and Michael Dockrill (editors) ANGLO-FRENCH RELATIONS, 1898–1998 From Fashoda to Jospin Michael Dockrill BRITISH ESTABLISHMENT PERSPECTIVES ON FRANCE, 1936–40 Michael Dockrill and John Fisher THE PARIS PEACE CONFERENCE, 1919 Peace without Victory? John P. S. Gearson HAROLD MACMILLAN AND THE BERLIN WALL CRISIS, 1958–62 Brad William Gladman INTELLIGENCE AND ANGLO-AMERICAN AIR SUPPORT IN WORLD WAR TWO The Western Desert and Tunisia, 1940–43 Raffi Gregorian THE BRITISH ARMY, THE GURKHAS AND COLD WAR STRATEGY IN THE FAR EAST, 1947–1954 Stephen Hartley THE IRISH QUESTION AS A PROBLEM IN BRITISH FOREIGN POLICY, 1914–18 Ashley Jackson WAR AND EMPIRE IN MAURITIUS AND THE INDIAN OCEAN James Levy THE ROYAL NAVY’S HOME FLEET IN WORLD WAR II Stewart Lone JAPAN’S FIRST MODERN WAR Army and Society in the Conflict with China, 1894–95 Thomas R. Mockaitis BRITISH COUNTERINSURGENCY, 1919–60 Bob Moore and Kent Fedorowich THE BRITISH EMPIRE AND ITS ITALIAN PRISONERS OF WAR, 1940–47

T. R. Moreman THE ARMY IN INDIA AND THE DEVELOPMENT OF FRONTIER WARFARE, 1849–1947 Kendrick Oliver KENNEDY, MACMILLAN AND THE NUCLEAR TEST-BAN DEBATE, 1961–63 Paul Orders BRITAIN, AUSTRALIA, NEW ZEALAND AND THE CHALLENGE OF THE UNITED STATES, 1934–46 A Study in International History Elspeth Y. O’Riordan BRITAIN AND THE RUHR CRISIS G. D. Sheffield LEADERSHIP IN THE TRENCHES Officer–Man Relations, Morale and Discipline in the British Army in the Era of the First World War Adrian Smith MICK MANNOCK, FIGHTER PILOT Myth, Life and Politics Melvin Charles Smith AWARDED IN VALOUR A History of the Victoria Cross and the Evolution of British Heroism Nicholas Tamkin BRITAIN, TURKEY AND THE SOVIET UNION, 1940–45 Strategy, Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Eastern Mediterranean Martin Thomas THE FRENCH NORTH AFRICAN CRISIS Colonial Breakdown and Anglo-French Relations, 1945–62 Simon Trew BRITAIN, MIHAILOVIC AND THE CHETNIKS, 1941–42 Steven Weiss ALLIES IN CONFLICT Anglo-American Strategic Negotiations, 1938–44

Studies in Military and Strategic History Series Standing Order ISBN 978–0–333–71046–3 Hardback 978–0–333–80349–3 Paperback (outside North America only) You can receive future titles in this series as they are published by placing a standing order. Please contact your bookseller or, in case of difficulty, write to us at the address below with your name and address, the title of the series and the ISBN quoted above. Customer Services Department, Macmillan Distribution Ltd, Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS, England

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45 Strategy, Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Eastern Mediterranean Nicholas Tamkin Christ’s College, University of Cambridge

© Nicholas Tamkin 2009 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2009 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of St Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN-13: 978–0–230–22147–5 hardback This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 09 Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne

This book is dedicated to the memory of Dr Anne Thomas

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Contents

Preface

viii

Acknowledgements

ix

List of Abbreviations

xi

Introduction

1

1 Turkey During the Period of Anglo-Russian Antagonism, June 1940 to June 1941

19

2 The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941

32

3 Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East, May 1941 to November 1942

51

4 The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943

76

5 Turkey and the Anglo-Soviet Alliance, June 1941 to September 1943

107

6 The Eastern Mediterranean, in Peace and War: May to October 1943

118

7 Alliance Diplomacy and the Rise of Anglo-Turkish Antagonism, October 1943–September 1944

131

8 The Balkans, 1944–45

151

9 Russia, the Caucasus and the Straits, October 1944 to July 1945

166

Conclusion

189

Notes

198

Bibliography

255

Index

266

vii

Preface The archival research for this book was carried out as part of a doctoral thesis for the University of Cambridge between 2003 and 2006. This research was funded by the Arts & Humanities Research Council (AHRC). I would especially like to thank Professor David Reynolds for his support and advice during both my doctoral research and the preparation of this book for publication. Other friends and colleagues who have provided assistance along the way include Simon Ball, Patrick Driscoll, Caroline Erskine, David French, Evan Mawdsley, Phillips O’Brien and Richard Toye. Thanks to John Elvy for his assistance with map production.

viii

Acknowledgements

The author and publishers wish to thank the following for permission to reproduce copyright material: Guardian News & Media Ltd for p. 4, ‘The Turkish Sentinel,’ Manchester Guardian, 22 October 1940. Copyright Guardian News & Media Ltd 1940. Harvard University Press for p. 91, from Vladislav Zubok and Constanc 1996 tine Pleshakov, Inside the Kremlin’s Cold War (1996). Copyright
by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Johns Hopkins University Press for pp. 276–77, from Ferenc Albert c 1971 The Johns Hopkins Vali, Bridge Across the Bosporus (1971).
University Press. Oxford University Press (www.oup.com) for pp. 111–12, from Keith Sainsbury, Turning Point (1985); p. 522, from AJP Taylor, English History 1914–1945 (1965); pp. 248–49, from Arnold Toynbee, Acquaintances (1967). Taylor & Francis Group (www.informaworld.com) for pp. 51–53, from Sergei Mazov, ‘The USSR and the former Italian Colonies, 1945–50,’ Cold War History 3:3 (2003); for p. 117, from Süleyman Seydi, ‘Making a Cold War in the Near East: Turkey and the Origins of the Cold War, 1945–1947,’ Diplomacy & Statecraft 17:1 (2006); for p. 40, from Artiom A Ulunian, ‘Soviet Cold War Perceptions of Turkey and Greece, 1945–58,’ Cold War History 3:2 (2003). Extracts from the papers of the Earl of Avon are reproduced with the permission of Lady Avon and Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham. Extracts from the papers of Sir Alexander George Montagu Cadogan are reproduced with the permission of the Master, Fellows and Scholars of Churchill College, Cambridge. Extracts from the papers of General Sir John Noble Kennedy are reproduced with the permission of the Trustees of the Liddell Hart Centre for Military Archives, King’s College London. The cover photograph of Winston Churchill and I˙ smet I˙ nönü is from the Churchill Archives Centre, The Broadwater Collection, BRDW I Photo 6, and is reproduced with the permission of Curtis Brown Ltd, London on behalf of The Broadwater Collection. ix

x

Acknowledgements

Much of the material in chapter three of this book originally appeared as ‘Britain, the Middle East and the “Northern Front,” 1941–42,’ War in History 15:3 (London: Sage, 2008), pp. 314–36. Every effort has been made to trace rights holders, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be pleased to make the necessary arrangements at the first opportunity.

List of Abbreviations CIGS COS CPSU CUP FO GC&CS GHQ Middle East JCS JIC JPS MFA NKVD PHPS

RAF RPP SIS SIGINT SOE

Chief of the Imperial General Staff Chiefs of Staff Communist Party of the Soviet Union Committee of Union and Progress Foreign Office Government Code & Cipher School British Middle East Forces, Military Headquarters, Cairo US Joint Chiefs of Staff Joint Intelligence Committee Joint Planning Sub-Committee of the Chiefs of Staff Committee/Joint Planning Staff Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs Soviet State Security Police Post-Hostilities Planning Sub-Committee of the Chiefs of Staff Committee/Post-Hostilities Planning Staff Royal Air Force Republican People’s Party Secret Intelligence Service Signals Intelligence Special Operations Executive

xi

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Introduction

This book explores the role of Turkey in British strategy and diplomacy during the Second World War, with a particular emphasis on Turkey’s place in the changing relationship between Britain and the Soviet Union. Although Turkey did not declare war on Germany until February 1945, it had a treaty of alliance with Britain, and occupied an important strategic location in the eastern Mediterranean, between Axis-held Europe and the British Empire in the Middle East. This book draws on the latest archival releases – including those from the secret world of British intelligence – to offer the first comprehensive analysis of Anglo-Turkish relations during the Second World War. It seeks to bridge the gap ‘between world war and cold war,’ and fill a significant gap in the international history of the 1940s. This is the first study to properly contextualise Turkey’s place in British strategy at each of three key stages in the war effort – in the Balkans in the winter of 1940–41; on the ‘Northern Front’ in 1941–42; and in the eastern Mediterranean in 1943. It also addresses Turkey’s prominent role in British post-war planning from the summer of 1943, and demonstrates some of the emerging strategic dilemmas in the eastern Mediterranean and Middle East, which dominated British external policy after 1945. British policy towards Turkey during the Second World War has been characterised as a misguided and futile attempt to bring Turkey into the war on the Allied side, when a judicious contemporary analysis should have shown the unlikelihood of Turkey playing a substantial part in the war against Germany. Writing in 1965, AJP Taylor asserted that ‘the Turkish alliance was a will o’ the wisp which Churchill pursued with unshakeable constancy.’1 This analysis is deficient in two main ways. Firstly, it implies that the Turkish alliance was pursued solely 1

2

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

with the aim of securing Turkish belligerency for offensive operations against the Axis. Taylor’s critique continues: ‘It was probably fortunate that [Churchill’s] dream never came true. Turkish neutrality was a stronger barrier against the Germans than her belligerency could ever have been.’2 As this book aims to show, the British were all too aware of this, particularly in the year following the invasion of the Soviet Union, and they framed their policy towards Turkey accordingly. An earlier episode, during the winter of 1940–41, when the British did appear willing to sacrifice the Turkish barrier in the Middle East, is also explained in the pages that follow. Secondly, Taylor overestimates the constancy and consistency of Winston Churchill’s significant yet episodic interventions in British policy towards Turkey between 1940 and 1945. This book qualifies and explains Churchill’s particular interest in Turkey, and its decisive influence at key points, significantly revising existing accounts of the Prime Minister’s ‘obsession’ with Turkey, and adding light and shade to his strategic vision for the Balkans and the eastern Mediterranean. It poses important questions about Churchill’s use of intercepted diplomatic Signals intelligence (SIGINT); a resource which he was eager to receive, yet one which his Turkey policy suggests he failed to make the most effective use of, particularly when secret intelligence challenged his own, entrenched ambitions and strategic precepts. A focus on Churchill alone cannot adequately explain Britain’s Turkey policy throughout the Second World War. This book also seeks to move beyond a Churchill-centric focus, in favour of a multilateral view of British external policy, which incorporates other important individuals such as Sir Alan Brooke and Anthony Eden, and corporate voices like the Foreign Office (FO) and the Chiefs of Staff (COS). Recent archival releases demonstrate that Churchill was not the only one with access to diplomatic SIGINT, and not the only one who was unable to exploit it fully. In particular, Chapter 4 raises questions about the failure of the FO to exploit intercepts which seriously challenged the bases of a Prime Ministerial policy towards Turkey and the eastern Mediterranean with which they fundamentally disagreed. This book seeks to explain British policy by paying closer attention to attitudes towards the new Turkish republic as they developed in the 1920s and 1930s, and which underpinned British policy at the outbreak of the Second World War. Three key images developed, the bases of which are explored below. They can be summarised as follows.

Introduction

3

• In 1939, the British saw Turkey as the leading Balkan nation, the motor for substantive collaboration between the nations of southeastern Europe. Although Britain’s own interests in the Balkans were limited, they encouraged Turkey to ‘keep the Balkans Balkan,’ and prevent the playing-out in the region of Great Power rivalries which might spark off another European conflict. • The British understood Turkey to be a friend and ally of the Soviet Union, a legacy of Soviet–Turkish collaboration after 1918, when the Bolsheviks and the Turkish nationalists were pariahs, threatened by Britain. These ties had been eroded during the 1930s, as Turkey sought to balance its Soviet alliance with closer relations with Britain, but the British still understood Turkey to be a possible ‘bridge’ between Moscow and the western democracies. • Finally, the British had embraced an overwhelmingly positive image of the Turkish republic as a dynamic, modernising, ‘westernising’ nation, well armed and authoritarian, but at peace with the world and prudently led, first by its founder, Kemal Atatürk, and after his death in 1938 by Kemal’s long-serving Prime Minister, I˙ smet I˙ nönü. One might call this the ‘Kemalist’ perception of contemporary Turkey, in contrast to earlier Ottoman or ‘Orientalist’ images of the ‘Sick Man of Europe,’ or the ‘Terrible Turk.’ Each of these images exercised a significant, distorting impact on British policy towards Turkey during the Second World War, although each was gradually eroded when put under pressure in the years after 1940. Belief in Soviet–Turkish friendship was already under threat by 1939, but it had a lingering impact during 1940–41, particularly for policy-makers not exposed to intelligence suggesting Soviet territorial ambitions in Turkey. By the autumn of 1941, the British were increasingly convinced of ‘axiomatic’ Soviet–Turkish antagonism, but the pre-war precedent for collaboration between Moscow and Ankara was repeatedly invoked by Churchill and the FO as they attempted to reconcile Turkey to the Anglo-Soviet alliance. The perception of a Turkish leadership role in the Balkans significantly distorted British policy in the region during 1940–41; eroded thereafter, it was nonetheless revived in the absence of a credible alternative strategy in the Balkans in 1943–44. Finally, the prewar conviction in the success of Turkish ‘modernisation’ contributed to a drastic overestimation of Turkish capabilities during 1940–41, particularly in the Balkans. The gradual disabusing of this misperception during 1942–43 manifested itself in dramatic, contrary assertions that Turkey was ‘slipping back’ into its ‘Oriental’ past as the ‘Sick Man of Europe.’

4

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

As indicated above, the book seeks to move further beyond traditional diplomatic history by incorporating developments in intelligence history, above all the archival release of diplomatic SIGINT – Allied, Axis and neutral – intercepted and decrypted by the British intelligence authorities at Bletchley Park in Buckinghamshire (later at Berkeley Street in London) throughout the Second World War.3 Turkish correspondence – between the Foreign Ministry and General Staff in Ankara, and diplomats and service attachés overseas – features heavily in this collection, compensating to some extent for the absence to date of comprehensive Turkish archives for the Second World War. In addition to the FO, which received a copy of almost every telegram intercepted, regular recipients of diplomatic decrypts included the service ministries, the Dominions, Colonial and India Offices, the Ministry of Economic Warfare and the Security Service (MI5). Key individuals such as Desmond Morton and the Cabinet Secretary, Sir Edward Bridges, often received decrypts directly; so too, until his retirement as Chief Diplomatic Adviser in 1941, Sir Robert Vansittart. An incomplete collection of this material was released in the mid1990s. This was the diplomatic portion of the daily SIGINT passed to Churchill by the head of the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), Sir Stewart Menzies. This material was used by Robin Denniston for a book on British policy from autumn 1942 to early 1944, the period during which Churchill sought Turkish belligerency against Germany.4 With one or two exceptions, this is a satisfactory analysis of the use of selected diplomatic intercepts during this period. However, the Churchill collection is selective, consisting of material considered of sufficient importance and urgency to be passed directly to the already overworked Prime Minister. Yet there is much additional, important material which was not passed to Churchill, but was of great value to the FO and service ministries. Denniston pays little attention to the ‘pre-history’ of AngloTurkish relations, identified here as essential to a fuller understanding of that relationship during the Second World War. Churchill’s archive exists only from August 1941, whereas the comprehensive collection of diplomatic intercepts runs uninterrupted from early 1939.5 Denniston’s emphasis on the gambit to achieve Turkish belligerency against Germany from autumn 1942 contributes to two significant oversights, both of which are corrected here. Like Taylor, Denniston neglects the period 1941–42, when Turkey was seen as a vital component in British plans – such as they were – to resist a German assault on the Middle East, either via the Caucasus or from the Balkans. This ‘Northern Front’ of the Middle Eastern theatre mattered enormously to

Introduction

5

the British, and is explored in detail in Chapter 3. Secondly, Denniston concludes his study with Operation ‘Overlord,’ the invasion of Western Europe, after which Turkish belligerency became an irrelevance. This marginalises Turkey’s role in relations between Britain and the Soviet Union, particularly during the final year of the war, as tensions developed in the Grand Alliance. A previous monograph, using British archives available during the 1980s, similarly marginalised the Soviet factor in Anglo-Turkish relations.6 The present book seeks to correct this oversight, and contends that the Soviet Union, like the Russian Empire before it, dominated Anglo-Turkish relations during the Second World War. Turkey’s response to the evolution of the Anglo-Soviet alliance during 1941–43 – as perceived by Britons in London, Moscow and Ankara – is essential to an understanding of Britain’s response to Soviet demands on Turkey at the end of the war in 1945; a response heavily influenced by the availability (or otherwise) of intercepted diplomatic SIGINT. Soviet archival releases for the period of the Nazi–Soviet pact (August 1939–June 1941) are invaluable, especially as Soviet diplomatic ciphers were not broken by the British. Historians of the Soviet Union have produced some important work on the Soviet – and particularly Stalinist – hostility to Turkey generally, and the Anglo-Turkish connection in particular. Gabriel Gorodetsky articulates the role of Turkey and the Balkans (especially Bulgaria) in the Stalinist security concept, and recognises the extent to which Stalin’s apprehensions of a British threat to the Soviet Union via the Black Sea and the Caucasus, possibly in collaboration with Turkey, informed Soviet policy.7 These apprehensions influenced Soviet policy for the duration of the Grand Alliance, and the immediate post-war period. Published research for the late Stalinist period is less comprehensive, although the working papers of the Cold War International History Project, and several recent journal articles, offer insights into Soviet policy in 1944–45 and beyond.8 Earlier memoirs by the likes of Nikita Khrushchev and Vyacheslav Molotov have also been complemented by the translation into English of Sergo Beria’s memoir of his father, the head of Stalin’s Soviet State Security Police (NKVD).9 Turkish historiography also informs this book. The standard singlevolume history of Turkish policy during the Second World War articulates a diplomacy which militated against belligerency on either side, particularly following the collapse of the European balance of power in 1940.10 As a ‘small country at the crossroads,’ Turkey sought maximum freedom of movement, and tried to avoid alignment with particular

6

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

power blocs. Practical politics and hard bargaining triumphed over idealism, promises and sentiment. Turkey should be prepared to fight in the defence of its rights and its territory, but would go to war only in defence.11 The collective experiences of the generation governing Turkey – former army officers who had fought against Italy and the Balkan nations, in the Great War and against the Greeks – were of great significance. This generation sought to protect the republic from another regional or European war, the consequences of which they had all witnessed.12 Such qualities recommended Turkey to Britain during the 1930s, yet engendered some of the bitterest Anglo-Turkish disagreements of the Second World War. More recent research offers deeper insights into Turkish foreign policy in the immediate pre-war period, and the domestic and economic background to Turkish policy throughout the Second World War, which further militated against belligerency on the Allied side.13 The most comprehensive archival history on pre-war Anglo-Turkish relations articulates the limited strategic basis for the rapprochement of the 1930s – the emergence of an Italian threat to both powers in the Mediterranean – and the tensions which emerged in this de facto alliance when the Italian threat became subordinate, in British eyes, to graver threats from Germany and Japan.14 Its author articulates the contrasting British, French and Turkish conceptions of the 1939 treaty and emphasises the failure of Anglo-French economic diplomacy to supplant Germany as Turkey’s principal trading partner, an essential precondition for the implementation of the alliance. At the other end of the period, the years immediately after the Second World War have been the subject of recent archival research.15 The present work complements each of these studies with a comprehensive analysis of the period 1940–45. *

*

*

The images of Turkey that shaped British policy on the eve of the Second World War – as the leading Balkan nation, a bridge between the western democracies and the Soviet Union, and a dynamic, reforming nationstate – were not axiomatic. The final years of the Ottoman Empire had been characterised by the loss of its Balkan possessions; the apparent failure of successive reform programmes to revitalise the ailing Empire; and antagonism with Russia, which harboured designs on the Ottoman capital, Constantinople, and sought control of the Turkish Straits – the

Introduction

7

Bosphorus, the Sea of Marmara and the Dardanelles – to achieve an exit from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean. British governments supported the Ottoman Empire as a bulwark against Russian imperialism, both at the Straits, where Russian control would threaten British interests in the Mediterranean, and in the Caucasus, as a buffer keeping Russia from India and the Persian Gulf. This policy enraged liberal humanitarians, who denounced British support for an ‘Oriental despotism’ which persecuted its Christian subjects in the Balkans.16 The collective memory of the ‘Bulgarian horrors’ was a powerful and enduring aspect of British images of ‘the Turk,’ even while strategic considerations necessitated official support for the Ottoman government. By the late 1900s, the German threat to the European balance of power contributed to a limited Anglo-Russian rapprochement that nonetheless undermined Britain’s role as the Ottomans’ Great Power protector.17 The Young Turk coup in 1908 revived hopes of a constitutional regime in Constantinople, but the Ottoman Empire’s close relationship with Germany – its new protector against Russia – made an Anglo-Turkish rapprochement problematic.18 Anglo-Turkish relations were subordinate to those with Russia, which still claimed Constantinople and the Straits. Moreover, the nationalist Committee of Union and Progress (CUP), which held power in Constantinople, sought union with the ethnic Turks of the Russian Empire; a policy of ‘pan-Turkism’ or ‘pan-Turanism’ which was identified particularly with Enver, the de facto leader of the CUP during the final years of the Empire.19 In 1914, the CUP gambled on alliance with Germany to achieve this objective.20 The Ottoman alliance with Germany ended the previous divergence between liberal humanitarians and the foreign policy establishment in Britain. The result was a uniformly negative image of Turkey. Wartime propaganda denounced the Turks as ‘a human cancer, a creeping agony in the flesh of the lands which they misgoverned, and rotting every fibre of life.’21 Polemics such as The Murderous Tyranny of the Turks reiterated the stereotype of the ‘unspeakable’ or ‘terrible Turk.’ The mass murder of the Armenians, hundreds of thousands of whom died in Ottoman massacres and death marches, graphically confirmed these prejudices.22 The Entente powers secretly agreed to partition the Ottoman Empire, granting Russia the control of Constantinople and the Straits previously denied to it by Britain. This agreement was reached in 1915; the same year in which the British campaign to force the Dardanelles

8

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

was thwarted by Turkish defence of the Gallipoli peninsula, marshalled by Mustafa Kemal. The Turks fiercely defended Constantinople and Anatolia, but were defeated in North Africa and the Middle East. Gains made at Russian expense in the Caucasus were given up following an armistice with the Allies in October 1918.23 The Entente’s attempt to impose a punitive peace treaty – the Treaty of Sèvres – was resisted by a nationalist movement which by 1919 was under the leadership of Mustafa Kemal. The British Prime Minister, David Lloyd George, encouraged Britain’s allies in Greece to crush the nationalists, and implement a radical truncation of the Turkish state. Turkey was to be reduced to a rump in Anatolia, with territorial cessions to Greece and Italy, an independent Armenian republic, and Kurdish autonomy. For the British, ‘Turkish nationalism had not yet become axiomatic. The Greater Greece – even a revived Byzantine Empire – was still a legitimate – or at any rate an arguable – proposition.’24 A notable dissenter was the Secretary of State for War (Colonial Secretary from 1920), Winston Churchill. A Liberal Cabinet minister in the 1900s, Churchill had challenged the anti-Ottoman consensus, professing enthusiasm for the Young Turk revolution, visiting Constantinople, and corresponding with the Ottoman leadership.25 He nonetheless prosecuted the war against the Ottoman Empire with vigour, and his association with the Dardanelles campaign cost him his job at the Admiralty. Churchill was not driven by the anti-Turkish prejudice of his colleagues, however, but instead sought to rally the independent nations of the Balkans to the Entente.26 He was motivated by the search for a war-fighting expedient, not by humanitarianism or ideological conviction. By 1918, he was urging a ‘good peace’ with the Turks as a means of reviving a bulwark against Russia, his bête-noire since the Bolshevik revolution in October 1917.27 The Turkish nationalists made common cause with the Bolsheviks, who had at this stage renounced territorial claims against Turkey. For the Bolsheviks, a Turkish national revival would reduce the Allies’ capacity to strike at them from the Caucasus or through the Straits, and might inspire revolution in other eastern nations. For the Turks, Russia was a source of military and financial assistance. This was a marriage of convenience, rather than a genuine Soviet–Turkish alliance.28 Interests clashed in the Caucasus, where both parties claimed Batum, Kars and Ardahan. Negotiations for a treaty of alliance broke down in 1920 over the future of these territories, and Stalin, a member of the Bolshevik delegation, suspected that Turkish policy had shifted in favour of the Allies.29 A compromise allowed Turkey to keep Kars and Ardahan, while

Introduction

9

Batum remained in Russian hands, but Moscow continued to fear an anti-Soviet Turkic-Muslim movement in central Asia and the Caucasus.30 The nationalists had indeed sought a rapprochement with Britain, and were willing to collaborate against the Bolsheviks in the Caucasus,31 but Lloyd George remained convinced of the need to crush Turkish power. By the autumn of 1922, however, Kemal had defeated the Greeks, and his forces were advancing on the British garrison at the Straits, which had been internationalised at Sèvres. On-the-spot negotiations defused an armed stand-off at Çannakale, and led to a new armistice in October 1922.32 Lloyd George’s reckless policy contributed to the fall of his government, and Churchill lost his parliamentary seat at the 1922 General Election, having belatedly thrown his weight behind the Prime Minister when he apprehended the threat to British prestige of a capitulation to Turkey at the Straits. The new government negotiated a revised peace treaty, concluded at Lausanne in Switzerland. Turkish territory promised to Greece and Italy was returned, and the Armenian and Kurdish terms of Sèvres thrown out. The Straits remained demilitarised, but were restored to Turkish sovereignty and guaranteed by an international commission whose members would aid Turkey in the event of a military threat. A 1921 treaty between Kemal and the Bolsheviks had provided for a new, regional agreement on the Straits, in which Russia would be primus inter pares, and the British prevented from passing military shipping through the Straits. During the nineteenth century, the Tsarist regime had thought of the Straits in terms of expansion, of access to the Mediterranean. For now, however, the Bolshevik regime was concerned only with defending itself against hostile powers. The British, who had sought to close the Straits to keep Russia from the Mediterranean, now saw freedom of the Straits as a means to exert pressure on the Bolsheviks, whose Black Sea fleet was negligible.33 Turkish support for an international Straits convention at Lausanne indicated their concern about being ‘locked up’ in the Black Sea with Russia, and illustrated the limits of the Bolshevik–Turkish rapprochement. The British nonetheless conceived of the Turkish republic, founded in October 1923 with Kemal as President, as an ally of the Bolsheviks, and Anglo-Turkish relations continued to be characterised by mutual suspicion. The dispute over Mosul – an oil-rich area in Iraq, occupied by Britain in 1918 – perpetuated suspicions of Turkish revanchism in the Middle East, until the dispute was resolved in Britain’s favour by the League of Nations in 1925. The anti-Turkish propaganda of the First World War had also left its mark. Arnold Toynbee, author of several

10

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

wartime polemics, later recalled that ‘for all but a very small minority of my countrymen, the Turks were anonymous ogres. Like “the Huns” and “the Boers,” the “unspeakable” Turks had a pejorative collective label but no human personal names or countenances.’34 The British doubted the Turks’ ability to carry out Kemal’s ambitious programme of social, economic and cultural reform, as it developed during the second half of the 1920s.35 The capital of the republic was moved from Constantinople (Istanbul) to Ankara. Kemal exiled the Ottoman dynasty, and abolished the Caliphate. Turkey became a secular republic, and the Islamic code of law was replaced with laws on western European models. Arabic script was replaced with the Latin alphabet, and women were emancipated. Later, in 1934, a law was introduced compelling all Turks to adopt a surname; Kemal became Atatürk, while ˙ ˙ Ismet took the name Inönü, the site of his victory over the Greeks in 1921. Kemal encouraged the development of modern industry, inspired by the rapid industrialisation of the Soviet Union. A new representative institution – the Grand National Assembly – was established, although resistance to the Kemalist programme was suppressed. Dissenting comrades from the war of independence were exiled or imprisoned, and no genuine opposition to Kemal’s Republican People’s Party (RPP) was permitted. Their shared commitment to internal consolidation and reform, and Soviet economic and industrial assistance, perpetuated good Soviet–Turkish relations.36 Nonetheless, British diplomats reported that Turkey did not trust Russia, and sought reinsurance through renewed co-operation with Britain.37 The Soviet Foreign Commissar, Maxim Litvinov, warned in 1929 that the Turks ‘are openly striving to restore their alliance with the English . . . the Turks realise that in our policy we shall be forced to revert to old aims, and they are taking the precaution of renewing their insurance policy in London.’38 A fledgling Anglo-Turkish rapprochement was evident in the final volume of Churchill’s history of the Great War, Aftermath, published in 1929. Initially wary of the ‘fierce’ new Turkish republic, Churchill now highlighted Kemal’s wartime and post-war exploits, and wrote admiringly of the Turkish national defence. Churchill reflected a growing sentiment that Anglo-Turkish enmity between 1914 and 1922 had been an aberration, the result of misrule by extreme nationalists in thral to German power.39 This established a pattern which became the norm during the 1930s. In the early 1930s, historians wrote of the ‘Enver-Kemal attempt’ to ‘exterminate’ the Armenians.40 A decade later the Armenian genocide, if mentioned at all, was ‘Enver’s Crime,’

Introduction

11

and the war ‘Enver’s War,’ encouraged by crafty German diplomats and an ‘almost imbecile’ Sultan.41 The Anglo-Ottoman war was portrayed as a clean fight between two warrior races, with no quarter asked or given. Survivors could meet in the post-war world with mutual respect, and British veterans were employed on prestige missions to Turkey. Similar sentiments were reflected in Atatürk’s 1934 speech commemorating the Dardanelles campaign, which paid tribute to the fallen of both sides. In the same year, 1934, a new ambassador arrived in Ankara. Previous ambassadors struggled to bring the changes taking place in Turkey to the attention of Whitehall. Sir Percy Loraine capitalised on developments in Turkish foreign policy, and the tangible achievements of Atatürk’s reforms, to articulate a new archetype of ‘the Turk,’ which would dominate British thinking by 1939. Kemalist Turkey, Loraine wrote, is ‘anti-revisionist; is pro-League of Nations; is content with her own frontiers; is hostile to the splitting up of Powers into opposite camps or blocs; is an advocate of international co-operation; works for the reduction of international frictions.’42 Following the internal consolidation of the republic, Turkey improved relations with its Balkan neighbours, most significantly with its recent enemy, Greece. This rapprochement impressed the British, and Turkish stock rose accordingly.43 Participation in the Balkan conferences which began in 1930 saw Ankara become, in British eyes, ‘an important political centre. The Turkish Government is courted by neighbouring States, on whom it bestows its advice, and whose differences it endeavours to compose.’44 Balkan collaboration culminated, in February 1934, in a pact between Turkey, Greece, Romania and Yugoslavia, described by the British embassy in Ankara as ‘a group which is in some respects almost a new Great Power.’45 The western perception of the Balkans as a backward, semi-civilised ‘Other’ within Europe has been characterised as ‘Balkanism,’ a phenomenon related to Edward Said’s ‘Orientalism.’46 The term ‘Balkan’ had negative, pejorative connotations, conjuring up images of ill-educated, ‘medieval’ peasants, ‘Byzantine’ politics and unstable governments, murderous ethnic conflicts and regicide. The emergence of a modern Turkish state, by way of contrast, suggested Turkey’s rapid progress towards equality with the other nations of Europe. Turkey was understood to differ from its autocratic royal neighbours in the Balkans, in that the regime was accepted, if not enthusiastically supported, by the majority of the population. Turkish national unity contrasted favourably with the divisions which wracked the other Balkan nations.

12

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

Republican Turkey, united behind a strong yet pragmatic leadership, building its industrial base and armed forces, yet committed to the peace of Europe, was the most attractive Balkan nation to British observers in the 1930s. It was the ‘natural leader’ in the region, yet less ‘Balkan’ – to use the word in its pejorative context – than its neighbours. Turkey’s Balkan credentials were crucial to British perceptions of Turkey’s role in Europe. Britain’s limited interest in Balkan affairs meant that it welcomed Turkish ambitions to turn south-eastern Europe into a ‘neutrality bloc,’ to prevent it being used ‘as a Tom Tiddler’s ground by the rivalries of [other] Great Powers.’47 Turkish involvement in Middle Eastern affairs was slight by contrast. Kemal accepted the wartime loss of the Arab lands, and had no interest in their restoration. Arab nationalist and pan-Islamic propaganda was deployed during the war of independence to increase the liabilities of Turkey’s British and French antagonists,48 but relations with Middle Eastern nations remained cool following the abolition of the Caliphate and other secular reforms.49 Anglo-French hegemony meant that much of the Middle East was, for interwar Turkey, a ‘third-rate diplomatic interest,’ and when the international situation necessitated an anodyne non-aggression pact with Iran, Iraq and Afghanistan in 1937, ‘Turkey turned her attention to the east . . . only after solidifying treaties with Russia, an alliance with Greece and the Balkan Entente.’50 A reorganisation of the FO in 1939 reflected the institutional entrenchment of this image, removing Turkey from the Eastern Department, which handled Iranian, Afghan and Arab affairs, to the Southern Department, responsible for Italy and the Balkans. The trend towards authoritarianism in Europe led the British to contemplate the nature of the Turkish regime. In 1932, the ambassador wrote that the Turkish government ‘considers that the two most satisfactory forms of modern Government are those of Bolshevik Russia and Fascist Italy, and seeks to apply the best points of both to the administration of Turkey.’51 The historian Erik Zürcher agrees that the Fascist example was important to the Kemalists, but the regime nonetheless maintained the semblance of democracy (a representative assembly and elections). Turkey lacked Italy’s militarist rhetoric and expansionist ambitions, pursuing a cautious and defensive foreign policy.52 Andrew Mango has described Kemalist Turkey as a state with ‘a liberal republican constitution . . . ruled in an authoritarian manner,’ and concludes that ‘Turkey in the 1930s . . . was a disciplined country under an unopposed pragmatic government which respected the forms of constitutional democracy.’53 This contrasts somewhat with Zürcher’s contention that

Introduction

13

the Turkish leadership attempted to achieve ‘totalitarian’ rule during the same period.54 Such distinctions were of little interest in London, provided Turkey adhered to ‘the British conception of the non-division of Europe into opposing camps.’55 Turkish membership of the League of Nations from 1932, and its support for the League during the Abyssinian crisis of 1935, reinforced perceptions of Turkey as a peaceful, status quo power. This view became entrenched after 1936, when Turkey applied through the League for a revision of the Straits convention; a commitment to multilateral diplomacy which contrasted with Hitler’s unilateral remilitarisation of the Rhineland. Italian imperialism in the Mediterranean caused Turkey to doubt whether its security could be guaranteed by Lausanne, of which Italy was one of the guarantors. They sought to rearm the Straits, and the right to close them to hostile shipping. On a purely strategic level, the British opposed the revision of the existing Straits convention, which allowed them to send a fleet into the Black Sea in the event of war with the Soviet Union. They realised, however, that Turkish goodwill could be important in the fractious international arena, and agreed to a new Straits regime, negotiated at Montreux in the summer of 1936, which fulfilled Turkish desiderata. The Admiralty had opposed Straits revision, believing Turkey would permit Soviet warships to pass through the Straits and into the Mediterranean.56 Anticipating revived Russian imperialism in the eastern Mediterranean, the British understood Soviet ambitions for control of the Straits as aggressive, as in the Tsarist period, and failed to consider the defensive rationale for attempts ‘to transform the Black Sea into a mare clausum and secure their southern flank from attack.’57 Economic and industrial collaboration between Turkey and the Soviet Union intensified during the early 1930s, prompting the embassy in Ankara to describe friendship with Russia as ‘the sheet-anchor of Turkish policy.’58 By 1936, however, Loraine reported an ‘appreciable change’ in Soviet–Turkish relations. As at Lausanne, the Turkish delegation at Montreux would not side with the Soviet Union, and opposed control of the Straits by the Black Sea powers alone. Turkish control of the Straits, and their closure to military shipping in time of war, restricted Britain’s freedom to strike at the Soviet Union through the Straits, anxiety about which had driven Soviet policy at Lausanne. Yet Moscow depended for this extra security on Turkey’s honest implementation of the agreement. If Turkey chose not, or was unable, to enforce the Montreux convention, the Soviet Union remained at the mercy of an invading fleet.59

14

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

The death of Kemal Atatürk in 1938 prompted a rash of books and pamphlets, all seeking to educate British readers about the radical changes in Turkey since the establishment of the republic. These books were overwhelmingly sympathetic, reiterating the image of Turkey as a progressive, modernising, regional leader. The Turks were now ‘good Europeans,’ and the old ‘Terrible Turk’ propaganda quietly dropped or denounced in favour of the new ‘Kemalist’ orthodoxy.60 Atatürk’s suc˙ ˙ cessor, Ismet Inönü, was depicted as the organisational ‘brains’ behind the Kemalist reforms, less of a driving force, but ‘the most experienced statesman in the country . . . precisely the type of leader and example that the Turkish people need now that the fundamental changes have been made.’61 The deteriorating European situation in the late 1930s inspired a sense that Britain ought to maintain good relations with Turkey. Nonetheless, the political and cultural rapprochement was not matched by a genuine strategic realignment. The conclusion of a 15-year AngloFrench-Turkish alliance in October 1939 was hailed as ‘one of the greatest Allied diplomatic successes since 1918, and the first signal rebuff to Germany since Hitler came to power.’62 The reality was more complicated. Throughout the 1930s, Benito Mussolini was Turkey’s enemy number one. Mid-decade, the British – particularly the Foreign Secretary, Anthony Eden, who was alarmed by the Italian threat to British interests in the Mediterranean63 – may have agreed. During the later 1930s, however, the emergence of German and Japanese threats meant that the Mediterranean was a theatre in which the British must use diplomacy to prevent a conflict. Turkey had an important role in a situation – war with Italy – which Britain was anxious to avoid.64 Axis aggression against Czechoslovakia and Albania in the spring of 1939 led to the replacement of Britain’s appeasement policy with one of attempted containment. Britain and France at last concluded that Mussolini was likely to fight alongside Hitler, and resolved to deter further aggression by guaranteeing the independence of other nations under threat from Germany (Poland and Romania) and Italy (Turkey and Greece). The guarantees to Poland and Romania lacked credibility, since neither could be assisted directly by the western powers, and neither would accept the assistance of the Soviet Union. The guarantees were a diplomatic ‘line in the sand,’ across which it was hoped Hitler would not step. This undermined their effectiveness as a deterrent, as did previous Anglo-French diplomacy, which caused Hitler to doubt that the western democracies were in earnest.65

Introduction

15

The May 1939 Anglo-Turkish declaration was a more credible proposition than the unilateral British guarantees. Turkey shared no frontier with Germany or Italy, and was immediately threatened only by the Italians, against whom the Turks were confident they could hold their own.66 Turkey was prepared to collaborate with Moscow, indeed was eager to reconcile its de facto alliances with Britain, the Soviet Union and the Balkan nations.67 Turkey could be supplied by sea, and supported by Anglo-French naval power and French land forces. In the event of war against Italy, Turkey might seize the Dodecanese islands, collaborate in an economic blockade of Italy, and provide a supply route to the front against Germany in eastern Europe. The subsequent October 1939 alliance between Britain, France and Turkey anticipated Turkish belligerency alongside Britain and France in any Mediterranean war, i.e. war against Italy.68 During the summer of 1939, however, Britain and France were committed to deterrence, to the prevention or localisation of war, and were concerned with securing the façade, rather than the substance, of a Turkish alliance. Mussolini’s declaration of ‘non-belligerence’ in September 1939 revived the attempt to preserve Italian neutrality, to which the Turkish alliance remained subordinate. Planning for joint operations against Italy remained notional for the duration of the tripartite alliance. Allied economic diplomacy was, moreover, unwilling or unable to provide the economic and financial assistance which the Turks insisted was essential for the implementation of the alliance. Britain and France must compensate Turkey for the loss of its substantial trade with Germany, ‘otherwise, Turkish factories would close, railroads would not run, and the army would face the prospect of fighting a new war with the weapons of the last, and without a reliable supply of ammunition.’69 Without Allied assistance, Turkey was soon economically prostrate, prompting the Secretary-General of the Foreign Ministry, Numan Menemencio˘ glu, to travel to London for further negotiations. Menemencio˘ glu’s reports to Ankara – intercepted by the British – demonstrated the desultory progress of these talks.70 Both Britain and France had genuine difficulties in meeting the terms for material assistance. Nonetheless, their failure to understand the urgency of the Turkish requests, and the implications of the loss of German trade, is striking, with hard Turkish bargaining crudely dismissed as ‘oriental haggling,’ or evidence of ‘bazaar instincts.’71 Perhaps the greatest weakness in the alliance, as contemporary critics made clear, was the failure to reconcile the Soviet Union to the European

16

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

‘peace front.’72 The Nazi–Soviet pact in August 1939 dramatically reinforced this failure, and cut a swathe through Turkish strategy. This had been based on three key pillars – alliance with Britain; alliance with the Soviet Union; and co-operation with the other Balkan nations.73 The failure of Balkan collaboration, explored fully in Chapter 2, had eroded one of these pillars. More alarmingly, the Nazi–Soviet pact put Britain and the Soviet Union on opposite sides of the division of Europe. The Foreign Minister, S¸ ükrü Saraco˘ glu, travelled to Moscow in October 1939, still hopeful of reconciling Turkish commitments to the Allies with a renewed Soviet–Turkish relationship. He was instead confronted with pressure to abandon the Anglo-French alliance, and demands for a ‘Black Sea’ revision of the Straits convention, similar to that sought by the Soviets in 1923 and 1936.74 The result was that Turkey remained eager to conclude the alliance with Britain – the one remaining pillar of its pre-war strategy – yet unwilling to antagonise its powerful northern neighbour. The Turks insisted on a clause in the tripartite alliance which excused them from any action which might lead to conflict with the Soviet Union. Critics of British foreign policy again warned that this amounted to a Soviet veto on Turkish belligerency.75 The British government, interested principally in the deterrent value of the ‘shadow’ of the Turkish alliance, was slow to recognise this. They understood the alliance as an unconditional Turkish declaration ‘for’ the Allies, and praised Turkey’s ‘courageous’ diplomacy and fidelity to the Allied cause, concluding the treaty despite Soviet pressure.76 Churchill, back in the War Cabinet as First Lord of the Admiralty, used his radio broadcasts to acclaim Turkey’s brave stand against the Axis.77 British satisfaction with the alliance, a rare diplomatic triumph, resulted in a dangerously uncritical reading of Turkish intentions. The Soviets had meanwhile become concerned that Turkey’s rapprochement with Britain would reduce their own influence in Turkey, and lead to an Anglo-Turkish combination against the Soviet Union. This anxiety was exacerbated by Montreux, which left Soviet security at the Straits in Turkish hands. French proposals for an attack on the Caucasian oil industry, using Iranian airfields and Turkish airspace, and British plans for a guerrilla campaign in the Caucasus, using Turkic and other anti-Soviet minorities, indicate that it was not only neurosis which informed Stalin’s suspicion of the Allied threat to the Soviet Union.78 The subsequent German publication of captured documents, exaggerating Turkish complicity in the French bombing plans, reinforced Soviet suspicions of latent Turkish enmity.79

Introduction

17

All such plans were vitiated by the German attack on France and the Low Countries in May 1940. The rapid erosion of French power alarmed the Turks, as their own infantry forces, deficient in tanks and armour, were arrayed behind static defence lines of the kind which proved ineffective on the western front. The Turks, like their western allies, had assumed another war of attrition, and were stunned by the French collapse and British retreat.80 French land forces could not assist Turkey against Italy, an enemy which could no longer be faced with equanimity, since the menacing Soviet attitude required the deployment of substantial Turkish forces on their northern frontier. The contrasting conceptions of the alliance became painfully clear. Britain and France had not undertaken the operational planning necessary to implement the military convention of the treaty, nor had they fulfilled the economic and financial terms which the Turks judged necessary to participate in the war. In March 1940 Turkey had concluded a barter agreement with Germany, which could ‘hardly be described either as victory [for British economic diplomacy] or the sound basis for an alliance.’81 Notwithstanding the French collapse and the British withdrawal at Dunkirk, it has been argued that the alliance failed in 1940 because the economic relationship between Turkey and its western allies ‘never developed sufficiently to enable her to view war with Germany as anything but an economic calamity.’82 A combination of military and economic factors informed the Turkish decision to remain non-belligerent when Italy attacked France on 10 June. This was a rude shock to the British, who had assumed that Turkey was ‘adopting a very satisfactory attitude . . . there can be no question of the Turks trying to run out of their engagements.’83 The British misperceived the alliance, and assumed that Turkey had ‘declared for the Allies,’ regardless of the failure of Allied material assistance, or the lamentable performance of Allied arms. Since the spring of 1939, they had clung to the shadow of a Turkish alliance, and been unable or unwilling to give it the substance the Turks desired. In the summer of 1940, however, it was Britain which was in urgent need of an alliance of military substance. Their earlier failure to recognise the precise Turkish conception of the alliance led the British to react to Turkish non-belligerency with confusion and panic. The Permanent Under-Secretary at the FO, Sir Alexander Cadogan, accused Turkey of ‘running out,’84 while his deputy, Sir Orme Sargent, doubted ‘whether there is anything to save out of the wreck of the Turkish Treaty.’85 The Joint Planning Sub-committee (JPS) of the Chiefs of Staff (COS)

18

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

concluded that the treaty ‘has . . . presumably ceased to be operative,’ although ‘(t)here is no sign yet that the Turks are likely to join our enemies.’86 On 26 June, the Turkish government rejected the Allied request to enter the war, invoking the Soviet clause of the treaty of alliance. The ambassador in Ankara, Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen, telegraphed London to warn that ‘Russia [holds] the key to Turkish foreign policy.’87

1 Turkey During the Period of Anglo-Russian Antagonism, June 1940 to June 1941

Viewed dispassionately, the Turks had more than sufficient grounds to remain non-belligerent in the summer of 1940, without invoking the Russian protocol of the Treaty of Alliance. The French were on the point of collapse, and the British Army had twice been thrown off the continent by the Wehrmacht – in Norway and in France. Turkey was painfully aware of the deficiencies of its own armed forces, which Britain and France had done so little since 1939 to remedy. As we have seen, the economic and financial preconditions for Turkish belligerency had not been met. Writing from Ankara, Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen nonetheless remained remarkably impervious to the logic of the Turkish position, given the appalling state of the Allied war effort at that moment. He insisted that the Turks ‘had allowed themselves to be bluffed’ by rumours of a Soviet attack if Turkey fought on the Allied side. Turkey’s ‘alleged fears of the Soviet Government’s intentions are probably only a pretext for their refusal to carry out their obligations.’1

Soviet claims against Turkey Although Soviet–Turkish relations had deteriorated since the Nazi– Soviet pact, the British embassy in Ankara was not yet convinced that hostility was axiomatic. During the winter of 1939–40, British plans for war against the Soviet Union had anticipated Turkish collaboration in anti-Soviet subversion in the Caucasus. By April 1940, however, Hugessen had reported that ‘there is no indication of any [Turkish] readiness to take an initiative . . . they are reverting to the idea which prevailed before [Saraco˘ glu’s] visit to Moscow last year . . . that they might be useful as an intermediary between the Allies and the Soviets.’2 By July, Hugessen believed that, apart from ‘the question of the 19

20

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

Straits there should be no serious difficulty in achieving Russo-Turkish rapprochement.’3 This was a significant caveat. In the summer of 1940, the British contemplated an attempt to restore the Soviet–Turkish relationship, in order to check an Axis invasion of the Balkans.4 When the ambassador in Moscow, Sir Stafford Cripps, proposed British meditation in a Soviet– Turkish rapprochement, Stalin assented, but made it clear that relations would remain uncertain until the Straits regime had been revised to his satisfaction.5 Stalin then leaked Cripps’ offer to Hitler, using his contacts with the British as a bargaining tool in negotiations for a new Nazi–Soviet settlement in the Balkans.6 Unaware of Stalin’s duplicity, the Foreign Secretary, Lord Halifax, reported Stalin’s terms to the War Cabinet, who agreed that Britain should endeavour to improve Soviet–Turkish relations, but must not become involved in negotiations initiated by Moscow, ‘with a view to obtaining control of the Straits.’7 In issuing this warning, the War Cabinet were guided by the Deputy Under-Secretary at the FO, Sir Orme Sargent. Playing down the significance of pre-war Soviet–Turkish amity, and Hugessen’s optimistic contemporary assessment of Soviet–Turkish relations, Sargent asserted that ‘Turkey’s foreign policy is governed by that of Russia – the hereditary enemy whose age-old ambition is to wrest the Straits from Turkey. Whatever country is opposed to Russia is ipso facto favoured by Turkey.’8 Sargent warned that fear of Soviet ambitions at the Straits, and perceptions of British weakness following the debacle in France, might cause Turkey to ‘panic’ and collaborate with Germany in exchange for protection against the Soviet Union. Sargent agreed that it was in British interests to improve Soviet–Turkish relations, to reduce Turkish anxiety. Care must be taken, however, to avoid the impression that Britain was forcing Turkey into an agreement with Moscow, or conniving at Straits revision to improve Britain’s own bilateral relations with the Soviet Union.9 Russia’s contemporaneous annexation of Bessarabia and northern Bukovina from Romania reinforced the faction within the FO, of which Sargent was the leader, which urged that Turkish friendship should not be sacrificed for an understanding with a predatory Soviet Union.10 German publication of the captured French documents, implicating Turkey in Allied bombing plans for the Caucasus, added urgency to ambitions for a Soviet–Turkish rapprochement to counteract ‘these active German intrigues.’11 In Moscow, Cripps emphasised the necessity of a clear British policy on Straits revision; otherwise ‘a further approach

Anglo-Russian Antagonism, June 1940 to June 1941 21

to the Soviet Government would be interpreted as a blank cheque and would encourage them to increase their demands.’12 Halifax and the FO were not hopeful of achieving a new Straits settlement, however. They sought to use talks on the Straits as a catalyst for Soviet–Turkish cooperation ‘against the common danger of a German penetration to the Black Sea,’ but insisted there could be no Straits settlement at Turkey’s expense.13 Cripps realised that renegotiation of the Straits regime in favour of the Soviet Union was a sine qua non for Stalin. ‘A mere platonic reaffirmation of traditional Soviet–Turkish friendship is not enough . . . in face of rapid German expansion, for they know that against that enemy Turkey could not hold the Straits single-handed, and they are naturally doubtful of our ability to afford adequate help.’14 A ‘paper agreement’ was insufficient to guarantee Soviet security, a point made repeatedly in subsequent negotiations. Cripps recognised Soviet security concerns at the Straits, but these were not understood by many of his colleagues, as at Montreux in 1936, when Britain had apprehended ‘aggressive’ or ‘expansionist’ Soviet ambitions for Straits revision.15 As we will see in the final chapter of this book, Cripps was playing a similar role to the one subsequently taken by the Deputy Prime Minister, Clement Attlee, in the spring and early summer of 1945. There was a tension in British perceptions of Soviet–Turkish relations. Awareness of the deteriorating relationship led Sargent and several of his colleagues to draw dramatic conclusions about the potential implications for Turkish foreign policy.16 Yet others recalled 20 years’ experience of apparent Soviet–Turkish partnership. Hugessen offered an upbeat interpretation of Soviet–Turkish relations, emphasising ‘a hope, if not a belief’ in Turkey that Russia would turn away from Germany towards Britain.17 He opposed a request by British Middle East Forces, Military Headquarters, Cairo (GHQ Middle East) that a Special Operations Executive (SOE) representative be sent to Istanbul ‘for the purpose of creating fresh contacts with certain Caucasians there.’ If Britain sought to improve Soviet–Turkish relations, ‘it is highly undesirable to allow such activities which are clearly directed against Russia to be carried out from Turkish soil.’18 Hugessen’s interpretation was the one that featured most prominently in the British press following the fall of France, with the Turks described as ‘armed neutrals, closely linked to Moscow.’19 During the summer of 1940, however, evidence received from intercepted SIGINT began to cast doubt on Hugessen’s upbeat assessment of Soviet–Turkish relations. For those in London who are able to read it, intercepted correspondence indicated the revival of Soviet

22

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

claims against Turkey on their Caucasian frontier. Writing in July, the Turkish ambassador in Moscow, Haydar Aktay, believed the Soviet government would ‘put forward certain demands under the pretext of “security for the oil fields” . . . It may well be that they will demand from both Turkey and Iran frontier rectification in the vicinity of the oil fields.’20 His colleague in Batum also reported ‘persistent rumours here that the Russians are about to seize Kars.’21 The Caucasian provinces of Kars and Ardahan had bedevilled the negotiations for a Soviet–Turkish alliance in 1920–21, when Stalin had opposed their retention by Turkey. Britain’s anti-Bolshevik intervention in the Russian Civil War loomed large in Soviet minds, as did Turkish willingness to collaborate in that intervention, in exchange for a quid pro quo with the British. Stalin was convinced of the British threat to the Soviet Union, with Turkey and the Straits as the conduit for British naval power; a conviction which Germany endeavoured to foster.22 Turkey’s potential role in facilitating the transfer of Allied troops through the Dardanelles, in preparation for a ‘new Crimean War,’ remained a recurring feature of Russian diplomatic reports, while the ambassador in London, Ivan Maisky, warned that the Anglo-Turkish alliance was Britain’s ‘trump card’ against Russia, creating ‘new military opportunities’ in the Balkans and Black Sea.23 Stalin was further influenced by the head of the NKVD, Lavrenti Beria – a fellow Georgian – that there was a Turkish threat in the Caucasus. Anglo-French plans in 1939–40 had been directed against the Caucasian oilfields, positing the use of Turkish airspace, and the incitement of Caucasian minorities, rather than an assault via the Straits, but they demonstrate that Soviet anticipation of an Allied attack was not groundless.24 German publication of these plans – of which the Soviets may have had independent confirmation, from NKVD sources in Turkey – reinforced Stalin’s determination to achieve security in the Caucasus and at the Straits.25 The British response to the intercepted Turkish reports – of which the Germans were also aware26 – was equivocal. No discussion of their contents survives in FO files from the summer of 1940, or from the remainder of the Nazi–Soviet Pact. They nonetheless coincided with Sargent’s reassertion of what might otherwise be seen as a traditional statement of an anti-Russian British policy in the eastern Mediterranean. It remains unclear whether Sargent’s statements at this time reflected prejudice or insight – or a combination of the two. Assessing the Russian threat to Turkey at the end of July, the Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC) concluded that an unprovoked Soviet attack on Turkey was unlikely.

Anglo-Russian Antagonism, June 1940 to June 1941 23

However, they affirmed that recovery of the provinces of Kars and Ardahan – ceded to Turkey against Stalin’s wishes in 1921 – was one aspect of the Soviet ambition to extend their strategic frontiers, similarly reflected in the seizure of eastern Poland and the Baltic States, and, most recently, Bessarabia and northern Bukovina in Romania.27 As we shall see in the final chapter of this book, the FO initially failed to take Soviet ambitions in the Caucasus seriously when they were revived in 1945. Like Cripps in Moscow, Hugessen in Ankara was not privy to intercepted SIGINT, possibly contributing to his more optimistic reading of Soviet–Turkish relations. Not all of the evidence from decrypts pointed in one direction, however. Following the Italian invasion of Greece in October, a Turkish request for Soviet assistance to repel an Axis attack from the Balkans suggested the endurance, on the Turkish side, of vestiges of the old, cordial relationship.28 Even without access to decrypts, Hugessen and Cripps recognised that agreement on the Straits was unlikely. The positions had not altered since the October 1939 negotiations in Moscow had broken down over Saraco˘ glu’s opposition to Straits revision. Turkey would insist on the Montreux convention, and the Russians would demand a new, bilateral arrangement.29 ‘Turkey is by no means disposed to accept a compromise which does not take fully into account . . . her full sovereignty, and entire political independence and security.’30 Yet Stalin had little concern for Turkish sovereignty, and sought to curtail a ‘political independence’ which jeopardised Soviet security on its southern frontiers. The Joint Planners nonetheless contemplated revising the regime at the Straits. They initially concluded that ‘(t)he opportunism of Soviet policy and the worthless character of any Russian guarantee do not encourage the grant of any permanent concession . . . in return for . . . a purely transitory improvement in Russo-Turkish relations.’ Nonetheless, conceding a Soviet right of entry into the Mediterranean ‘is acceptable in present circumstances . . . if it will ensure a Turkish–Soviet rapprochement from which we could derive substantial and immediate benefit.’ Any such arrangement ‘should be open to revision at the end of the war, since the grant of unrestricted Soviet entry into the Mediterranean and the denial of our own right of entry into the Black Sea are conditions that we cannot accept as permanent.’31 The strategic conservatism which would characterise the Chiefs’ reaction to subsequent proposals for Straits revision was clearly stated. Cripps suggested pressure on Turkey to adopt ‘a more helpful attitude,’32 warning Aktay that Stalin would seek a Near Eastern agreement with Hitler and Mussolini ‘if his Government took no steps

24

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

to try and arrive at an agreement with Russia.’33 Stalin indeed sought such an agreement, but Turkish ‘steps’ were unlikely to deflect him. The Northern Department of the FO, responsible for Soviet affairs, were unimpressed, and Cripps’ intervention engendered a Turkish mistrust of him which contributed to suspicions of a British ‘sell-out’ of the kind warned against by Sargent.34 The Southern Department was deterred from pressuring the Turks by the recurring fear of driving them towards Germany, and reverted to general encouragement of a Soviet–Turkish rapprochement at the Straits; the approach rejected by Cripps.35 Sargent therefore recommended dropping the attempt altogether, admitting that Britain lacked the strength to mediate between the two parties.36 The abandonment of efforts to achieve Straits revision coincided with the recommendations of the Chiefs of Staff (COS). Soviet policy during the autumn of 1940 – which sought continued collaboration with Germany, and the extension of the Nazi–Soviet pact – encouraged caution, although the Admiralty’s attachment to the right to send warships through the Straits also indicated the enduring appeal of intervention against the Soviet Union by that route. Interestingly, the Admiralty was also convinced that ‘we could acquire no advantage which could compensate a Russian right to co-operate with Turkey to exclude warships of other powers from the Black Sea.’37 This mirrored similar concerns a decade earlier and at Montreux,38 and indicated the enduring perception of Soviet–Turkish amity, not yet wholly replaced by axiomatic antagonism. Britain equivocated between encouraging a Soviet–Turkish rapprochement; concern that such a rapprochement may no longer be possible, and that the attempt might drive Turkey to align with Germany; and lingering anxiety that Turkey might collaborate with Russia against British interests. Attempts to establish a coherent position on Straits revision were further handicapped by institutional schizophrenia regarding Soviet– German collaboration at the Straits. The FO initially told the War Cabinet that ‘collusion would seem to be particularly difficult in the case of the Straits, which Germany and the Soviet Union both covet.’39 Yet Sargent believed that a quid pro quo between the dictators was possible, ‘since each needs the Straits for a different purpose. M. Stalin requires it as a waterway to connect two seas, while Hitler requires it as a bridge to connect two continents.’40 Writing in early September, Pierson Dixon – formerly a member of the British embassy in Ankara under Sir Percy Loraine – anticipated that Soviet fear of Germany might force them to collaborate with Hitler.41 By September, the JIC doubted that

Anglo-Russian Antagonism, June 1940 to June 1941 25

Hitler and Stalin could reach an agreement at the Straits. ‘Russia wants Straits for herself, failing that would probably prefer them in hands of comparatively weak Turkey rather than strong Germany.’42 A month later, however, the JIC too emphasised that Soviet fear of Germany might result in collaboration ‘in exchange for a share of the Straits,’ despite Cripps’ assertion that shared guardianship with any Great Power was unacceptable to Stalin.43 Cripps himself now anticipated a German offer, to which the Soviets might prove susceptible.44 By early November, the FO was again sceptical about Nazi–Soviet collaboration. It was surely in Stalin’s interest to maintain the status quo rather than instigate shared control, ‘which would inevitably mean in practice complete German control.’45 Yet again, on the eve of Vyacheslav Molotov’s journey to Berlin in mid-November, the FO believed instead ‘that USSR and Germany will jointly exert strong pressure on Turkey with a view to inducing her to surrender to them inter alia control of the Straits.’46

Nazi–Soviet negotiations, November 1940 Molotov’s conversations with Hitler and Joachim von Ribbentrop, in Berlin in November 1940, and the subsequent Soviet effort to reconcile Bulgaria to a Soviet sphere of influence, demonstrate that Nazi–Soviet relations broke down over the dictators’ irreconcilable ambitions in the Balkans and the Straits, confirming Hitler in his determination to strike against the Soviet Union in 1941.47 Stalin sought a rapid change in the Straits regime through a pact with Bulgaria and the acquisition of military bases ‘within the range of the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles,’ and a sphere of influence extending into the Balkans and Black Sea, and south of Batum and Baku. Germany and Italy would assist the Soviet Union in forcing Turkey to accept the new arrangements.48 Hitler had no intention of granting Russian desiderata, beyond pressuring Turkey to yield some guarantees in the Straits; the ‘paper agreement’ which Stalin rejected in his parallel negotiations with Britain. Rather, Hitler expected to seal German supremacy in Europe by diverting Stalin from the Straits towards the Indian Ocean. At the end of July, the JIC had recognised that a further division of Europe between Germany and the Soviet Union would lead to confrontation, but incorrectly deduced that Stalin would therefore allow himself to be diverted towards the Persian Gulf and India – the same mistake made by Hitler.49 The JIC’s was an Anglo-centric reading, which emphasised the gravest potential threat to British interests.

26

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

Sargent’s memoranda on Soviet–Turkish relations contained a similar combination of insight and misapprehension. Sargent recognised the Soviet desire to perpetuate its collaboration with Germany, reflected in Molotov’s journey to Berlin. Like the Soviets, however, he failed to appreciate Hitler’s unwillingness to collaborate, and his determination to turn against the Soviet Union. This misperception of Hitler’s intentions towards the Soviet Union also contributed, as will be seen in Chapter 2, to a grave distortion of British policy in the Balkans during the winter of 1940–41. Neither the British nor the Turks were immediately aware of Soviet demands for military bases at the Straits, although Aktay mistakenly believed the British had anticipated such a demand.50 Telegrams from Hugessen in September anticipated Soviet demands for ‘concessions’ at the Straits, if Turkey became embroiled with Italy over Greece, but the Chiefs assumed ‘concessions’ to mean the right for Soviet warships to enter the Mediterranean, and restrictions on British rights to send shipping into the Black Sea. They did not contemplate Soviet bases at the Straits.51 Such distinctions are important given the re-emergence of Soviet claims in 1945, similar to those made of Hitler in 1940, and outraged British reactions to these unheard-of demands. Hitler told the Turks about Soviet demands for bases in March 1941, as he pursued a friendship treaty with Turkey and laid the ground for the invasion of the Soviet Union.52 The British intercepted a telegram summarising these revelations, but this only referred euphemistically to the fact that Hitler had ‘stood in the way of certain plans contrary to Turkish interests.’53 Understandably, they failed to connect this ambiguous decrypt to subsequent Turkish assertions, at the time of the German attack on the Soviet Union, that their fear and suspicion of the Soviets were based on secure foundations. The other aspect of Soviet policy in the autumn of 1940, directed against Turkey, was the offer of a non-aggression pact to Bulgaria, ‘situated inside the security zone of the Black Sea boundaries of the Soviet Union,’ and territorial concessions to Bulgaria at Turkish expense, in exchange for military bases. This was made clear to the Turks by the Bulgarian government in January 1941, although the Turks had anticipated such tactics ever since the breakdown of Straits negotiations in October 1939.54 The British were aware of this approach, via their legation in Sofia.55 What they did not realise, however, was the extent to which the offer to Bulgaria – far from being purely tactical – also reflected Stalin’s true feelings towards the Turkish republic. In contemporaneous discussion with the Bulgarian leader of the Comintern,

Anglo-Russian Antagonism, June 1940 to June 1941 27

Georgi Dimitrov, Stalin challenged the very legitimacy of the Turkish state, asking scornfully ‘What is Turkey?’ He contemptuously declared that there were only six or seven million Turks, the rest being Georgians, Kurds and Armenians. The Soviet Union could expel the Turks from Europe and send them back to Asia.56 The attempt to reconcile Bulgaria to a Soviet sphere of influence – which in fact drove Bulgaria closer to Germany – also demonstrated the importance to Stalin of the Bulgarian ‘land bridge’ to the Straits. When the British contemplated the post-war Straits regime from 1943, they struggled to recognise the importance of Bulgaria – and Bulgarian air bases – for any power seeking to wield influence over the Straits.57 This was perhaps a result of their traditional conception of sea power, evident in the Admiralty’s opposition to concessions at the Straits in August 1940. Yet when German military infiltration of Bulgaria began in January 1941, the Air Staff recognised the danger of Turkey being ‘overawed’ by German air power operating from Bulgaria.58 Churchill wrote to I˙ nönü to warn him of this danger, offering reciprocal British air forces, to be based in Turkey.59 The British identified the air threat to Turkey, via Bulgaria, during the winter of 1940–41. In 1944–45, by contrast, there was a tendency to underestimate or neglect Soviet air power.

1941: An extension of Nazi–Soviet collaboration? The German military threat in the Balkans in the winter of 1940–41 – directed initially against Greece and Yugoslavia, but ultimately against the Soviet Union – prompted a Turkish effort to improve relations with Moscow. Stalin suspected a British ploy to embroil the Soviet Union in the Balkans, and his latent suspicion of Turkey had been reinforced by NKVD reports of an anti-Soviet ‘Caucasian bureau’ of the Turkish General Staff.60 He nonetheless instructed Maisky to sound out the Turkish ambassador in London, Rü¸stü Aras, about a Soviet–Turkish mutual assistance pact. Aras – who, as Atatürk’s Foreign Minister, had overseen Soviet–Turkish collaboration during the 1920s and 1930s – was an enthusiast for a new treaty with Moscow.61 The Turkish government was reticent, however, indicating that it sought to achieve a general improvement in relations – and perhaps a unilateral pledge of military assistance – rather than a new, binding treaty which would require concessions at the Straits.62 British efforts to reconcile Turkey and the Soviet Union were contemporaneous with the attempt to achieve a ‘Balkan front’ against the Axis,

28

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

explored fully in Chapter 2. The British remained mindful of their experiences in 1940, when the Russian bogey – and the Soviet protocol of the Anglo-Turkish treaty – had neutralised Turkey.63 Hugessen, Cripps and Anthony Eden, who had replaced Halifax as Foreign Secretary, urged the new Soviet ambassador in Ankara, Sergei Vinogradov, to improve Soviet–Turkish relations.64 As the situation in the Balkans deteriorated – with Bulgarian adherence to the Axis, and pressure on Yugoslavia to do the same – the Soviets offered a guarantee to Turkey, that if Germany invaded the Balkans, the USSR would maintain strict neutrality, and would not attack, or exert political pressure on, Turkey. British relief at this guarantee did not translate into pressure on Turkey to reciprocate, as Cripps desired.65 Eden was preoccupied with efforts to bind Turkey to the ‘Balkan front,’ and took only a passing interest in Soviet–Turkish relations.66 In fact, the conditions for a restoration of the pre-war Soviet–Turkish relationship no longer existed. In mid-March, Hitler warned the Turks of Stalin’s ambitions for military bases at the Straits, ostentatiously presenting himself as the defender of Turkish interests in the face of rapacious Russian imperialism. A recent history of Turkish foreign policy concludes that this was the first indication the Turkish government had of the extent of Stalin’s November 1940 demands.67 Notwithstanding the deterioration in Soviet–Turkish relations since 1939, it was this development, on the Turkish side, which foreclosed a revived friendship with Moscow, and reinforced Ankara’s determination not to get embroiled in glu hostilities. Rü¸stü Aras continued to favour an alliance,68 but Saraco˘ made his feelings clear. (S)o long as Turkey did not enter the war the Soviet could not give the signal for a movement against Turkey. If Turkey entered the war and fortune favoured her, I believed that the Soviet Government might . . . adopt a policy of benevolent neutrality or even alliance with Turkey. If, however, the fortune of war proved adverse to Turkey, it was very probable that they would act towards us as they had acted towards Poland.69 Like diplomats throughout Europe, Haydar Aktay was convinced that, despite Soviet–German tensions, Stalin hoped to settle the matter by way of discussion in return for some concessions which will not damage either its feelings or its independence . . . (S)o long as the German proposals do not involve cession of territory and

Anglo-Russian Antagonism, June 1940 to June 1941 29

are not detrimental to the Communist regime and to national independence and dignity . . . Stalin will try in every possible way to keep the door for negotiation and agreement open.70 By mid-April, even Rü¸stü Aras believed that Stalin’s withdrawal of recognition from several exiled governments, coupled with his decision to recognise the anti-British Rashid Ali regime in Iraq, indicated that the Axis ‘has informally become a Four-Power agreement . . . united against England and in the project of dividing up the old world.’71 In private, many Britons concurred with the Turkish assessment. Sargent predicted that Hitler would offer Stalin control of the Straits in return for coercive pressure, or even an attack on Turkey’s Caucasian front, which would compel Ankara to reach agreement with Germany.72 Hugessen was warned that the FO anticipated ‘far-reaching GermanSoviet conversations’ leading to an extension of the Nazi–Soviet pact.73 Yet Turkish apprehension of a new Nazi–Soviet agreement was pushing Ankara towards a treaty with Germany, to forestall the emergence of a joint threat and secure a measure of German ‘protection’ against Stalin.74 Faced with – at the very least – a propaganda disaster in the Middle East, and at worst the complete collapse of the Anglo-Turkish alliance, the FO disingenuously assured the Turks that there was no Nazi–Soviet threat, and advised them to take the Soviet government into their confidence to dispel any fears.75 The German–Turkish negotiations continued throughout May.76 So too did British (and Turkish) assumptions of Stalin’s acquiescence in German terms for an extended Nazi–Soviet agreement. The FO urged Hugessen that the ‘only way’ to embroil Hitler and Stalin was for Turkey to ‘find common ground in which to co-operate with the Soviet Union against German pressure.’77 Even at this stage, however, the British view of Soviet–Turkish relations remained inconsistent. The FO reacted with suspicion to the coincidence of Soviet recognition of Rashid Ali and a Turkish offer of mediation in the Anglo-Iraqi dispute. Sargent suspected a Soviet–Turkish rapprochement ‘on the one subject where the two Governments could co-operate without running counter to Germany, namely in supporting Rashid Ali’s government.’78 These suspicions proved unfounded, but they reflected the remarkable schizophrenia in British policy towards both the Soviet Union and Turkey during the first half of 1941. The British trusted neither Russia nor Turkey to refrain from policies detrimental to Britain, yet they chastised both parties – particularly the Turks – for failing to trust each other and establish an anti-German front. Even in the final days before the

30

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

invasion of the Soviet Union, the FO’s own suspicion that Stalin would achieve a new quid pro quo with Hitler coexisted with increasing frustration with Turkey’s own suspicion of Russia, and the desire to facilitate a tangible Soviet–Turkish rapprochement.79

Germany invades the Soviet Union The launch of Operation ‘Barbarossa’ on 22 June finally eradicated British suspicions of a new Nazi–Soviet pact. It did not alter Turkish suspicions of Soviet policy, however. When Turkish politicians attempted to explain the foundations on which these were based – specifically the alleged Soviet demands for bases at the Straits, revealed by Hitler in March – the FO was dismissive. ‘This is really monstrous. There is no documentary proof that Molotoff [sic] did ask for bases on the Dardanelles. We merely have Hitler’s word for it.’80 British refusal to accept ‘Hitler’s word’ is understandable, but refusal even to consider the plausibility of the allegations is surprising, given that Nazi–Soviet collaboration in the eastern Mediterranean had been anticipated throughout the previous year, until the very eve of the German invasion. Nor were alleged Soviet ambitions against Turkey out of keeping with Soviet behaviour since 1939. As Richard Aldrich reminds us, British diplomats ‘moved with surprising speed’ in response to the changing circumstances of the RussoGerman war.81 After 22 June 1941, what Molotov did or did not demand of Hitler in 1940 seemed ancient history, and the operational departments of the FO had no interest in carrying out a post-mortem on the former, collaborative Nazi–Soviet relationship now that circumstances had changed so rapidly and so radically. Refusing to accept the reasons given for Turkish hostility towards the Soviet Union, the British were dismayed at Turkey’s anti-Soviet position following the German invasion. The Turks – relieved that Hitler had not attacked them instead – expressed delight at the outbreak of the Russo-German war.82 The FO warned that such blatant expressions of satisfaction were ‘extremely dangerous. Russia will always remain their neighbour . . . The Russians won’t forget.’ The author of this minute, the Southern Department’s George Clutton, continued: ‘What is even more sinister are [Turkish] references to the Caucasus to which rich land I have no doubt the Germans are sedulously leading Turkish thoughts.’83 By August, a new consensus had rapidly been established. The FO described Russophobia as a ‘Turkish disease,’ and ‘(a) Turk vis-à-vis of Russia is rather like an Irishman vis-à-vis of England. He cannot

Anglo-Russian Antagonism, June 1940 to June 1941 31

forget and his suppressed rancour blinds him to everything except his grievance.’84 Newspapers reflected this changed perception of the Soviet–Turkish relationship, declaring that ‘(s)uspicion and fear of Russia is atavistic in every Turk.’ Inter-war Soviet–Turkish amity seemed dead, dismissed as ‘an appeasement of this long feud.’85 As we will see in Chapter 5, this ‘atavistic’ Soviet–Turkish antagonism was a significant obstacle for the British as their own relationship with the Soviet Union developed in the weeks and months that followed. Their pragmatic response to the outbreak of war between Germany and the Soviet Union marginalised the anti-Soviet prejudice of Sargent and his colleagues in the FO, at least for the duration of the war against Hitler. Yet it also marginalised – to the point of total exclusion – genuine insights into Soviet ambitions in Turkey (in the Caucasus, if not at the Straits), as revealed by diplomatic SIGINT during the summer of 1940.

2 The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941

By the summer of 1941, one of Britain’s three main ‘images’ of pre-war Turkey had been comprehensively dismantled. No longer hopeful of a restoration of Soviet–Turkish amity, antagonism between Moscow and Ankara was now understood to be axiomatic. The second of the assumptions that underpinned British policy in the late 1930s was also eroded during the year following the fall of France. In the summer and autumn of 1940, the British remained convinced of Turkey’s role as the ‘leading Balkan nation.’ They clung to this conviction for several months, despite evidence that this conception did not correspond with the harsh realities in the Balkans. Misperceptions of Turkey’s Balkan role contributed to the pursuit of a chimerical Balkan Front until April 1941. Misapprehension of Hitler’s intentions – the assumption that he would strike against the Balkans as a prelude to an offensive in the Middle East, rather than the invasion of the Soviet Union – further distorted British policy. They sought immediate Turkish belligerency, despite staff studies indicating that military weakness would make Turkey a liability in any Balkan war, and jeopardise Turkey’s ability to buttress the British front in the Middle East. Marginally involved in Soviet–Turkish relations during this period, Winston Churchill played a decisive role in British policy in the Balkans. So too, once he became Foreign Secretary at the end of December 1940, did Anthony Eden. *

*

*

Before war even broke out in Europe, it was clear that the idea of the Balkan entente as ‘almost a new Great Power’ was misconceived. The other members of the pre-war Balkan entente were alarmed by the Anglo-Turkish declaration of May 1939, which undertook to resist 32

The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941 33

further aggression in the Balkans following the Italian occupation of Albania. They feared that it would in fact provoke armed German or Italian intervention in the region.1 Resentment at Turkish ‘leadership’ also began to surface, with Yugoslavia accusing Turkey of acting ‘contrary to the spirit and the letter’ of the Balkan pact by introducing an external power into Balkan politics.2 This was a somewhat disingenuous statement, given that Italian, Soviet and German influence in the region had already undermined the initial conception of the Balkan entente as a ‘neutrality bloc,’ independent of the Great Powers. For their part, the Turks had diminishing confidence in Romanian and Yugoslav willingness to resist the Axis.3 In February 1940, when the council of the Balkan pact met for the final time, Turkey tried and failed to achieve an agreement on mutual defence,4 and by the end of April Rü¸stü Aras told his Greek colleague that only Turkey and Greece remained committed to defending Balkan integrity.5 In early June, Turkey attempted to reach an agreement with Greece and Yugoslavia on joint mobilisation in the event of Italian belligerency, but this too came to nought.6 In August 1940, Romania, threatened by the Soviet Union, sought German protection and resigned from the Balkan entente. British newspapers reported Turkish conviction that the entente ‘exists now only in name’ and that the only part ‘still unimpaired’ was the Turkish–Greek alliance.7 The FO nonetheless reasserted Turkey’s influence as ‘the leading member of the Balkan Entente.’8 Halifax reiterated, ‘I wish in all Balkan matters to work if possible through [the Turkish] Government.’9 In the press, realisation that ‘German influence [is] predominant throughout the Balkans’ was balanced by faith in the ‘Counter-weight of Turkish Influence.’10 The appeal of Turkish ‘leadership,’ which might rally the Balkan nations, or deter Bulgaria from collaborating in an attack on Greece or Yugoslavia, was strong.

The Italian invasion of Greece, October 1940 Surveying the war situation in the late summer of 1940, the Chiefs of Staff (COS) concluded that it was not in Britain’s strategic interests for Turkey to declare war on Italy, if Mussolini invaded Greece. Turkish armed forces were prepared only for a defensive campaign, and would be a burden on the British war effort in the Mediterranean. Turkish belligerency ‘might jeopardise Turkey’s own security and through Turkey our whole position in the Middle East.’11 The Southern Department of the FO agreed ‘that in all the circumstances it would be as

34

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

well that [Turkey] should not become a belligerent,’12 given Turkey’s importance to the British front in the Middle East. Turkey’s main value to us . . . is that she is not an ally of Germany’s . . . she is of immense negative value to us even if we do not get anything very positive out of her; and perhaps the most important aspect of our Turkish policy is the need to maintain unimpaired that negative advantage.13 During the winter of 1940–41, however, British misapprehensions of the German military build-up in the Balkans led to attempts to secure active Turkish resistance to the immediate threat in the region, despite the potential implications for Turkey’s ability to act as Britain’s bulwark in the Middle East. The Italian invasion of Greece began on 28 October, but the COS were already more concerned with German intentions in the Balkans: specifically the possibility that a German campaign there would be a precursor to an assault on the Middle East. The British had little conviction in the Balkan nations’ ability to repel the Wehrmacht or the Luftwaffe.14 Their role, as Churchill had made clear to the War Cabinet earlier in October, would be to ‘greatly delay’ Germany’s progress, allowing Britain time ‘to develop our army in the Middle East.’15 The Yugoslavs, if attacked, ought to abandon Croatia – which the Yugoslav army was unable to defend – and withdraw to defensive positions in Serbia, to delay the Axis advance towards the Straits.16 The Greeks, too, must resist as long as possible. A Greek defeat would mean Axis control of the Aegean, which would impede supplies to Turkey, and increase British liabilities in Egypt. British acquiescence in a Greek defeat, moreover, might have ‘dire effects’ on Turkey.17 If the Turks believed no aid was forthcoming when their turn came, they might capitulate without fighting, exposing the British front in north Africa and the Middle East. Resources essential to that front ought not to be diverted to aid the embattled Greeks, but any support which could be spared from the Middle East Command should be sent as soon as possible. The Southern Department believed that Turkey would only intervene in the Greek War if Bulgaria attacked Greece.18 Turkey would not retaliate if Germany attacked Greece through Yugoslavia, since it could offer no effective assistance now as Romania had joined the Axis. The Turks doubted that Yugoslavia would resist Axis pressure, and anticipated Yugoslav collaboration in an attack on Greece.19 The FO shared Ankara’s concerns about the government in Belgrade, and agreed that the Turkish

The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941 35

point of view was ‘perfectly tenable.’20 The COS, who preferred to keep Turkey in reserve as a benevolent and armed neutral, concurred.21 By early November, however, British policy was entering a state of flux from which it did not emerge until the German occupation of Greece and Yugoslavia in April 1941. The British legation in Athens deluged Whitehall with correspondence, vigorously asserting the advantages of Turkish belligerency in support of Greece. Writing from Ankara, Hugessen was equally insistent that Turkey must remain neutral. Anxious to put an end to the debate, the FO appealed to the COS for guidance. Ought Turkey to husband its resources in anticipation of a German ‘thrust towards the Middle East’ in the spring of 1941, and thus avoid reducing its own powers of resistance ‘at the critical moment’ by entering the war prematurely? Or should Turkey take advantage of what the Athens legation insisted was a ‘heavensent’ opportunity to knock Italy out of the war, ‘so reducing in advance the effect of Germany’s striking power?’22 The Joint Planners initially reiterated that Turkey ought to build up its defensive capabilities to resist a German offensive in the Middle East. ‘Both we and the Turks will be in a better position to withstand a German attack in the Spring, whatever happens to Greece in the meantime.’23 They nonetheless indicated countervailing arguments in favour of immediate Turkish belligerency. Strategically, it would be useful to deny free passage to Axis shipping through the Black Sea, and occupy the Dodecanese islands with Anglo-Turkish forces. More contentiously, the Planners outlined several ‘political’ benefits. They agreed with the minister in Athens, Sir Michael Palairet, that ‘Turkey’s entry into the war at this stage . . . might have an almost decisive effect on Italian morale.’24 The Italian offensive in Greece, like their campaign in Egypt, had ground to a halt, and a British assault on the Italian fleet, and a dramatic Greek counter-attack, would follow in the week ahead. Moreover, Turkish belligerency ‘would have a favourable effect on Greece and the Middle Eastern countries’ and ‘might also produce favourable reactions in Bulgaria and Yugoslavia.’25 This assumed enduring Turkish influence as a counterweight to German power in the Balkans. The argument turned on two points. If Britain could be ‘assured’ of Turkish belligerency when the Germans attacked in the Middle East, ‘it is of great importance to conserve and build up Turkish military strength so that she will be in a better position to resist a German assault.’ If, however, Turkey failed to resist as a result of Axis occupation of the Balkans, ‘the result would be disastrous.’26

36

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

German intentions The question was understood to be urgent, as SIGINT – including ‘Enigma’ decrypts from the German air force – indicated the build-up of German troops in the Balkans, and an imminent occupation of Bulgaria and Greece.27 The British did not yet realise that this build-up was in preparation for the invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941; an undertaking for which the subjugation of the Balkans would become a necessary precondition. Rather, it was believed to indicate Hitler’s intention to mount an immediate coercive campaign and/or offensive in the Balkans, aiming to reach the Straits by the end of 1940. Thereafter, German forces would advance into Syria and Iraq, imperilling the entire British position in the Middle East.28 Limited intelligence on the Nazi– Soviet conversations in Berlin, and the extent to which the clash of interests in the Balkans confirmed Hitler in his decision to strike against the Soviet Union, distorted British assessments of the Balkan situation until the spring of 1941. Turkey was believed to be as much a German objective as the other Balkan nations. As a result, the period of armed Turkish neutrality previously endorsed by the COS and the FO had been radically truncated. Faced with an imminent German threat and the loss of its Balkan allies, Turkey might fight alone, or it might be overwhelmed by German hegemony in the Balkans and acquiesce in an Axis advance to the Straits. The British did not expect Turkish resistance in Eastern Thrace, which could not be defended against an enemy operating in strength from Bulgaria and Greece.29 They anticipated that Turkey would undertake a strategic retreat to the eastern shore of the Straits, and defend Anatolia. The danger was that overwhelming pressure following a German takeover of the Balkans might trigger a complete Turkish capitulation, removing the Anatolian bulwark in the Middle East. This was the ‘disastrous’ scenario envisaged by the JPS, which would leave Germany free to build up forces in Anatolia for an attack on Syria and Iraq. The Planners’ conclusion – endorsed by the COS – was ‘that the balance of advantage is in favour of doing all we can to bring Turkey in as a belligerent at once.’30 FO officials, who were not privy to the detailed military intelligence reaching the COS, were unconvinced by this new articulation of British policy. ‘(T)he fundamental position . . . is that . . . we shall be quite unable to persuade the Turks to take up arms at once.’31 As Permanent Under-Secretary, Sir Alexander Cadogan was privy to the ‘Ultra’ secret.32 He intervened to explain the Chiefs’ concern for Turkey’s ‘ultimate intentions.’ Intelligence indicated that the Balkans were likely to

The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941 37

be overwhelmed in short order by Germany. British policy turned on Ankara’s likely response, when left alone to face the (apparently imminent) German threat. A policy aimed at bringing Turkey into the war immediately assumed that Turkey could not be relied upon to resist that threat alone, and that the Anatolian bulwark was in any case imperilled. Turkish belligerency alongside Greece – and perhaps Yugoslavia – might delay the German advance in the Balkans, long enough to affect a British military build-up in the Middle East adequate to meet the German menace.33 Nonetheless, the Southern Department’s conviction that Turkey could not be moved from armed neutrality initially held sway. When King Boris of Bulgaria travelled to Germany for an audience with Hitler, Cadogan and Halifax considered means by which to deter Bulgarian collaboration in the anticipated attack on Greece. The agreed solution – ‘decided to try to get Turks and Yugoslavs together to do it’34 – did not require (although did not rule out) Turkish belligerency. Rather, it required Turkish–Yugoslav diplomatic pressure on Bulgaria and the threat, rather than the fact of war. This was the objective which Halifax put before the War Cabinet, at a meeting from which Churchill was absent. He reiterated that Britain ought not to press Turkey to enter the war, but should deploy Turkey and Yugoslavia – the latter apparently displaying a new willingness to resist the Axis – to deter Bulgarian collaboration with Germany, and persuade Sofia to collaborate in an anti-Axis front in the Balkans.35 This proposal was made in ignorance of the overwhelming pressure which Bulgaria was facing from Germany and the Soviet Union, which precipitated Boris’ visit to Berchtesgaden.36 The War Cabinet accepted Halifax’s advice, but Churchill now intervened. The Prime Minister had been brooding on Hitler’s next move following the Battle of Britain and the Italian debacle in Greece and North Africa.37 He had anticipated a Balkan campaign since mid-October,38 and was convinced of intelligence indicating a German concentration there.39 The Secretary of State for War, Anthony Eden, and the Chief of the Imperial General Staff (CIGS), Sir John Dill, were in Cairo. Churchill wrote to them on 22 November, endorsing the view that ‘we must now call upon Turkey to come in, or face the consequences in the future.’40 Churchill, too, anticipated an imminent German attack on Greece through Bulgaria, and stated his desire to achieve Turkish (and Yugoslav) belligerency – as opposed to using the threat of it as a deterrent – in a telegram to the Commander-in-Chief Middle East, General Wavell, also on 22 November.41

38

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

Writing to Halifax two days later, Churchill’s language was less forthright, stating that ‘(e)very effort should be made to frame up Turkey and Yugoslavia’ against a German attack through Bulgaria.42 This sounded closer to the policy Halifax had placed before the War Cabinet. It might have suggested, to anyone unaware of the reason for his (and the Chiefs’) advocacy of Turkish belligerence – ‘Ultra’ intelligence on the German build-up in the Balkans – that Churchill endorsed the FO’s deterrent strategy. However, when he brought the issue before the War Cabinet on 25 November, he emphasised the objective of Turkish belligerency, ‘as opposed to possible acquiescence in Axis demands if Greece falls without Turkey entering the war.’ The same meeting now heard of the unlikelihood of Yugoslavia committing to joint pressure on Bulgaria.43 The following day, 26 November, Churchill drafted instructions to Hugessen, which attempted to reconcile the conflicting arguments put forward during the preceding days, but in fact perpetuated the tension between the Chiefs’ urgent recommendation of Turkish belligerency, endorsed by Churchill, and the diplomatic deterrent proposed by the FO. Churchill also failed to address the Southern Department’s conviction that Britain was simply unable to induce Turkey to enter the war before Bulgaria became embroiled in the conflict.44 Throughout the autumn of 1940, the Southern Department was realistic about the unlikelihood of drawing Turkey into the war while Britain lacked the military capabilities to protect it against Axis retaliation or Soviet opportunism.45 Victories over Italy did not blind Ankara to Britain’s extreme shortage of men and munitions following the French collapse.46 In the last week of November, while Churchill urged Turkish belligerency, the Chief of the Turkish General Staff, Marshal Çakmak, requested the renewal of Anglo-Turkish staff talks, suspended since the disaster in France.47 The FO response was instructive, and set the tone for Anglo-Turkish military relations for the remainder of the war. ‘(B)y agreeing to hold these conversations . . . we might . . . expose weaknesses which we would rather be covered.’48 Although a British liaison mission was sent to Turkey under General James Marshall-Cornwall, their instructions demonstrated the difficulties they faced. Forces available for Turkey will depend largely on Italian situation and stage reached in Middle East reinforcement programme when

The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941 39

need arises . . . An important requirement will be to complete such preparations in Turkey as will give mobility to our forces and enable us to switch them from Egypt and Greece as the need arises . . . If position is put to Turks on these lines, with non-commital [sic] reference to probability of increasingly bright prospects ahead, we think they will appreciate the position.49 The Turkish oligarchy may have appreciated the position, but they would not join the war on the promise of ‘bright prospects ahead,’ or of limited British forces which might be transferred to Greece or Egypt. Reviewing these terms of reference several years later, Sir Thomas Elmhirst – the air member of the mission, and a former air attaché in Ankara – commented, ‘What a hope we had!’50 British policy failed to reconcile the evidence indicating that Yugoslavia could not be relied upon to stand firm, and that the Turks had no confidence in Belgrade. As for employing Turkey and Yugoslavia to deter Bulgaria, the minister in Sofia, George Rendel, warned that ‘these threats . . . are always likely to be less effective than the threats which Germany could use against Bulgaria if she decided that it was to her interest to force this country’s hand.’51 Bulgaria was caught in the ‘unbearable’ embrace of Hitler and Stalin, and was collaborating with the former as much as its fear of retaliation by the latter would allow.52 When the Bulgarians attempted to play the Turkish card as an excuse for preserving their fragile neutrality, Hitler replied that Istanbul would be ‘wiped out’ if Turkey intervened against Bulgaria.53 Rendel’s reminder that Germany, not Turkey, was the ‘leading Balkan power,’ was not assimilated in London for several weeks. By 2 December 1940, Cadogan conceded that ‘(w)e have probably done all we can and Hugessen is (rightly, I think) against pressing the Turks too much to pronounce what they will do in every hypothesis.’54 Churchill and the Chiefs had declared for Turkish belligerency, but British leverage over Turkey was weak, and FO enthusiasm for the task tepid, in part because they were ignorant of the intelligence on which the Churchill/COS recommendations were based. British policy towards Turkey during December 1940, as the Greek front stabilised, and the immediate threat of German intervention receded, was characterised by inertia.55 Nonetheless, the characteristics which defined the search for a Balkan Front early in 1941 – confusion about British objectives in Turkey, misapprehension of the direction of the German offensive in the Balkans, and failure to address the weakness

40

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

of the Turkish–Yugoslav(-Greek) deterrent, directed against Bulgaria or Germany – were in place.

The Eden–Dill mission In January 1941, confusion continued to reign over whether Britain sought Turkish belligerency – as Churchill and the Chiefs had declared in November 1940 – or robust Turkish diplomacy to deter an attack through Bulgaria, advocated by the FO.56 Despite further evidence of Yugoslav unreliability,57 Britain entreated Turkey to collaborate with Belgrade in deterring a German attack on Greece through Bulgaria.58 However, it was fear of Soviet intervention – not the notional Turkish– Yugoslav deterrent – that kept Bulgaria from acquiescing in the infiltration of German service personnel until late January, when the British finally apprehended that if an attack on Greece was to be prevented, it was Hitler, not the quiescent Bulgarians, who must be deterred.59 With a German campaign against Greece again understood to be imminent, the War Cabinet despatched Dill and Eden, now Foreign Secretary, on another mission to the Balkans and Middle East.60 British objectives in Turkey remained unclear, however. Churchill criticised Turkey for ‘shirking her responsibilities,’ but – apparently retreating from his earlier, forthright position – declared that ‘it would suit us to have a genuinely neutral Turkey blocking our right flank.’61 This has been described as ‘recognition . . . that Turkey would not become belligerent,’62 but this assumes too great a degree of consistency, or precision, in Churchill’s rhetoric. Optimistic about the chances of holding a Greek-British defensive line against the Germans for a significant period, Churchill hoped that, if Britain sent substantial aid to Greece, ‘we might delay [the Germans] long enough to encourage the Turks, and possibly the Yugoslavs, to join in the battle.’63 A neutral Turkey would suit Britain until Anglo-Greek efforts impressed the Turks – and the Yugoslavs – sufficiently to enter the fray, embroiling Hitler in a ‘stalemate front’ in the Balkans.64 Permanent Turkish neutrality was still not an option, although a casual reader would be forgiven for thinking otherwise. Churchill’s instructions governing Eden’s mission reinforced this ambiguity. ‘[The Foreign Secretary] will communicate directly with the Governments of Yugoslavia and Turkey . . . The object will be to make them both fight at the same time or do the best they can.’65 In a parallel telegram to Wavell, Churchill appeared to lean towards the FO’s deterrence policy. ‘If Turkey and Yugoslavia would tell Bulgaria they will attack her unless she joins them in resisting a German advance southward, this

The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941 41

might create a barrier requiring much larger German forces than are now available in Roumania [sic].’66 Churchill’s articulation of a ‘barrier’ against Germany was nonetheless consistent with his earliest appreciations from October 1940, and was the goal he pursued until April. Hitler was to be confronted by Balkan divisions which would outnumber, if not outclass, the Germans in Romania. Hitler would either have to wait many weeks before bringing sufficient forces to bear to overwhelm this Balkan Front, or become bogged down in the Balkans, should he attack there anyway with his existing, numerically inferior force. Either way, the Balkan nations – as Churchill had anticipated since October – could buy the British valuable time in the Middle East. This plan depended on Greeks, Yugoslavs and Turks fighting for a ‘common cause’ which looked suspiciously like a British Empire cause. Although Churchill gave his usual bravura public performance, in private he was realistic about their willingness to pursue such a course.67 Churchill’s vision rested on the assumption that Hitler could be deterred by the prospect of a campaign against the Balkan armies. Yet it was doubtful that the political will existed, in Turkey or Yugoslavia, to fight Germany, while neither government trusted the other. Turkey was unwilling to take risks for a Yugoslav regime, which had trimmed towards the Axis, and which Dill frankly admitted was not informed of plans to assist Greece, since there was concern that the Regent, Prince Paul, would leak them to Hitler.68 For their part, the Yugoslavs were under no illusions about the effectiveness of Turkish military support. Some months earlier, the British military attaché in Ankara, General Allan Arnold, had informed his Yugoslav colleague that ‘the Turkish army . . . had no hope at all of withstanding a really strong German attack by armoured divisions.’69 The liaison mission in Ankara agreed ‘that [Turkey] is completely unfitted to fight Germany beyond her own frontiers . . . Turkey is not ripe as a useful ally.’70 Although convinced of Turkey’s ‘whole-hearted devotion’ to the Allies, Marshall-Cornwall warned that this ‘does not amount to a desire for premature and possibly unnecessary immolation.’71 Hitler was presumably well informed, both about the absence of political will for a stand against Germany, and about the Turkish and Yugoslav military weakness. Intercepted Italian and Japanese correspondence demonstrated that the Axis had little anxiety about facing a Balkan Front.72 Access to these Axis decrypts may have contributed to Churchill’s private caution, but these would not have been seen by Eden overseas. Eden arrived in Cairo, not only determined to fulfil Churchill’s

42

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

ambitions for a Balkan ‘barrier’ to Germany, but apparently convinced that that front could be used to inflict a ‘military defeat’ on Germany.73 This was despite his own experience at the War Office, when he had been briefed by a bitter opponent of the ‘Balkan front,’ General Sir John Noble Kennedy, the Director of Military Operations. ‘(T)hey [the Balkan nations] are such a poor lot that they would only add to our military commitments, and we should gain nothing. They have no proper military equipment or aircraft. It is not a sound military proposition, and it could not be effective.’74 Eden nonetheless told Churchill that ‘the threat to the German flank is more effective if Turkey can maintain herself in Europe, or better still, advance into Bulgaria.’75 Meetings between Eden, Dill and the Commanders-in-Chief failed to resolve the tension between military and ‘political’ factors for and against Turkish belligerency. Wavell’s opposition to any offensive role for the Turks was offset by the perceived advantages of belligerency; the opportunity to strike at the Romanian oil industry from Turkish bases, the opening of the Straits to British warships, and the anticipated boost to Greek and Yugoslav morale. ‘(T)he ideal solution would be that Turkey should join the war while not being attacked by Germany. This, however, was not a solution on which we could count.’76 It was nonetheless one which Eden attempted to sell during meetings with the Turkish government beginning on 26 February. Eden and Dill met with Prime Minister Refik Saydam, Marshal Çakmak, Saraco˘ glu and Menemencio˘ glu, although the arbiter of Turkish foreign policy, President I˙ nönü, was absent. Eden repeated his conviction that the German build-up in the Balkans aimed ‘to strike a decisive blow at the British position in the Near East.’77 The Turks recognised that they might be next in Hitler’s sights, but insisted they lacked the armour and air power to make an effective contribution to the defence of Greece. Eden and Dill concurred, but Eden ‘asked whether, in the event of a German attack on Greece through Bulgaria, Turkey, while taking no offensive action would propose to declare war on Germany. In that case she would be politically at war though not actively engaged.’78 This was an attempt to address the tension at the heart of Britain’s Turkey policy since November 1940: how to secure the benefits of Turkish belligerency, including insurance against Turkish capitulation when faced with German hegemony in the Balkans, without draining British resources in the eastern Mediterranean, or the loss of the Anatolian bulwark in the Middle East. It was not a convincing attempt, as Eden and the military commanders had privately conceded. The Turks were certainly unconvinced. They did not consider a Turkey ‘politically

The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941 43

at war though not actively engaged’ to be a viable option, and struggled with Eden’s tortured logic.79 When asked whether Britain believed it would be ‘useful for the common cause’ for Turkey to declare war on Germany, Eden replied in the affirmative, citing the positive effect on Greek and Yugoslav morale, and on British and American public opinion. Menemencio˘ glu was incredulous; Turkey would not make war on Germany for the sake of public opinion.80 An audience with I˙ nönü advanced matters no further. He suspected Soviet opportunism if Turkey became embroiled in the Balkans, and doubted that Hitler could be deterred from his Balkan campaign.81 Alarmed by Eden’s failure to move the Turks, and further evidence of Yugoslav paralysis, Churchill attempted to prevent Eden from committing Britain to a Greek gambit without Turkish or Yugoslav support.82 As Sheila Lawlor has shown, Churchill’s advocacy of an Anglo-Greek front was dependent on the establishment of a Turkish–Yugoslav front alongside it.83 When that objective proved elusive, Churchill reverted to the cautious COS/FO position of October 1940. ‘Loss of Greece and Balkans by no means a major catastrophe . . . provided Turkey remains honest neutral.’ Britain could take the Dodecanese islands, or attack Tripoli instead.84 Churchill had understood the Balkan Front as an opportunity to be seized, but that opportunity now appeared to have passed. Nonetheless, Churchill remained willing to be guided by the men on the spot. Despite the elusiveness of the Balkan Front, and the worrying discovery that the Greeks had not undertaken the strategic withdrawal necessary for a sound defensive front, Eden, Dill and the Commanders-in-Chief concluded that Britain had no alternative but to support the Greeks, and go into Greece with forces from the Middle Eastern reserve.85 Eden continued to urge a Turkish declaration of intent ‘which will have positive effect on Greece and Yugoslavia,’ and even proposed Turkish occupation of Greek positions in Thrace.86 Hugessen reiterated yet again that Turkey ‘could only take up a defensive attitude,’ pursuing neither a forward military policy, nor a robust diplomacy in the Balkans.87 It would not pursue the latter, diplomatic, course because it was unable to back it up, militarily, with the former; an ungallant yet prudent position to which Eden could not reconcile himself. Wavell and his Royal Air Force (RAF) counterpart, Air Chief Marshal Arthur Longmore, opposed another military mission to ‘stiffen’ the Turks, who ‘might suspect that we were desperate and clutching at straws,’ but agreed to a strictly political initiative which might influence Yugoslavia.88 Eden now sought a public declaration from the Turks, opposing further aggression in the Balkans, and a message to

44

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

the Yugoslav government, either that Turkey would join Yugoslavia in declaring war if Germany attacked Greece, or that it would view an attack on Salonika – an area of strategic interest to Serbia, if not Yugoslavia as a whole – as a casus belli.89 This latest proposal either failed to recognise the outcome of the discussions in Ankara – that Turkey would not contemplate a ‘political’ declaration of war – or it assumed that the Turks were prepared to mislead the Yugoslavs – who had no confidence in Turkish military assistance, and could not be trusted to keep Allied plans from Hitler – about their own intentions in the event of a German attack. Both alternatives misapprehended the bases of Turkish foreign policy. This misapprehension was exacerbated by Saraco˘ glu’s reaction, when Eden met him on Cyprus on 18 March. Saraco˘ glu – who shared Eden’s belief that a Yugoslav agreement with Germany was imminent – would not declare an attack on Salonika a casus belli. However, relieved by Eden’s pledge that Britain did not seek an immediate Turkish declaration of war, Saraco˘ glu agreed to send an encouraging message to Belgrade, pledging joint consultation and action, broadly defined, in the event of action against Salonika.90 This apparent evidence of a ‘stiffer’ Turkish attitude revived the possibility of a Turkish–Yugoslav front, which Churchill had written off a fortnight earlier. He wrote to Eden, ‘deeply impressed with message to Yugoslavia you have procured from Turks . . . Position seems to have improved unexpectedly.’91 Eden passed the draft of Turkish declaration to Belgrade, and promised that it would be made formally following Saraco˘ glu’s return to Ankara. In committing to a public declaration to Yugoslavia, Saraco˘ glu had exceeded his authority, and his undertaking was not endorsed by his colleagues. It contradicted Turkey’s strictly defensive strategy, which did not entertain the possibility – or the appearance of the possibility – of any forward policy in the Balkans. Turkish reticence was exacerbated by their mistrust of the Yugoslav government. A Turkish declaration which Yugoslavia declined to accept would place Turkey in an embarglu was rassing predicament vis-à-vis Germany.92 Moreover, while Saraco˘ on Cyprus, Hitler revealed Soviet ambitions for control of the Straits. This was the point at which the Soviet ‘handicap’ to Turkish foreign policy, identified by I˙ nönü in his talks with Eden, became a specific and dangerous threat. Turkey never delivered the Cyprus declaration, and Yugoslavia adhered to the Axis on 25 March. How damaging was Saraco˘ glu’s maladroit commitment on Cyprus, or his government’s subsequent refusal to follow through on that commitment? Cadogan reacted vehemently. ‘(T)he Yugoslavs are collapsing

The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941 45

and the Turks are running out. The former are hard to blame but the latter are the villains . . . they’ve done nothing but evade every obligation.’93 Turkish reticence allowed Yugoslavia to deflect some of the criticism for its adherence to the Axis, disingenuously implying that Turkish intervention would have altered their decision.94 As Cadogan indicates, it also reinforced a sense that Turkey had ‘let down’ Britain, their Balkan allies, and the ‘common cause.’

The German invasion of Greece and Yugoslavia Recriminations were initially suspended by the anti-Paul coup in ˙ Belgrade on 27 March. Churchill telegraphed both Eden and Inönü to 95 urge once again a ‘stalemate front’ in the Balkans. His enthusiasm was stoked further by realisation, at last, that the German build-up in the Balkans was directed against the Soviet Union, and not against the British in the Middle East.96 Yet Churchill’s hope, that Hitler might be diverted towards the Soviet Union by a Balkan deterrent, did not recognise that Hitler viewed the subjugation of Greece and Yugoslavia, and the neutralisation of Turkey, as a prerequisite to the Russian campaign. The new Yugoslav government was no less convinced of the need to reach an accommodation with Hitler, albeit one which sought to renegotiate the terms of that agreement, specifically to rule out collaboration in the attack on Greece. Hitler reacted to this mild insubordination with characteristic violence, ordering the invasion of Yugoslavia, along with Greece, which commenced on 6 April. The Luftwaffe’s air assault on Belgrade had a lasting impression on the Turks as a demonstra˙ tion of German air power, which might be visited upon Istanbul, Izmir or Ankara. The FO damned Yugoslavia’s ‘deplorable’ negotiations with Hitler. Turkish reaction to the Yugoslav coup was also ‘deplorable . . . For general futility and for being out of touch with the realities of the situation the [Turks are] hard to beat.’97 One might argue that the Turks were all too aware of the realities of the situation, and that British efforts to deter Hitler, and marshal forces of resistance which were inadequate to the task, were both futile and out of touch. British reactions to the collapse of the Balkan front reflected their concern that a German occupation of the Balkans would presage a major assault on the British front in the Middle East. Even those who anticipated a German invasion of the Soviet Union suspected that Stalin would make concessions short of war, leaving Hitler free to turn on the British Empire instead. British fury at the Balkan nations’ failure to appreciate the ‘realities of the situation’ reflected frustration at their

46

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

refusal to pursue the ‘right’ strategic course. This was the course articulated by Churchill in October 1940: the one which would delay the Axis while Britain constructed a Middle Eastern front robust enough to hold until American aid became effective. No longer able to fight to the last Frenchman, Britain would fight to the last Greek, Yugoslav and Turk instead. The British were doing their best, in desperate circumstances, to secure their own national interests, yet they failed to consider the equivalent interests of the nations whose assistance they sought. When the German threat emerged in the autumn of 1940, Churchill and the FO had anticipated that Yugoslavia would abandon Croatia and withdraw into ‘old Serbia.’98 Yet Prince Paul – regent for his nephew, King Peter – sought to keep the nations of Yugoslavia together, and was unwilling to abandon the Croats and Slovenes, who would not allow their nations to be overrun while the Serbs undertook a strategic retreat, nor fight for Serb interests in Salonika.99 The Greek example further demonstrated the tension between British and Balkan assessments of the ‘right strategic plan.’ Dill clashed with the Chief of the Greek General Staff, General Papagos, when the latter refused to carry out strategic withdrawals necessary for the establishment of a sound Anglo-Greek defensive line. Papagos believed that British forces should advance to a forward line in front of Salonika; Dill demurred, asserting that he could not commit British reserves to an unsound plan. Papagos replied that ‘it was a question of honour for the Greeks; he would rather be stabbed in the back by Germans than pushed in front by the Italians.’100 British requests to Turkey to undertake a strategic withdrawal to the eastern side of the Straits were closer to the Turkish General Staff’s own contingency plans.101 This was a worst-case scenario, however, and could not be undertaken lightly, not least because it required the abandonment of Turkey’s remaining European territory. It was certainly not something they would undertake under British instruction. In December 1940, Hugessen reported a conversation with the chief of the Turkish air staff, who declared innocuously that ‘when the time comes for Turkish intervention in the interests of Turkey or of Britain, Turkey will not hesitate to act.’102 The response of the Southern Department was instructive in its high-handedness. ‘This is satisfactory, though it shows an independence on the part of the Turks which may conflict with our own ideas of what should be the Turkish attitude.’103 British appeals to the ‘common cause’ were not cynical; there had always been a moral dimension to the opposition to Hitler, and to

The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941 47

the decision to go to war in September 1939.104 Yet during 1940–41, the British war was one of national survival, and some Britons failed to appreciate that such appeals looked like a call to commit ‘premature and possibly unnecessary immolation’ for the British Empire, with only the promise of restitution at the peace conference to cling to.105 Churchill continued to urge to remaining free nations of Europe to resist the Nazi war machine, rather than face the dishonour of surrender. The anguished response of Prince Paul, when pressed by the American minister in Belgrade, rang painfully true, however. ‘You big nations are hard, you talk of our honour, but you are far away.’106

The implications of the Balkan debacle On 8 April, Hugessen reported a ‘distinctly cold’ conversation with Saraco˘ glu, who insisted that Eden had told him on Cyprus that nothing was to be asked of Turkey. Hugessen replied that this had referred to military matters. ‘(T)his did not mean that Turkey should remain quiescent and give an impression of feebleness. This was becoming extremely difficult to explain away to public opinion, not only in the UK.’107 As we have seen, ‘public opinion’ was an ineffective card to play with a Turkish government concerned with preventing a repetition of the demolition of Belgrade over Turkish cities. A week later, when Hugessen reported Yugoslavia’s final, desperate request for Turkish intervention, the Southern Department railed against ‘the Turkish inability, or refusal, to combine their defensive military policy with a positive political policy.’108 This had been the fatal flaw in Britain’s efforts to organise a Balkan Front, and its implications should have been clear, at least since the Ankara conversations in February. Turkey would not pursue a ‘positive political policy’ without the military means to see it through. Since Turkey’s military capabilities were defensive, Turkey must pursue a defensive diplomacy. Anything else would have required a policy of bluff – directed towards Bulgaria, Germany or Yugoslavia – which was anathema to the Turkish oligarchy. Turkey would not go to war unless attacked, nor would it risk being dragged into war by giving any impression to the contrary. A Turkish–Yugoslav deterrent lacked credibility because neither party believed it was credible, and the Turks in particular would not pursue a strategy which was beyond their resources to implement, alongside an ally whom they did not trust. This was an attitude which earlier British governments would have endorsed, and was one of the characteristics of the Turkish leadership which had impressed

48

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

Britons during the pre-war period, as they struggled to avoid another European war. Turkey navigated the Balkan crisis with sovereignty and territory intact, but this was not a result of superhuman insight. Turkish reading of Balkan affairs was more ‘realistic’ than Britain’s, but the British conviction – that a Germany triumphant in Greece, Yugoslavia and Bulgaria would subsequently turn on Turkey – was only negated by Hitler’s decision to attack the Soviet Union first. Hitler’s conversations with the Bulgarians, and Ribbentrop’s correspondence with Ciano and the German ambassador in Ankara, Franz von Papen, made clear that German intentions towards Turkey were no less malign than towards other nations which stood in their path.109 Hitler’s invasion of the Soviet Union, and its miscarriage during 1941–42, established the conditions for the endurance of Turkish neutrality, which Britain had sought prior to the emergence of the German threat in the Balkans in the autumn of 1940.110 Luck as much as judgement saved Turkey in 1941. British perceptions of Turkey were profoundly shaken by events in the Balkans in the spring of 1941. Throughout the autumn and winter of 1940, the press had continued to produce pro-Turkish propaganda, reiterating the ‘Kemalist’ image of Turkey, the ‘accredited sentinel of the Straits, on whose soldierly bearing and loyalty to obligations freely undertaken the whole future of European civilisation may depend.’111 The resolute Turks ‘by their steady resistance to the pressure of the tyrants . . . had put heart into the still free peoples of the Balkans and the Near East.’112 The Turks were now ranked among the short-sighted and foolhardy ‘small States’ of Europe; they were the ‘last “appeasers” in the old world,’ ‘fooling away’ their chances of resistance, ‘as in the Low Countries.’113 Never one to look on the bright side of life, Sargent could ‘not exclude the possibility that the Turkish Government may be preparing to change sides and go over to Germany.’114 Yet Turkey was arguably pursuing the only course available as an embattled small power in Nazi-dominated Europe. The Turks gave ‘an impression of feebleness’ because, relative to Germany, they were enfeebled, as British military observers had recognised. Saraco˘ glu was in earnest when he asked the US ambassador in Ankara, John Macmurray, ‘what would happen if it became necessary to set the Turkish soldier . . . against a machine [which paid no regard to] human qualities.’115 Turkey presented an impressive face to the world during the 1930s, aided by its recent Great Power heritage; its strong leadership under ˙ Atatürk and Inönü; and its efforts to achieve Balkan solidarity, under

The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941 49

Turkish ‘leadership’ or otherwise. Despite this impressive façade, and the rhetoric of British propagandists, Turkey in 1940–41 – whether ‘brave and warlike’ or ‘deplorable’ and ‘villainous’ – was another small power, like the others overrun by, or compelled to seek accommodation with Germany. Hitler – not Turkey – was the arbiter of Balkan affairs. The British had convinced themselves during the 1930s – and had continued to declare, throughout 1940 – that Turkey would take the lead in the Balkans, where it was believed Turkish interests lay. Yet Turkish participation in Balkan affairs had been directed towards the establishment of a neutral bloc which would prevent rival Great Powers from infiltrating the Balkans.116 By 1939, the Balkan entente had failed to prevent German economic hegemony throughout the Balkans, Italian annexation of Albania or fascist influence in Yugoslavia, while the failure to reconcile Bulgaria left that country prey to German and Soviet offers of territorial restitution. By the summer of 1940, Romania had capitulated to the Axis, and handed over portions of its territory to the Soviet Union, while Bulgaria was caught between Hitler and Stalin.117 Violent Italian, German and Russian incursions demonstrated that the Balkan entente had failed to ‘keep the Balkans Balkan.’ Given the failure of the entente on the terms on which Turkey, and Britain, had conceived of it, Turkey sought to disengage itself from the Balkans. Intercepted correspondence demonstrated Greek and Yugoslav astonishment at the attitude of Saraco˘ glu, who ‘(t)alked as though what was going today on his own frontiers were happening in another [planet].’118 Macmurray agreed that the Turks ‘had written off all interest or responsibility in Balkan situation . . . and assume what seems extravagant air of unconcern and levity about situation.’119 In mid-May, with the German occupation of the Balkans complete, he reported Turkey’s retirement ‘through almost two years of gradual abatement of former exaggerated presumptions of power and influence in south-east Europe.’120 The British had been forced to make a similar journey in the months since the Italian invasion of Greece. The German occupation of the Balkans ended notions – British or Turkish – of Turkish ‘leadership,’ and foreclosed any meaningful role for Turkey in south-east Europe while the Balkans remained under Axis occupation. Turkish acquiescence in the German takeover soured relations with the Greek and Yugoslav governments in exile, established in London, while mistrust of Turkey in the wake of the Balkan debacle informed British reactions to Turkish intervention in the crisis which broke out in Iraq, where an unlikely Soviet–Turkish collaboration against Britain was suspected. Eden – who shared responsibility for

50

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

the abortive policy pursued since becoming Foreign Secretary – now emerged as the voice of reason, reminding his colleagues that ‘(w)e must continue to work together with the Turks wherever we can e.g. on Iraq.’121 With the Balkans now under Nazi dominion, and the British Empire itself under threat from German as well as Italian armed forces, Turkey was hereafter thought of increasingly within the context of the vast Middle Eastern theatre of war, at the expense of the European role that many policy-makers had taken for granted since the mid-1930s.

3 Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East, May 1941 to November 1942

During the first two years of the Second World War, Turkey had been peripheral to the British war effort in the Middle East. The spring and summer of 1941 saw the British paying closer attention to Turkey’s Middle Eastern credentials than at any time since the establishment of the republic. Faced with successive crises in Iraq and Syria, Churchill sought Turkish collaboration in eliminating pro-Axis regimes in both countries, but Eden and the FO recognised that the Turks saw both episodes as acid tests of British strength in the Middle East, and would not intervene on the Allied side until that strength had been demonstrated – against the Germans in North Africa, rather than the Italians or Vichy French. Anglo-Turkish antagonism over the occupation of Iran, in August 1941, reflected Turkish anxiety about collaboration between Britain and the Soviet Union, and was seen in Ankara as an ominous portent for recalcitrant neutrals in the region. Ultimately, however, the British (and the Russians) were in no position to undertake a similar operation in Turkey: in fact, the British relied on Turkish resistance to protect the ‘Northern Front’ of the Middle Eastern theatre, in the event of a Soviet collapse in the Caucasus which would have imperilled the entire British war effort in the Middle East.1 This bogey haunted senior British officials throughout 1941 and 1942, and was taken altogether more seriously that Churchill’s war memoirs allow.

Iraq and Syria The fall of the Balkans revived Turkey’s role as a neutral bulwark against the Axis, endorsed the previous autumn, before ‘Ultra’ appeared to reveal German ambitions in south-eastern Europe. By the end of April 1941, Britain had retreated to a policy which acquiesced in, and sought 51

52

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

to preserve, Turkish neutrality in the war against Germany and Italy, although the possibility of local assistance against anti-British regimes in Iraq and Syria was not ruled out. Eden told the War Cabinet that Britain must hold Turkey as a benevolent neutral, building up its economic and war potential. ‘We should have to abandon all idea of a positive attitude by Turkey for the present . . . and would acquiesce . . . in the Turkish Government’s own view that for the present Turkey’s role should be passive politically as well as strategically.’2 Churchill agreed. ‘(I)f events should be so managed that the enemy forces did not march through Turkey, we should have derived a great benefit from the Turkish alliance.’3 Eden told Parliament of Turkey’s ‘loyal friendship,’ and emphasised its service to the Allies ‘as a bulwark against fresh aggression in the Middle East.’4 The crucible of the Middle Eastern theatre was Egypt, where the Middle East Command had been established in 1939. Faced with an Italian threat in the autumn of 1940, Egypt had been reinforced with tanks and artillery from Britain, and an invasion from Libya in midSeptember had been successfully resisted. The British counteroffensive, in December and January, destroyed the Italian army in Egypt and Cyrenaica (eastern Libya), and liberated East Africa. A complete occupation of Libya was postponed by the diversion of resources to Greece, and by the arrival of German armoured divisions in North Africa. A German counter-attack under General Rommel cleared Cyrenaica in early April, but the British halted the Axis forces at the port of Tobruk. A British offensive in late April failed, as did another Axis assault on Tobruk. The British could not relieve Tobruk with forces barely recovered from campaigns in Greece and Crete, and others diverted to deal with crises in Iraq, where an anti-British coup occurred on 2 April, and Syria and Lebanon, where Vichy collaboration with Germany compelled a British-Free French invasion on 8 June. The coup in Iraq occurred days before the German invasion of the Balkans. The Prime Minister, Rashid Ali al-Gaylani, had resigned in January 1941 after failing to gain support for his pro-Axis policy. The suppression of an anti-British military cabal prompted nationalist resistance, and a coup d’etat which restored Rashid Ali.5 A stand-off over Britain’s right to send troops to Palestine, via Iraq, ended in an attack on the RAF base at Habbaniya, near Baghdad, on 2 May. The Iraqis were assisted by Axis aircraft, refuelling in Syria and Lebanon, but a British relief force fought its way to Baghdad by 30 May.6 The crisis on their frontier alarmed the Turks, not least because German air superiority in the Aegean meant that the principal British supply route to Turkey was via the port of Basra.7 Rather than see their

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 53

lifeline to the non-Axis world cut off, Turkey sought a swift end to hostilities in Iraq.8 An offer of mediation was greeted without enthusiasm in London, however.9 General Wavell had also proposed negotiating with the Iraqis, but Churchill and the Chiefs of Staff (COS) instead recommended that Turkey exert pressure on Iraq by threatening an advance on Mosul.10 Perhaps Turkey might fight in the Middle East, if not in the Balkans. Ankara evaded this request, and continued to urge a negotiated solution. Stalin’s recognition of the Rashid Ali regime, contemporaneous with the Turkish offer of mediation, led to the aforementioned speculation about Soviet–Turkish collusion against Britain in Iraq. The reality was less sinister. Turkey initially sought a swift and brutal suppression of the Iraqi rebellion by the RAF; the General Staff had urged Britain ‘to crush Iraqi resistance by overwhelming air action’.11 When British military weakness precluded this exemplary conclusion, Turkey pursued a diplomatic solution to avert a full-scale German intervention.12 Churchill found the Turkish attitude ‘disturbing,’ but the COS did ‘not think that the Turks are double-crossing us. Their fear of encirclement is real and in particular their communications through Iraq are of vital interest to them.’13 Eden recognised the danger of perceived British impotence. German establishment in Syria and Iraq would leave Turkey ‘effectively surrounded and it would indeed be difficult then to count upon her enduring loyalty.’ Turkish isolation might lead to acquiescence in the passage of German troops through Anatolia, allowing Germany to build up armoured forces in Syria and Iraq, with which to attack Egypt from the east, rather than from Libya in the west. This was the perceived threat which had informed British policy in the Balkans at the end of 1940: as we shall see, it was an enduring bogey which continued to haunt Eden and other senior colleagues well into 1942. ‘The only way to stop this is for Turkey to hold fast, and the only way to ensure that Turkey holds fast is to deal at the earliest possible moment with the situation in Syria and in Iraq.’14 With the situation in Iraq resolved – albeit with Turkish impressions of Britain’s fighting strength diminished by the laborious Allied victory – attention switched to Syria, and Vichy’s failure to resist German pressure on their nominal neutrality. An Anglo-Turkish occupation of Syria was considered during July 1940, and again following the failure of a Free French expedition in Dakar in October, but was ruled out by the unavailability of British forces.15 An Allied occupation of the Levant risked war with Vichy, which commanded substantial armed forces in North Africa,

54

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

but its necessity was clear. Axis aircraft operating from Levantine bases had been inconvenient in Iraq, but their use against targets in Egypt could make the British position there untenable.16 British forces in the Middle East remained desperately overstretched. Could Turkey play a role in operations against Syria? During the battle for France the previous summer, the Arab nations had expressed anxiety that Turkey ‘intended in due course to exploit whatever opportunities war might offer’ for territorial expansion in Iraq and Syria.17 The British were also concerned that the insecurity of their southern frontier would compel the Turks to intervene in northern Syria in the event of an Italian occupation there, with negative consequences for Turkish–Arab relations.18 In January 1941, the British liaison mission in Ankara had reported the Turkish General Staff’s enthusiasm for operations to neutralise German influence in the Levant.19 Churchill believed that French rights in the Levant were forfeit, and that Britain should proclaim an Independent Arab Republic allied to Britain and Turkey, with ‘some restoration of territory’ to Turkey in the north of Syria.20 FO conclusions were more measured. Turkey’s principal interest in Syria was the railway through Aleppo in northern Syria, and ‘(t)here is much to be said for the whole of this railway, including Aleppo, coming under Turkish sovereignty.’ A Turkish seizure of this area was desirable, because the Germans were using bases there to refuel, although this German interest would make the enterprise ‘far more risky from the Turkish point of view,’ given the risk of retaliation. Eden recognised the Eastern Department’s concerns about Arab opinion, but believed that ‘war necessities must prevail,’ and that Arab goodwill was worth less than Turkish intervention in Syria.21 The ‘risky’ nature of the undertaking ensured that Turkey would not intervene in Syria, whatever the benefits for their internal communications. In a correspondence intercepted in mid-June, a familiar theme resurfaced to explain Turkish inaction. ‘If (Turkey) enters the war by whatever means, the possibility of Russia entering the war against us under the pretext of defending her own territory may amount to a strong probability.’22 Allied troops entered the Levant on 8 June and made good progress before being halted by a Vichy counter-attack. The Australians entered Damascus on 21 June, the day before the invasion of the Soviet Union, but French resistance continued until 12 July.23 The length of time it took Britain to scramble together the forces to mount an invasion and defeat the French dismayed the Turks.24 The timing was particularly poor, as Turkey was being courted to conclude the non-aggression treaty

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 55

with Germany, and the laboured operations in the Middle East had revealed ‘in unmistakeable manner the inadequacy of our forces and the paucity of our resources.’25

The Turkish–German friendship treaty The Turkish–German treaty – concluded in mid-June, days before the invasion of the Soviet Union – carried with it implications for the British war effort in the Middle East. The real blow was a propaganda one. Any Turkish–German agreement implied diminished British influence in Ankara; a conclusion drawn in Egypt, for example.26 No matter how favourable the terms which Turkey might extract from Germany, any neutrality agreement, ‘after all that has been said about the AngloTurkish Treaty . . . will have a shattering effect on our position in the whole Middle East area.’27 With British prestige low following their reverses in the Balkans, the stagnation of the front in the western desert, and the desultory campaign in Iraq, they could ill afford another propaganda defeat. Yet there was little which Britain could do to influence the Turkish position. In Hugessen’s words: (U)ntil we can show in convincing fashion that we can stand effectively against the German military machine, our diplomacy in this country will continue to be gravely handicapped . . . Libya, Greece, Crete have each left their mark, and these will not easily be effaced by successes over the Italians or the Iraqis or by a slow advance in Syria.28 Sargent wondered whether it might be wise to draw a veil over the Anglo-Turkish alliance; a new Hitler–Stalin agreement, still believed by some to be imminent, might lead to a Turkish request for military assistance against the Soviet Union, which Britain might wish to withhold. Eden believed that Britain should nonetheless press Ankara for a reaffirmation of the alliance, perhaps realising that if a German onslaught on the Soviet Union was coming, Britain needed the Turkish bulwark as much as Turkey needed British assistance from the Middle East.29 Churchill reiterated the importance of Turkey’s ongoing neutrality, and agreed with Eden that media responses must be managed.30 Existing supply policies should remain in force, since to cease providing military materials would push Turkey towards genuine dependence on Germany, rather than the existing, limited rapprochement.31

56

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

If they had ruled out Turkish infidelity, the FO feared Turkish complacency about the enduring German threat following the invasion of Russia. The Turks believed ‘that they can now sit back and enjoy themselves. There is probably even a hope . . . that they may eventually get some advantages from the Russo-German conflict at the expense of Russia.’32 Having previously displayed such caution, Turkey had succumbed to the disease which afflicted successive European governments; the belief that ‘at last and alone among nations [they have] succeeded in squaring the circle’ and avoided both war with Germany and entrapment in the German sphere.33

Iran The outbreak of the Russo-German war did not dispel the bogey of an imminent German threat to the Middle East. Many Britons anticipated a rapid Soviet defeat, predicting that the German invasion would give Britain a respite of ‘not less than six weeks’ to consolidate their position in Syria.34 Even after that deadline had passed, initial Anglo-Soviet collaboration in the occupation of Iran, in August 1941, was conceived to add depth to the British front in the Middle East, in anticipation of a Soviet collapse, rather than the prelude to a substantive military alliance, or the supply route from the Indian Ocean it became.35 The Turks had anticipated Russian intervention in Iran for several months,36 but were sceptical about the reasons given for the Anglo-Soviet invasion. The influence of a German ‘fifth column’ was understood to be an excuse for a carve-up in which Britain would take control of the oilfields in southern Iran, and the Soviets would seize the Caspian coastline to the north.37 The Joint Planning Staff (JPS) had warned that Turkey might be ‘driven into the arms of the Axis’ if Iran was not handled carefully,38 and intercepted correspondence demonstrated Turkish anxiety. Aktay urged Ankara to ‘intervene seriously in this matter . . . (I)f no means is found to check these selfish acts we must expect the Eastern Question to enter upon a new phase which will place us also in a difficult position.’39 He feared that the occupation of Iran indicated an alarming precedent for Anglo-Soviet policy towards recalcitrant neutrals. ‘It is not improbable that in the very near future the British will begin to put pressure on us, saying that the time has come to take the Suez Canal and Iraq routes under their protection.’40 Britain ‘will unquestionably find it easy to accept all sacrifices, particularly sacrifices made at other people’s expense, in order to encourage Russia to fight until the Germans

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 57

are defeated.’41 The Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Ankara concurred, criticising Britain for pursing a grasping and self-interested policy.42 Turkish radio broadcasts criticised Allied policy, condemning the occupation of Iran.43 Such broadcasts were unwelcome, because Turkish radio was received throughout the Middle East. Broadcasts in Arabic were followed in Egypt and Iraq, where ‘the Angora [sic] station has built up a reputation for good impartial news.’ The Ottoman legacy also meant that Turkish-language broadcasts were intelligible to a significant minority throughout the Middle East.44 Sir Miles Lampson reported from Cairo that ‘one word hostile to us from or through Turkey probably more powerful than ten sympathetic ones,’ while the embassy in Ankara agreed that hostile broadcasts acted ‘as propaganda which actively exacerbates the British military weakness in the Middle East about which the Turks are consistently complaining.’45 The FO reasoned that the unfriendly Turkish attitude was driven by short-term fear of Germany reaching the Caucasus; a threat which led Turkey to adopt dispositions inimical to Britain and Russia.46 By early December the FO discerned a friendlier attitude, the result, it was believed, of Soviet resistance in the Ukraine and on the Don, and the massive counter-attack which began on 5 December.47 Hugessen also emphasised the political benefits of the British campaign in Libya, Operation ‘Crusader,’48 but Pierson Dixon reminding his colleagues that the German threat to the Caucasus had not been negated by localised Soviet counter-attacks. ‘For the present the Caucasus campaign will probably attract more attention in Turkey than the Libyan.’49

The Northern Front The historiography of Britain’s war in the Middle East has traditionally emphasised the conflict in North Africa. This tradition is reflected, and was to some extent inaugurated, by Winston Churchill’s war memoirs, which understandably sought to highlight one of the most authentically ‘British’ (or British Imperial) theatres of war, and downplayed contemporary concerns for the security of the Northern Front, in the event of a Soviet defeat in the Caucasus.50 Yet private papers of key protagonists in Whitehall – particularly the diaries of Sir Alan Brooke and Sir John Kennedy – and official documents from the FO, the COS committees, and the Middle East Command in Cairo demonstrate that the fate of the Northern Front mattered enormously to the British, at least until the autumn of 1942. British political and military leaders – including Brooke, Anthony Eden, Generals Wavell

58

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

and Auchinleck, and Sir Alexander Cadogan – all expressed grave alarm at the prospect of a German breakthrough in the Caucasus, or an alternative assault through Turkey from the Balkans, especially if timed to coincide with a Japanese offensive in the Indian Ocean, facilitating a junction between the major Axis powers which threatened to ‘slice the world in two.’51 Churchill also recognised the gravity of the situation, and the precariousness of the British war effort in the Middle East if the Northern Front did not hold. The formation of a separate Persia– Iraq Command in the summer of 1942 – in the wake of the debacle at Tobruk and the massive German offensive in the Caucasus, ‘Operation Blue’ – was the culmination of a series of initiatives which had begun as early as July 1941. *

*

*

In the immediate wake of the German invasion, British plans for bombing the oilfields of the Caucasus, developed during the period of the Nazi–Soviet pact, were reactivated.52 So too were plans for the subversive use of minority populations there, also conceived during the winter of 1939–40.53 General Sir Archibald Wavell, the Commander-in-Chief India, proposed infiltrating agents to rally resistance after the Russian defeat, undermine German communications, and sabotage mines and oil installations.54 He suggested that Turkey ‘use its influence with the Mohammedan [sic] Caucasians to ensure their adherence to the Soviet’ during the period, however brief, in which Russian resistance endured.55 Hugessen and the FO both demurred,56 and Sir Stafford Cripps warned that the Soviets ‘would not tolerate any interference with their Caucasian Moslems on the part of the Turkish Government.’57 In September 1941, Wavell held talks with Soviet officers in Tbilisi, with a view to coordinating resistance in the Caucasus,58 but Churchill doubted that the Indian divisions in Iran and Iraq were adequate to resist the German breakthrough there which he feared was imminent.59 As David Reynolds has indicated, Churchill was not as sanguine about successful Soviet resistance as his war memoirs suggest.60 Soviet control of the Black Sea could not be guaranteed, and it was unclear whether Britain could prevent German occupation of the oilfields, or that Russian preparations for their demolition would be effective. Even if a complete Soviet collapse was unlikely, the Germans might still reach the Caucasus and threaten the Middle East. Planning staffs in London and Cairo urgently considered means by which Britain might confront a threat from the Caucasus. Ideally, a British advance into

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 59

Anatolia would provide defence in depth for the Middle East, and a Turkish request for staff conversations, in late July, afforded an opportunity to consider the support Britain could offer Turkey in the event of a German invasion.61 Assuming that a German threat would not materialise in strength before the spring of 1942, the Chiefs concluded that Britain could send four infantry and two armoured divisions, two army tank brigades and 24 air force squadrons to Anatolia ‘on assumption that we have captured Cyrenaica, and that there is no call from Iraq, Persia or the Caucasus on Middle East land forces.’62 These forces would be drawn from an overall fighting strength in the Middle East which, in October 1941, totalled ten infantry and two armoured divisions and 52 RAF squadrons, although it was anticipated that these would be significantly reinforced by the spring of 1942.63 Britain’s first objective in the autumn of 1941 was the destruction of Rommel’s Afrika Korps and the re-conquest of Cyrenaica. ‘Once we have accomplished this, we can shift nearly the whole of our weight to [Turkey].’64 Anglo-Turkish negotiations during September coincided with ‘Crusader,’ which meant that a substantive commitment to Turkey and the Northern Front ‘cannot [yet] be implemented . . . as is based on minimum defence scale in other Middle East theatres.’65 Although ‘Crusader’ drove the Germans from Cyrenaica, it failed to deliver a knock-out blow, and Rommel’s forces withdrew to El Aghelia in Western Libya, from which defensive position they could recover their fighting strength for a renewed assault on Cyrenaica and Egypt. Churchill subsequently alleged that ‘Crusader’ did not achieve decisive results, in part because the Commander-in-Chief Middle East, General Claude Auchinleck, was too concerned with the Northern Front.66 Yet Churchill himself informed the War Cabinet on 24 September that ‘we were sending out reinforcements [to the Middle East] which would enable us to act in northern Persia and, if necessary, in the Caucasus,’ if that front collapsed before the completion of ‘Crusader.’67 For a brief period in the autumn of 1941, the desperation of the Soviet war effort overruled Stalin’s deep suspicion of British participation in the defence of the Caucasus. Churchill initially reacted angrily to Soviet demands for assistance, but the necessity of preventing or delaying a Soviet collapse in the Caucasus – once again to buy time to build up British defences in the Middle East – forced him to soften his stance, although he remained doubtful whether assistance could reach the Caucasus in time.68 The COS contemplated military support to the Soviet Union on 4 December, ahead of a visit to Moscow by Anthony Eden.69 With the

60

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

German advance now halted, and Russian successes at Rostov in the north Caucasus, Churchill was prepared to offer two divisions and ten RAF squadrons. When the Chiefs opposed what they saw as a reckless commitment – totalling approximately one-fifth of the infantry divisions and air forces then available in the Middle East – it was agreed that Eden would instead tell Stalin that the Libyan campaign would not permit the release of the two divisions earmarked for the Caucasus. In the air, support to the Turkish army would take precedence over the Russian southern front. ‘The attitude of Turkey becomes increasingly important, both to Russia and to Great Britain.’70 All of these discussions in the autumn of 1941 assumed a decisive British victory in Libya, and the transfer of forces from North Africa to assist Turkey or the Red Army. The failure of ‘Crusader’ to deliver victory in North Africa was problematic enough. While Eden was in Moscow, however, the outbreak of war in the Far East drastically increased Britain’s global commitments, and made the question of substantial military support to the Soviet Union or Turkey academic for some time to come.

Asking Turkey to defend us: The Northern Front following the Japanese declaration of war ‘Crusader’ demonstrated that Britain could fight Germany on land, as well as in the air and at sea, and provided a welcome display of British strength in the Middle East, in contrast to laboured campaigns in Iraq and Syria in the summer of 1941.71 However, Pierson Dixon was right to counsel caution about its impact on Turkish foreign policy. Operations in Libya did not mask Britain’s limited capabilities in the Middle East – forces fighting in Egypt and Libya could not simultaneously defend the Northern Front. Hugessen’s reports from Ankara confirmed that the Turkish government was all too aware of the British dilemma. He warned of Turkish suspicions that, if Germany invaded, Britain had little interest in defending Turkey as a whole, but would rather ‘sit on the Taurus line’ – the mountain range in southern Turkey which formed a natural barrier against any invader attempting to reach the Middle East through Anatolia – ‘and allow the whole of Turkey to be overrun without any effort on our part to prevent it: i.e. that we shall use so much of Turkish territory as is of advantage to our strategy and let the rest go to the devil.’72 This was precisely Britain’s strategy. The commitment to Turkey, made in October, assumed no German threat before the spring of 1942. If

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 61

that threat appeared earlier, Britain would advance into Anatolia only if circumstances elsewhere in the Middle Eastern theatre permitted; otherwise they would meet the Germans on Turkey’s southern frontier.73 By December 1941, British military weakness meant that ‘our military interest in Turkey is really confined to the Taurus, and this is a fact at which it is no use blinking. We are not offering to defend Turkey, but asking Turkey to defend us.’74 The British hoped that Turkey would fight in the ‘common cause,’ buying them time to mount a fighting defence in Syria and Iraq. They were unable, however, to make a serious contribution to the defence of Turkey. This could not be revealed with equanimity. The Turkish resistance on which Britain relied would be drastically undermined by revelation of the severe limits on British assistance. The Southern Department of the FO argued that ‘the only solution’ to this ‘internal weakness’ was to make a military sacrifice for political purposes. ‘(W)e must, to obtain our political ends, send into Turkey military units to take up positions well in advance to where, from the strategic point of view, they should be disposed to defend the Taurus barrier. This may mean the sacrifice of valuable troops, but we must lump it.’75 Japanese belligerency ruled out this reckless gambit, yet the problem of how to hide Britain’s weakness in the Middle East remained, and was exacerbated by the diversion of men and resources to the Far East. The Turkish General Staff already suspected that Britain’s ability to provide military assistance in the event of a German attack might be adversely affected by diversions to the Pacific theatre.76 Following their victories in south-east Asia, the Japanese turned towards India, occupying Burma by the end of May 1942. The British genuinely feared a Japanese attempt to drive them from the Indian Ocean, cutting off the supply route via South Africa, and joining up with a German thrust from the Caucasus. Eden frankly admitted his ‘fears’ that ‘Germans and Japanese are working out a joint strategy, and a blow at Turkey is the shortest and, I fear, easiest road to a junction between them. It is disturbing that meanwhile our forces, both land and air, in the area are being steadily weakened.’77 Kennedy was similarly alarmed at the threat to the Northern Front, but defended the diversion of reinforcements, intended for the Middle East, to the new, Far Eastern theatre of war. ‘It is no good having a big force around the Suez Canal if the Japanese are allowed to seize control of the Indian Ocean and so cut off our communications by sea round the Cape.’78 The former CIGS, Field-Marshal Sir John Dill, now led the British military mission in Washington. He agreed with Kennedy, and advised the

62

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

COS in London that prevention of a German–Japanese ‘junction’ ranked as one of four strategic essentials for the Allies, alongside the security of the British Isles and the United States, and the maintenance of aid to the Soviet Union.79 Grave concerns at this possibility were also reflected in contemporary journalism.80 A pamphlet on the threat to the Northern Front, entitled ‘Hitler’s Last Hope,’ warned its readers that a ‘mighty pincer movement to effect [sic] a link-up with Japan across Asia, is Hitler’s final desperate gamble . . . The strategic importance of Turkey is vital. Can she resist?’81 Wavell’s earlier prediction, that ‘the Caucasus, Iran, Irak [sic] and Syria may well prove to be the great battlefield of 1942,’ appeared prescient.82 During the spring and summer of 1942, several events appeared to raise the possibility of the dreaded German–Japanese junction in the Indian Ocean. A Japanese naval assault on Ceylon – although ultimately a strategic dead end without supporting ground troops and a secure base at Madagascar – nonetheless gave the British a scare in early April.83 The German offensive in Egypt, beginning on 26 May, appeared by the end of June to threaten Alexandria. At the beginning of August, the Turkish ambassador in Rome, Hüseyin Ra˘ gıp Baydur, reported Italian conviction that ‘the Axis army in Africa would be at the [Suez Canal?] in [at most?] a fortnight.’84 Finally, German successes on the South Russian front – notably the fall of the Black Sea port of Sevastopol at the start of July – suggested that the German–Japanese junction in the Indian Ocean might finally come to pass.85 Sweeping territorial gains revived Hitler’s ambition for a strike towards Iraq, but the German navy – a relatively marginal voice in the formulation of grand strategy – was the only agency to draw up comprehensive plans for a junction with Japan.86 The Japanese government, in a telegram to Berlin intercepted by the British, expressed its eagerness, following the fall of Sevastopol and Tobruk, to facilitate closer military collaboration. This telegram was marked ‘Important’ by the head of the SIS, Sir Stewart Menzies, who passed it to Churchill.87 Gerhard Weinberg reminds us that this ‘theoretical advocacy’ of a close alignment with Germany did not translate into willingness on the part of the Japanese General Staff to allocate the ground troops necessary for an invasion of Ceylon.88 Neither the Germans nor the Japanese were able to exploit the latent strengths of their alliance, effectively fighting separate wars against common foes (with the Japanese honouring their neutrality agreement with the Soviet Union).89 Nonetheless, the British could not plan for the failure of the German–Japanese alliance

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 63

with equanimity, and genuinely feared the junction between the two until at least September 1942.

Plan ‘Wonderful’ – the defence of the Northern Front At the end of January 1942, the Middle East Defence Committee reconsidered their plans for the Northern Front in the wake of the failure to destroy Rommel’s forces, and in anticipation of a renewed German assault on the Caucasus. The fighting strength of the Middle East Command had also been diminished by the diversion of reinforcements – and in some cases the direct transfer of troops already based in the Middle East – to the Pacific. In the immediate wake of Japanese entry into the war, several anti-tank and anti-aircraft regiments, and a number of fighter and bomber squadrons, were diverted to the Far East. At the start of January, the COS had stated their intention to reinforce the Pacific theatre with six further divisions, drawn either from the Middle East or from reinforcements intended for the Middle East.90 Auchinleck warned London that the minimum force required to mount a fighting defence of the vast Middle Eastern theatre, from Libya to Iran, was 17 divisions, excluding armoured formations, with an additional five brigade groups for internal security. The absolute minimum for a passive defence of the same line was 12 divisions. The proposed troop withdrawals would leave Auchinleck with eight divisions and five brigade groups. ‘(W)ith this force we cannot maintain our position in the Middle East in the face of an attack from the north and we are in fact relying on this attack not taking place.’91 Kennedy concurred. ‘(W)e are gambling on the Russians standing up well enough in the spring to safeguard our northern flank.’92 Churchill, whose memoirs were so critical of Auchinleck, had independently recognised that ‘Russian resistance in the south gives complete protection to us . . . Even without the war with Japan we could only have maintained a very doubtful defence of Palestine, Iraq and Persia.’93 Should the Soviets in the Caucasus collapse, the British had previously envisaged fighting on the Turkish frontier, advancing into Anatolia if circumstances permitted. By the end of January 1942, it was ‘quite clear that we shall not now have the forces [the four infantry divisions and two armoured divisions promised in October 1941] to carry out this plan.’ Without significant reinforcements ‘our only course will be to fall back on defences in rear in Persia, Central Iraq and South Syria.’ This would mean abandoning ‘all idea’ of supporting Turkey, since the

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

necessary air forces and anti-aircraft defences would not be available without denuding Britain’s home defences.94 Plans for the defence of the Northern Front – Plan ‘Wonderful’ – demonstrate the limits of British ambitions. A January 1942 directive for the ‘defence of Persia, Iraq and Syria and conduct of operations in Turkey’ was the most ambitious of the detailed plans submitted for the defence of the Northern Front.95 Planners assumed Turkish resistance to an Axis invasion, and envisaged fulfilment of Britain’s undertaking, ‘to send an air striking force into Anatolia to her aid.’ This force, codenamed ‘Sprawl,’ comprised 26 RAF squadrons, supported by four brigade groups and anti-aircraft artillery from the British Ninth Army. These supporting forces would advance into southern Anatolia, operating on a line between Mersin and Adana. Simultaneously with the despatch of this force, the Ninth Army would commence work on additional defensive positions in the Taurus region, between Diyarbakır and Mara¸s. This part of the plan, code-named ‘Confidence,’ required three armoured and three infantry divisions, and 43 further air force squadrons operating across the Northern Front. These would be drawn from a fighting strength in the Middle Eastern Command of ten infantry divisions and 57 RAF squadrons at the end

ROMANIA

USSR British defensive positions Railways

BULGARIA

GREECE

Mountains

Black Sea

Istanbul

Ankara Anticipated German advances from Caucasus (via Turkish railway network)

Anticipated German advances from Balkans (via Turkish railway network)

CONFIDENCE Malatya

Maras DEFRAUD Osmaniye Adama Gaziantep

Diyarbak r

SPRAWL

Mersin

Mediterranean Sea

SYRIA

IRAQ

CYPRUS

Map 3.1 British plans for the defence of the Northern Front, 1942 (based on maps and documents in WO 201/1094, 1099 & 1236, National Archives).

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 65

of January, and would have required the deployment of the bulk of the armoured forces available in the theatre at that time.96 ‘Should we occupy this position, our object will be to defeat the Germans in this area should Turkish resistance collapse and our air striking force be compelled to fall back.’ The map demonstrates the significance of the defensive positions chosen by the British. The ‘Confidence’ line broadly followed the Turkish railway network where it exited the Taurus Mountains, while the ‘Sprawl’ land forces would hold the key points further west. To transport large forces through the Taurus at anything other than a snail’s pace, the Germans would need to use the railways, the crucial portions of which would be held by the British. No British ground forces would operate north of the Taurus. It was Turkish suspicion of this limited commitment, to the strategically important areas in southern Turkey, which Hugessen had reported in December 1941.97 By March – and in the wake of a renewed Axis offensive in North Africa which had retaken Cyrenaica – even these plans had been drastically scaled back. The ‘Sprawl’ air forces would still assist the Turks, but the supporting brigade groups would only provide cover for the RAF, and would not engage the Germans, whose anticipated invasion force was four armoured and six motorised divisions.98 The forces available to the Ninth Army fell short of those required for ‘Confidence,’ but could be deployed to support the ‘Sprawl’ force by occupying a less-ambitious line, demarcated ‘Defraud.’ This ran significantly to the south of ‘Confidence,’ but still incorporated strategic points on the railway network, at Osmaniye and Gaziantep. Rather than holding these successfully against the Germans, the British now anticipated their destruction during an inevitable Allied retreat, significantly delaying the Axis forces’ passage towards Syria and Iraq. This line would be held by two infantry brigade groups, one motor brigade group and two armoured car regiments, possibly reinforced by one motorised battalion; a force code-named ‘Bluff.’ This force would hold the ‘Defraud’ line ‘to prepare and carry out all useful demolitions and impose the maximum delay on the enemy . . . but it will NOT on any account become involved.’ The ‘Sprawl’ air forces withdrawn from south-west Anatolia would reorganise behind this line, providing air cover for the withdrawal of ‘Bluff’ force, and undertaking further demolition and delaying strikes, before the entire force withdrew behind British defensive positions in Syria and Iraq.99 The drastic curtailment of British ambitions for the defence of Turkey was reflected in the postponement of plans to construct a railway

66

Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

between Arada and Diyarbakır in southern Turkey, to connect the Turkish and Syrian railways, and facilitate the transfer of British troops from Iraq to Turkey. In the words of the new CIGS, Sir Alan Brooke, ‘(t)he construction of this links [sic] is no longer so necessary to our operations on the Northern Front, since the limiting factor to the assistance we can send to Turkey is not now so much lack of communications as lack of forces.’100 While the railway might benefit the Allies in the future, when they could send a fighting force into Turkey, in the short term, ‘the railway, if built, would be of more use to the enemy than to ourselves, since we cannot at present hope to hold as far north even as the [Turkish] frontier.’101 ‘This comes as rather a shock,’ wrote Douglas Howard, the head of the Southern Department. ‘I have been innocently under the impression that every hope was held of being able to defend the Taurus line; but not at all, and not even the Turkish frontier (I wonder in this case what line in the Middle East can be held).’102

SOE in Turkey Plans for the defence of the Northern Front assumed Turkish resistance to an Axis invasion. However, an alternative contingency plan was prepared to cover a scenario in which the Turks submitted to invasion. In this scenario, the forces available were assumed to be similar to those assigned to the ‘Bluff’ force above, with the infantry component augmented to two divisions (each minus one brigade group) and the motorised battalion substituted for a battalion of ‘I’ tanks. In addition to its existing tasks, this force would be expected to nullify armed Turkish opposition to the establishment of the ‘Sprawl’ air forces and the demolition operations on the ‘Defraud’ line, although planners anticipated disagreement among the Turkish military leadership, and some support for Britain against the Axis.103 A more urgent concern, evident in FO discussions during December 1941, was the possibility of an early Turkish quid pro quo with the Axis, resulting from recognition – before being faced with overwhelming German pressure – that the British were unable to support them with anything other than token forces. In this event, ‘not only would the Caucasian flank be turned but our whole Middle Eastern position would be threatened.’104 It was for this reason that the FO and GHQ Middle East vetoed the establishment of a comprehensive SOE organisation in Turkey, despite the extent to which weakness in conventional forces suggested the value of unorthodox measures to delay or disrupt a German occupation of Turkey.

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 67

Following the fall of Greece and Yugoslavia in April 1941, GHQ Middle East had prepared a comprehensive sabotage plan for Turkey, including railways, ports, coal mines, steel works, oil installations, dams and power plants. Turkish co-operation was ‘essential,’105 and the military attaché in Ankara began negotiations with the Turkish General Staff,106 with a warning from London ‘to avoid giving them the impression that we are . . . anxious to help them to destroy their railways and industries.’107 The most important of these were the railway tunnels through the Taurus Mountains, whose denial to an invading German army was essential.108 Initial German successes in the Soviet Union raised the possibility of an imminent military threat to Turkey, while the signature of a German–Turkish ‘friendship treaty,’ shortly before the invasion of the Soviet Union, sparked fears that the Turks might acquiesce in a German occupation and refuse to co-operate in the demolition of communications and industrial plant, with disastrous consequences for Britain’s defensive position in the Middle East. The FO contemplated permitting an SOE organisation in Turkey, ‘to be prepared for changing political conditions,’109 but retreated when it became apparent that Turkey would remain neutral, and Russian resistance would continue.110 During the late summer and autumn of 1941, GHQ Middle East supported SOE’s proposals for the infiltration of demolition parties into Turkey.111 Auchinleck advised that further conversations between GHQ Middle East and the Turkish General Staff on demolition programmes were inadvisable, since plans for the destruction of communications and industry sat uneasily alongside contemporary efforts to improve Turkish morale. When the FO vetoed a comprehensive SOE organisation, the JPS in London recommended a compromise solution. A skeleton organisation for the demolition of key communications would be established in northern Syria, since ‘the over-running of at any rate some part of Anatolia in the next few months [is] a possibility with which we must seriously reckon.’112 The FO approved this limited proposal,113 but GHQ Middle East warned that operations carried out from Syria would be ineffective in the event of a German occupation of Turkey.114 The limitations on Britain’s orthodox military capabilities on the Northern Front revived the case for an SOE organisation in Turkey. SOE’s Chief Executive Officer, Gladwyn Jebb, and the head of its Balkan bureau in London, Lord Glenconner, urged the expansion of the Turkish organisation to correct GHQ Middle East’s inadequate preparations for a German invasion.115 They were supported by General Kennedy116 and

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

the COS. The Chiefs acknowledged the earlier unwillingness of the FO to extend SOE activities, but believed that ‘circumstances have [been] altered’ by the extreme unlikelihood of British assistance to Turkey. ‘The weakness of the forces we shall have available in 1942 for the defence of the Syrian and Iraq frontiers, if Turkey acquiesces to German demands, enhances the importance of any and every means of delaying action.’117 However, the Commanders-in-Chief in Cairo were no longer ‘prepared to recommend any extension of SOE activities in Turkey.’118 SOE was considered less important than diplomatic action ‘to cement Turkish allegiance to Allied cause and so ensure maximum Turkish resistance. Turkey can do more than we could ever do.’ Clandestine operations risked alienating Turkey by exposing the limits of British assistance. ‘Large scale demolition of strategic targets could only be done by Military occupation or raids and are outside scale of SOE,’ which could be of ‘nuisance value’ only.119 Britain’s military weakness exacerbated the desire to keep special operations on a tight rein. Demolition and sabotage schemes might be militarily useful, but presented political objections, since they would confirm the Turks’ suspicion ‘that we had no intention of defending Turkey itself, but were merely intent on holding the Middle East position along the line of the Taurus mountains.’120 On the whole, the British appear to have been successful in keeping the full extent of their weakness on the Northern Front from the Turks. No further report from service personnel in Ankara repeated the explicit concerns recorded in Admiral Howard Kelly’s despatch of 16 December,121 and intercepted diplomatic SIGINT – which included correspondence from Turkish service attachés – contained no direct reference to perceived British weakness. To maintain the façade, GHQ Middle East were instructed to avoid staff talks, since ‘in your present position you would feel yourself embarrassed . . . your present deficiencies should not (repeat not) be revealed to Turks.’122 Eden was prepared to let attaché-level military talks in Ankara continue ‘on a false footing,’ with the Turks being allowed to believe that Britain could assist them with substantial forces. ‘The importance of not discouraging the Turks unnecessarily is so great that, even at the expense of some degree of “suppressio veri,” I feel that we ought to allow the present military conversations to continue on their present basis.’123 The JPS doubted that apprehension of British military deficiencies was sufficient to precipitate Turkish submission to the Axis. Turkey was ‘unlikely to be coerced except by a heavy [German] concentration on her frontier,’ which could not occur before the end of May. The

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 69

Germans would require time to regroup after defeating the Soviets in the Caucasus, and Hitler would not jeopardise ongoing operations in the Caucasus by a diversion to the west.124 This supported the case made by SOE as it urged a comprehensive demolition organisation for Turkey. The Turks, Glenconner and Jebb argued, would be decisively influenced by the wider military situation, not by British clandestine operations.125 The JIC also ruled out an attack on Turkey as part of a German offensive in the Caucasus, citing the lack of ‘spare’ Axis forces in the Aegean and Balkans. They believed, however, that Turkish determination to resist was predicated on the assumption that ‘Allied aid is forthcoming now and in future.’126 Given that this aid was not forthcoming, the JIC’s conclusions implicitly supported the view of the FO and GHQ Middle East, that Britain must curtail preparations to impede a German occupation of Turkey by sabotage and demolition, in order to mask the limits of British aid.

Operation Blue: The German summer offensive in the Caucasus The FO continued, throughout the spring of 1942, to perceive an urgent German threat to Turkey. Influenced by Soviet counter-attacks in the winter of 1941–42 – at Rostov in the north Caucasus, and in the region of Sevastopol in the Crimea – Sir Orme Sargent did not believe that Germany would endure an arduous campaign over the Caucasus Mountains, across Iran to the Persian Gulf. Although both the JIC and the Joint Planners had ruled it out, Sargent believed an alternative campaign through Turkey from the Balkans – against the Turkish army and limited British forces in Syria and Iraq – would allow Germany to obtain Middle Eastern oil, deprive Britain of those same supplies, and – in the very worst case – establish contact with Japan, ‘assuming that the latter were able by that time to convoy ships from Singapore to the Persian Gulf.’127 Sir Alexander Cadogan also believed that a German attack on Turkey, from the Balkans, was ‘well within the range of probabilities. A renewed German Spring offensive against Russia is much heralded. I wonder whether we shall see it.’128 Eden agreed, warning Churchill that ‘(i)t would be possible for Germany to hold Russia while launching this offensive [against Turkey] which, if successful, would bring her to oil supplies and to the Persian Gulf.’129 Auchinleck’s Chief of Staff, General Arthur Smith, wondered ‘if the Germans will realise that they have little chance of getting through to the Caucasus via Russia, and if they

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may not after all go through Turkey, in view of their supreme need for oil.’130 During April, Brooke anticipated a German attack from the eastern Mediterranean, if they lacked the strength for a renewed onslaught in the Soviet Union.131 That these senior figures continued to fear an attack from the Balkans or the eastern Mediterranean, despite professional advice to the contrary, indicates the enduring strength of that bogey, apparent since the autumn of 1940.132 Plan ‘Wonderful’ was also ostensibly designed to meet this contingency, since Axis forces advancing rapidly from the west would also be required to use the railway network, and would be faced with the same bottlenecks in the south as forces from the Caucasus. The JIC, although convinced of the Germans’ urgent need for Caucasian oil, drew the opposite conclusion to Smith. By mid-March, they were confident that the Germans’ limited capabilities would permit only one major offensive in 1942, and that it would be delivered against the southern Russian front.133 In mid-May, the Directorate of Military Intelligence at the War Office similarly concluded that a third alternative – landings on Turkey’s Black Sea coast – ‘are unlikely if the enemy’s main objective is the Caucasus,’ but conceded that that region’s negligible defence works, might ‘tempt the Germans to exploit the advantages of surprise in order to cause dismay and confusion in the rear of the main Turkish forces.’134 The renewed German onslaught against Russia was very real – Operation ‘Blue’ began on 28 June 1942 – and the JIC was correct to reject a separate thrust at Turkey parallel to the main Caucasian offensive. However, German successes during July and August revived the possibility of a complete Soviet collapse in South Russia. Overwhelming German pressure on their borders would force the Turks to capitulate, especially if they were inadequately supplied with Allied men and munitions. Auchinleck was painfully aware of this, and concerns about the Northern Front exercised a powerful influence on him during 1942.135 Throughout that summer, he and Brooke grew ever more exasperated with Soviet refusal to co-ordinate their Caucasian defence plans with the British.136 Although Churchill again used his war memoirs to suggest that GHQ Middle East overestimated the threat to the Northern Front, at the expense of their desert operations in Egypt, the extent of Churchill and Brooke’s shared concern for the situation in the Caucasus is evident from their mission to Moscow in August 1942.137 Even before that visit was arranged, Churchill wrote to the COS indicating his desire to build an Anglo-Soviet force ‘to defend the Caspian Sea

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 71

and the Caucasus Mountains, and to encourage Turkey to preserve neutrality.’138 *

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The German offensive revived suspicions of Turkey which had driven Soviet policy during the first two years of the war. Turkish troop movements on their Caucasian frontier in mid-July were, the British were told, designed to counter a German occupation of the Crimea. Yet the Vichy military attaché in Ankara reported that the German ambassador, Franz von Papen, had been informed that these same movements were directed against the Russians; a maladroit sleight of hand which Germany could use to spread discord between Russia and Turkey.139 Hugessen reassured the Soviet chargé d’affaires in Ankara that the Turks were moving troops into this area to prevent a German dash at the Soviet oil districts through north-eastern Turkey, and advised him to ignore German propaganda that the move was directed against the Soviet Union.140 Cevat Açıkalın, ambassador-designate to the Soviet Union, also insisted that Papen had been given a diplomatic explanation for the troop movements. Açıkalın did not believe that a German drive through north-eastern Turkey was feasible, but it appeared attractive on the map and might appeal to Hitler, so the contingency must be covered. It was ridiculous to assume that Turkey had aggressive intentions against Russia.141 The new Turkish ambassador in London, Rauf Orbay, nonetheless observed that ‘(t)he people of the Caucasus . . . were not by any means all friendly to Russia, and though Turkey would on no account take any action to make difficulties for Russia, his Government did take account of this fact.’142 Despite the Kemalist rejection of pan-Turanism, some Britons suspected that elements within Turkey sought to profit from Soviet difficulties in the Caucasus. The British Council’s representative in Turkey noted the use of pan-Turanian slogans in German propaganda, and asserted that ‘most educated and semi-educated Turks . . . have a lurking sympathy with this idea, and that this sympathy has increased owing to the recent tension with Russia.’143 SOE, perhaps as a result of their preoccupation with dissident and disenfranchised groups in Turkey, suspected a recrudescence of pan-Turanian sentiment during the summer of 1942.144 Even Hugessen admitted that the ‘Turkish Government may not be sorry to see some Caucasian organisation set up with unofficial Turkish assistance,’ a conclusion which Turkish historiography suggests was closest to the truth.145

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

On the question of Turkish troop movements in the summer of 1942, Hugessen nonetheless agreed with Açıkalın that ‘the Turks deserve a good deal of sympathy in the face of the really idiotic Russian attitude.’146 The threat to Soviet–Turkish relations was genuine, however, as the Turks recognised.147 Molotov warned Dimitrov that Turkey’s attitude to the German offensive was unclear, and that the Soviet Union must remain on its guard, since a Turkish move against them could not be ruled out.148 The ambassador in Ankara, Sergei Vinogradov, suspected that Turkey would respond to a German victory in the Caucasus by permitting the French and Italian navies to attack the Soviet Union via the Black Sea.149 When Churchill travelled to Moscow in August, Stalin expressed his suspicion of Turkish intentions in the Caucasus, and his determination to punish any Turkish opportunism with the utmost severity.150 As the FO had recognised in June 1941, the Soviets would not forget, and allegations of Turkish–German collaboration in the Caucasus figured prominently in anti-Turkish propaganda in 1945 and after.151 *

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The German onslaught in the Caucasus coincided with the fall of Tobruk, and a renewed Axis assault on Egypt which appeared to threaten Alexandria and Suez, suggesting to the Times newspaper that the German–Japanese junction in the Indian Ocean might finally come to pass.152 The New Statesman & Nation similarly articulated the Axis threat to ‘(t)he oilfield of the Middle East, with its centres at Grozny, Baku, Mosul and Abadan.’153 To meet this new threat, Brooke attached particular importance to the creation of a separate Persia–Iraq Command.154 Alarmed by the weakness of British defences on the Northern Front, he was anxious that the defence of the region’s oilfields be charged to a new commander, independent of both the Middle East Command and GHQ India. If the Germans broke through in the Caucasus, the ensuing conflict would be ‘vital’ to the Allied war effort.155 Significantly, Churchill shared Brooke’s conviction that the new command, taken up by General Sir Henry Maitland Wilson after Auchinleck turned it down, could prove crucial to the war effort in the Middle East.156 Rapid German advances in the Caucasus compelled Brooke to request revised JIC assessments of German attacks on the Northern Front.157 The situation in Egypt and the Caucasus, and alarmist reports from HM Embassy in Ankara,158 compelled serious consideration of Turkish acquiescence in a German invasion. Contingency plans were made to send

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 73

Allied forces into Anatolia to check the German advance, possibly in the face of armed Turkish resistance.159 By October 1942, as the German offensive in the Caucasus stagnated, and the western Allies counter-attacked in North Africa, the FO acquiesced in the JIC view that Germany required 20 divisions to overwhelm Turkey; forces which had not been available since the summer of 1941.160 Nonetheless, Brooke remained uneasy about the durability of the Northern Front, prompting renewed consideration of the deployment of Anglo-American air forces in the Caucasus.161

The Northern Front in retrospect A January 1943 report on British strategy on the Northern Front recognised that strategy had been guided by ‘(t)he ability of the Russian Armies to hold the German thrust into Caucasia’ and ‘(t)he neutrality of Turkey.’162 A physical threat to the Northern Front could have emerged from a German drive through Anatolia from the Balkans and the Aegean, or from the Caucasus. Again, ‘the possibility of such threats materialising is governed by the measure of Russian resistance since Germany is unable to detach sufficient forces from her Russian front simultaneously to undertake an assault on the strong Turkish positions [in western Turkey].’ Very little of this was in Britain’s power to influence, as General Kennedy had recognised in the summer of 1941. British commitments to the Northern Front had been made ‘subject to our defence requirements elsewhere,’ and the forces required to resist a German drive from the north or the west ‘have never been available.’163 As plans for ‘Wonderful’ had made clear in January and March 1942, even forces to undertake a fighting retreat in southern Turkey were painfully small. The German victory in the Caucasus and assault on Anatolia, feared by the British during 1941–42, never materialised. Nonetheless, proTurkish propaganda defended Turkey’s role in preventing the German– Japanese junction in the Indian Ocean. Ernst Jäckh was an émigré who had served the German government in the Middle East during the First World War, before taking British citizenship in 1933. He advised readers of his 1944 volume on Turkey that a Turkish capitulation in 1942 would have enabled the Germans to ‘cut the American-British-Russian sea-and-land junction between the Persian Gulf and the Red Sea, the strategic centre of the struggle for the world. Then they would have been able to join the Japanese ally in the Indian Ocean and by this junction put a chain around the world.’164 An American journalist, writing in the

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same year, similarly reminded his readers that Turkish acquiescence in the passage of German troops would have allowed the seizure of the Baku and Mosul oilfields, with ‘staggering consequences.’ He wondered whether ‘History may appraise Turkey’s stubborn neutrality in 1942 as saving the Allied cause and making possible a final, complete victory.’165 Stripped of hyperbole, such bold statements echoed the concerns of the COS during the spring of 1942, when they warned that a Turkish capitulation would turn the Caucasian flank and imperil the whole Middle East.166 Furthermore, students of the German war effort have demonstrated that, following the invasion of the Soviet Union, Rommel was asked to plan an offensive against Egypt, to be launched in the autumn of 1941. This would have taken place simultaneously with a German advance on the Suez Canal from the east, through Turkey, Syria and Palestine. By September 1941 it had become clear that the Soviet Union could not be defeated before the end of the year, with the consequence that Turkey would maintain its position of armed neutrality, and would refuse to collaborate in an advance on Suez. An attack from the east – from Syria and Iraq – was understood to be an essential precondition for a German victory at Suez, and it could not be accomplished while Germany remained engaged against the Soviet Union, if Turkey refused to collaborate. Turkey’s voluntary collaboration was a ‘prerequisite’ for German victory in the Middle East, since successful military action against Turkey, simultaneous with a continuing campaign in the Soviet Union, was extremely unlikely.167 German failure to defeat the Soviet Union in the Caucasus, and their inability to launch a decisive blow against Turkey from the Balkans or the Aegean, combined with the eventual, hard-won triumph of AngloAmerican arms in North Africa in the spring of 1943 to obscure the importance of the Northern Front in British thinking during 1941 and 1942. Far from being ‘obsessed’ with achieving Turkish belligerency against Germany, senior Foreign Officials and military commanders were if anything ‘obsessed’ with the dreaded German–Japanese ‘junction’ in the Indian Ocean, in the event of a Soviet defeat in the Caucasus which could not be ruled out until the Germans had been defeated at Stalingrad early in 1943. Although Churchill arguably did not demonstrate such consistent concern for the German–Japanese ‘junction’ as Eden or Brooke, he too recognised the importance of the Northern Front to an extent which is not immediately clear from his published war memoirs. Churchill’s was not the only voice in British strategic policy, and on the issue of the Northern Front he was arguably less important than Eden (and his

Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East 75

two most senior permanent officials) or Brooke (and several other senior commanders, including Dill, his predecessor as CIGS). Close reference to the private papers and recollections of the key protagonists, and the archival record of each of the bureaucracies involved, in London and in Cairo, demonstrates that a greater awareness of the centrality of the Northern Front to British thinking is essential for a comprehensive understanding of British strategy in the Middle East during 1941 and 1942.

4 The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943

The year 1942 saw the collapse of the British Empire in the Far East, humiliating defeats in North Africa, and a disastrous raid on Dieppe, while the Battle of the Atlantic remained desperate. As we have seen, British leaders spent much of the year transfixed by the possibility of a Soviet defeat in the Caucasus, and a German–Japanese ‘junction’ in the Indian Ocean. It is essential to understand the anxiety and pessimism that characterised the British war effort for the first 9 months of 1942, in order to appreciate the rapid change of mood that occurred in October, November and December. An Anglo-American assault on north-west Africa – code-named ‘Torch’ – began on 8 November, and achieved complete surprise. The immediate success of the Allied landings was coupled with the parallel achievements of the British Eighth Army in Egypt and Libya (in an offensive which commenced on 23 October) and the stagnation of the German drive in the Caucasus. Together, they stood in stark contrast to the reverses which had characterised 1942 to that point. The British were euphoric, and foresaw the defeat of the Axis during 1943. This euphoria contributed to a new misperception of Turkey’s attitude to the war which in turn contributed to a significant deterioration of Anglo-Turkish relations during 1943 and 1944. The abortive British effort to achieve Turkish belligerency – driven by Churchill, who only now exerted a decisive influence on policy towards Turkey – had its roots in the autumn of 1942. The Prime Minister’s ambitions for Turkish belligerency were informed by a Churchillian strategic concept dating back to at least the First World War, but also reflected the improving war situation, as seen through British eyes. The Prime Minister invoked the qualified approval of Roosevelt and Stalin in support of his Turkish gambit, but equally significant was the impact of his own 76

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943 77

considerable personal authority – and charisma – in achieving the acquiescence, if not active support, of the FO and HM Embassy in Ankara. The support of the CIGS, Sir Alan Brooke, was also crucial. Churchill’s mercurial performance during friendly, yet innocuous, Anglo-Turkish discussions at Adana in January 1943 precipitated a remarkable over-optimism about Turkish belligerency, despite the interception of correspondence from Ankara which demonstrated that the Turkish government had a very different conception of the Adana conclusions. Failure to consider the impact of contemporary internal problems in Turkey, or to recognise several indicators of an altogether more ambivalent Turkish attitude to the Allied war effort, invite serious questions about the organisational culture of wartime Whitehall.

Churchill’s Turkish gambit, autumn 1942 Early in September, before the Allied landings in north-west Africa, and with the situation in the Caucasus uncertain, the Turkish Foreign Minister Numan Menemencio˘ glu anticipated a compromise peace.1 Turkish diplomats reported French fears of an invasion of north-west Africa, however,2 and in late September Ankara received confirmation of an imminent Allied attack from Rauf Orbay in London. ‘The British and Americans will shortly open a front at a point in west Africa, calling it “the second front.” ’3 During the first week of November, the Turkish military attaché in London reported the optimism engendered there by the offensive in Egypt.4 With Anglo-American forces about to land in north-west Africa, the FO speculated on Turkish reactions to a substantive Allied breakthrough. George Clutton predicted that immediate reactions would be ‘excellent,’ but warned that if the Axis was thrown out of North Africa, Turkey’s own position might become dangerous, since the only remaining means by which Germany could attack the Middle East, or take the Russians in the rear of the Caucasus, would be through Turkey.5 Although surprised by the speed and extent of the Allied breakthrough, the Turks became ‘more accommodating and frank,’ and Hugessen reported Turkish confidence in the ‘complete liquidation of Axis forces and interests in North Africa.’6 Clutton noted with satisfaction that ‘(t)he Turks have been impressed by our military strength – for the first time,’ but cautioned that ‘(i)t is still too early to see how far Turkey’s position will be affected in the long run.’7 Dixon agreed. ‘The Turkish reaction has been exactly what might have been

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

expected – genuine pleasure at our success coupled with wariness about the next German move.’8 A week later, Menemencio˘ glu indeed voiced his concern that Turkey might be threatened by Germany if the Allied attack on Tunis was inconclusive, citing German divisions in Greece and the Greek islands.9 The JIC had consistently played down the German military threat to Turkey, and its chairman, Victor Cavendish-Bentinck, remained sceptical. Most divisions garrisoning Greece were Italian, and there were only very limited German forces in Salonika and Crete. When the German High Command had large numbers of divisions and a large air force to spare . . . we examined whether they might be likely to attempt a landing on the Syrian coast, or in southern Anatolia. The conclusion was reached that this operation was most improbable. At the present time only a Turkish minister would . . . pretend it was possible.10 Bentinck’s scepticism may have been influenced by intercepted correspondence from the Greek ambassador in Ankara, M. Raphael, who reported his own talks with Menemencio˘ glu, prior to the ‘Torch’ landings. Menemencio˘ glu did not rule out a German campaign against Turkey, directed at Suez, but Raphael believed that this threat ‘is merely hypothetical, and . . . has been much more vigorously emphasised . . . when interviewing the British Ambassador, with manifest reference to the need for completing Turkish armaments.’ In fact, ‘the rulers of Turkey are today absolutely at ease as to the immediate future, and . . . are sure of their ability to secure the final avoidance by Turkey of participation in the war, at least [as long as she wishes to avoid it?].’11 This decrypt was given the usual, wide distribution around Whitehall, including the FO and each of the service ministries, and was passed to Churchill by Menzies on 15 October.12 Eden recognised that Turkish policy had not been revolutionised by the initial success of Operation ‘Torch.’ ‘(T)he one fixed point in Turkish policy so far has been to keep out of war . . . I doubt whether any promises or cajolery will bring Turkey into the war.’13 General Kennedy, who had been briefed by the military attaché in Ankara, General Arnold, doubted that Turkey would come in ‘till the war is moving away from her,’14 while the British naval representative in Turkey, Admiral Sir Howard Kelly, warned that Turkish neutrality was becoming stricter, not relaxing.15 Nonetheless, two key individuals – Winston Churchill and Sir

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943 79

Alan Brooke – had very different ideas about the benefits to be accrued from the improving military situation. Churchill’s previous interventions in Turkish affairs had been episodic, but the spectacular successes in North Africa, and the stagnation of the German advance in the Caucasus, turned his febrile mind to the offensive possibilities in the Mediterranean if the Axis could be expelled from Africa. At a meeting of the Chiefs of Staff (COS) in mid-November, Churchill expressed his conviction that developments in North Africa and the Caucasus raised the possibility of Turkish belligerency in the spring of 1943. He emphasised his personal belief ‘that Turkey may be won if proper measures are taken,’ even though he had seen the intercepted correspondence from the Greek ambassador in Ankara, and been reminded by Eden that it was Turkey’s fixed policy to keep out of the war. Churchill believed that Turkey ‘has been restrained by fear,’ and asserted that Britain had ‘taken an indulgent view of her policy on account of our own inability to help. The situation has now changed. By the destruction of Rommel’s Army, large forces may presently become available in Egypt and Cyrenaica.’16 Churchill also anticipated that British forces in Iran and Iraq could be reassembled in Syria as ‘a powerful British land and air force to assist the Turks. A target date for the concentration should be April or May.’ The essentials of Churchill’s policy for 1943 were being put in place; Turkey must be provided with ‘a ceaseless flow of weapons and equipment.’17 Churchill’s Turkish ambitions reflected his dissatisfaction with the Chiefs’ existing plans for future operations. He denounced proposals which anticipated another year in which the western Allies continued to build their forces and undertook limited operations in the Mediterranean; a strategy guaranteed to antagonise the Russians and the Americans, who might be diverted to the Pacific.18 The need to articulate an alternative which would permit offensive action in 1943 contributed to Churchill’s enthusiasm for the Turkish gambit in the autumn of 1942. Churchill’s ambitions were fuelled by correspondence with President Roosevelt, who also briefly contemplated using Turkey to strike at the German flank in the Black Sea.19 Churchill stated the influence of his correspondence with Roosevelt in his paper for the COS and the War Cabinet.20 Crucially, Roosevelt advocated a Black Sea campaign in the heady days immediately after the ‘Torch’ landings, before the extent of German and Vichy resistance became apparent. Rommel’s Afrika Corps had been routed, but it had not been ‘destroyed.’ Likewise the ‘Torch’ forces, which Churchill assumed would swiftly occupy French North Africa, had been delayed in Morocco and Algeria by logistical

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

problems and the resistance of armies loyal to Vichy, until a ceasefire was negotiated by Admiral François Darlan. The Vichy forces in Tunisia rejected Darlan’s surrender, and permitted substantial Axis reinforcements – diverted from the eastern front – to enter the country, which Hitler planned to defend in strength. The Axis forces counterattacked in December, and by the end of 1942 there was stalemate.21 Tunisia would not fall to the Allies until the following May. As a result, there could be no rapid redeployment of forces to support Turkey until mid-1943: by which point the balance of power in the Anglo-American alliance had shifted decisively in favour of the United States. While the Americans welcomed Turkish belligerency, if Turkey voluntarily entered the war, they would not expend time and resources – ‘the supreme and prolonged effort’ anticipated by Churchill – to achieve that belligerence through the ‘promises or cajolery’ described by Eden. In the winter of 1942–43, however, Churchill assumed that Roosevelt shared his eagerness for an Allied front in the eastern Mediterranean. Churchill telegraphed Stalin outlining the advantages to be gleaned from Turkish belligerency. In addition to a perennial British objective – the bombing of the Romanian oilfields from Turkish bases – Churchill declared that Turkish belligerency would open a shipping route to the Soviet Union via the Straits, permitting further supplies to the Red Army, and naval assistance in the Black Sea; a revised version of his First World War strategic concept, which had been thwarted at the Dardanelles in 1915. To help facilitate belligerency, Churchill recommended a threepower guarantee of Turkey’s independence and territorial integrity.22 Although Stalin ostensibly endorsed Churchill’s proposals,23 the suggestion that the Royal Navy might enter the Black Sea, and British forces enter Turkey, revived his latent suspicion of an Anglo-Turkish threat to the Soviet Union, with the Caucasian oil industry once again the likeliest possible target.24 Stalin’s continuing refusal to permit Anglo-American air forces in the Caucasus should be seen in this context.25 Churchill’s ‘personal belief’ in Turkish belligerency had not been diminished by the intercepted telegram from the Greek ambassador in Ankara, discussed above. Nor was it shaken by a further intercept from the Japanese ambassador there, reporting a meeting between Menemencio˘ glu and Franz von Papen. Menemencio˘ glu told Papen that Turkey’s attitude had not changed; Turkey did not welcome an outright Allied victory in North Africa, which would aggravate pressure on them to enter the war.26 Despite the wide distribution of this intercept, and the earlier one from Raphael – which in both cases included

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943 81

Churchill – there was limited recognition of their implications for Turkish diplomacy. Churchill requested a feasibility study on the movement of several British divisions from Iran to Turkey.27 As Kennedy made clear, Britain ˙ could only supply Turkey in strength through Izmir and other ports further north, and these could only be opened once the Allies had taken the Dodecanese islands and cleared the Axis from the Aegean; operations which could not be undertaken until the Axis had been defeated in North Africa.28 This reversed the formula given by Churchill, who believed it would be ‘a great mistake to attack Rhodes and other islands in enemy hands in the eastern Mediterranean until we have got Turkey on our side.’29 Brooke nonetheless shared Churchill’s enthusiasm for Turkish belligerency, particularly after the stagnation of ‘Torch’ led to the abandonment of cross-channel operations in 1943, to which Brooke had been passionately opposed.30 Kennedy recorded that Brooke ‘is quite determined to go flat out in the Mediterranean . . . If we can get near enough to bomb the Rumanian oil fields and cut the Aegean and Turkish traffic (chrome etc) . . . (t)here is a real probability that the Germans may collapse within a year.’31 Brooke saw the Mediterranean as a theatre in which the Allies could wear down German air and land power, and divert German forces from the Russian front.32 It is also possible that the relief, at last, of the German threat to the Northern Front – which had preoccupied Brooke ever since his appointment as CIGS – contributed to an exaggerated belief in the strategic opportunities afforded by ‘Torch.’ Like Churchill, Brooke was not diverted by evidence which indicated that bringing Turkey into the war on the Allied side would prove more difficult than either man imagined. The distorting effect of the Churchill-Brooke policy towards Turkey was soon clear. Early in November, the counsellor at the embassy in Ankara, Alexander Knox Helm, reported a conversation with Menemencio˘ glu, now Foreign Minister in a government led by Saraco˘ glu. Menemencio˘ glu spoke with enthusiasm about the post-war role that ‘a strong Turkey’ could play as a war-weary Britain’s satellite in the Near East. ‘(I)t was important that Great Britain should dominate the peace, at any rate in this part of the world. Russia must not dominate it, however tired we might be.’33 Despite the alternative accounts of foreign diplomats in Ankara, and the reservations expressed by Eden, Bentinck and Kennedy, among others, the Southern Department of the FO nonetheless seized on ‘this conversation of definite importance,’ which Sargent believed indicated ‘a change, if not of Turkish policy

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

towards the war, at any rate in the tempo of Turkish co-operation with ourselves.’ He professed to see – although it is unclear on what basis – ‘the beginnings of a movement in certain circles in favour of a plunge into belligerency . . . I am beginning to hope that it may not be as difficult as we had thought to achieve the task which the Prime Minister has set us of bringing the Turks into the war in the Spring.’34 The optimism expressed by Sargent and his subordinates stood in stark contrast to the assessment of Hugessen, who had returned to London to brief the Chief of Staff and the JIC on the situation in Turkey. Hugessen made it clear to both that he believed the chances of achieving Turkish belligerency were ‘negligible.’ Turkey would only enter the war in its final stages, in order to have a seat at the peace conference.35 Brooke conceded that, if Hugessen was correct, there was little chance of inducing Turkey to enter the war. He insisted nonetheless that preparations to that end should continue, since Turkey remained ‘a valuable prize.’36 Brooke, fixating on the military opportunities which Turkish belligerency might present, could not accept Hugessen’s conclusions, the logic of which was clear to anyone who read the intercepted correspondence distributed around Whitehall. Hugessen’s testimony influenced Bentinck, who remained sceptical throughout 1943 about Britain’s chances of securing Turkish belligerency. Cadogan also doubted whether it is legitimate to expect that Turkey will do what we want when we want her, i.e. when there is still a job of work to be done . . . I don’t believe the Turks will come in a moment before they are convinced that it is safe to do so – which will be a little late for us.37 Cadogan and Bentinck were arguably more receptive to Hugessen’s testimony because of their comprehensive exposure to intercepted correspondence, which indicated a more equivocal Turkish policy than that identified by Sargent and the Southern Department. Although the operational departments of the FO received at least one copy of each decrypt, their distribution once they reached the appropriate department was not systematic.38 Cadogan’s private secretary was sent a copy of every decrypt, however, including more sensitive material which was otherwise restricted to Menzies and the Security Service (MI5).39 It is unclear how systematically Bentinck received diplomatic intercepts, but as chair of the JIC it is reasonable to assume that his access was comprehensive. Bentinck and Cadogan’s shared opposition to plans for Turkish belligerency during late 1942, and throughout 1943, indicates a direct

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943 83

relationship between their regular exposure to intercepts, and their scepticism about the likelihood of substantive Turkish collaboration against the Axis.

Winston Churchill and Turkey If Bentinck and Cadogan’s reading of decrypts inclined them to downplay the chances of securing Turkish belligerency, why did they not have a similar effect on Churchill? The decrypts he received were less comprehensive than those sent to Cadogan, for example, but included the key telegrams from the Greek and Japanese missions in Ankara. Why did Churchill disregard evidence selected for his attention by Britain’s most senior intelligence officer, which clearly influenced the chairman of the JIC and permanent head of the FO? It is understandable that Churchill did not view the reports of foreign diplomats as in themselves authoritative. Nonetheless, the extent to which these reports mirrored those from senior British representatives on the ground – General Arnold and Admiral Kelly as well as Hugessen – ought to have given pause for thought.40 Although Churchill’s direct engagement with Turkey during the first 15 years of the republic had been insubstantial, he retained an inflated sense of Turkey’s role in international affairs, inspired by his perception of Turkey as the successor state to the Ottoman Empire, a Great Power until 1918. The trials and tribulations of his own career – the Dardanelles campaign and Çannakale – and his pre-1914 relationship with the Young Turks, reinforced this perception. By 1942 Turkey was a small, or ‘mid-ranking’ power, albeit one with an exceptional strategic location. It nonetheless bulked large in Churchill’s worldview. Writing to Eden in the autumn of 1942, he expressed his disdain for Roosevelt’s concept of a world dominated by the ‘Big Four,’ counting Turkey among the major European nations who would bulk large in the post-war international order.41 Turkey and the Straits also bulked large in Churchill’s strategy for war in Europe, as a friend or a foe. In 1916, he wrote of the strategic importance of the Balkans – and, on the continent’s north-western flank, Scandinavia – for nations waging a European war.42 He took this concept into the Second World War, as indicated by his advocacy of Allied campaigns in Norway in 1940 and 1942, and his preoccupation with the Balkans in 1941 and 1943. Moreover, Churchill’s journalism, deployed to defend his reputation following the Dardanelles campaign, repeatedly revisited the disasters which might have been averted if his

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Turkish gambit had succeeded, and been granted effective support by the colleagues who subsequently blamed him for its miscarriage. Had the Ottoman Empire been knocked out of the war in 1915, the Balkan nations would have rallied to the Entente, Austria–Hungary would have been defeated in short order, and Britain and France could have supplied Russia via the Black Sea, perhaps averting the Bolshevik revolution.43 In the Second World War, Churchill continued to seek Anglo-Soviet collaboration in the Black Sea, despite Stalin’s opposition to any British presence there. Churchill believed that a reverse in the Balkans, perhaps triggered by a Turkish declaration of war, would be disastrous for Germany. He cited the precedent of 1918, when Bulgaria’s defection had, he believed, heralded the beginning of the end for the Central Powers.44 Armed with such convictions, reinforced through repetition over 25 years, and bolstered by developments in warfare which appeared to confirm Turkey’s potential importance – such as the ambition to attack the Romanian oilfields from the air – Churchill neither was unlikely to be diverted by items of intelligence or dissenting voices which suggested that he was wasting his time, nor was he deterred by logistical difficulties or the opposition (or lukewarm support) of Britain’s allies.45 Brooke, who often reined in Churchill’s more quixotic schemes, and had vetoed a Norwegian campaign earlier in 1942,46 was on this occasion the Prime Minister’s ally. Churchill also believed he had the support of both Roosevelt and Stalin. His advocacy of the Turkish gambit was bound up with a general sense of euphoria arising from the Allied successes in Egypt, north-west Africa and the Caucasus, which also afflicted Brooke and the FO, and which overestimated the immediate consequences for the German war effort of these welcome breakthroughs. The result was a further distortion of British policy, which marginalised more accurate assessments of Turkish foreign policy – from senior officials, and based on impeccable sources – which did not fit the objective of bringing Turkey into the war against the Axis in the spring of 1943. If, moreover, the FO and its ambassador could not achieve the desired result, Churchill would take matters into his own hands, and visit Turkey himself.

Casablanca and Adana Churchill and Roosevelt met for a major Anglo-American conference at Casablanca in January 1943. One minor agreement reached there was Roosevelt’s acquiescence in Churchill’s proposal that Britain ‘play the

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hand’ in Turkey, similar to the United States’ predominant role in Allied policy towards China.47 Dogmatic British interpretation of this informal agreement antagonised the Americans later in 1943, as will be seen in Chapter 7. Immediately following the Casablanca conference, Churchill resolved to travel to Turkey to meet the Turkish leadership, including ˙ President Inönü, to implement the policy he had set out in the closing weeks of 1942. To the Prime Minister’s chagrin, this proposal was challenged by the War Cabinet, guided by Eden and the Deputy Prime Minister, Clement Attlee. Given the subsequent miscarriage of British policy, one might conclude that the War Cabinet were correct to oppose Churchill’s Turkish gambit. Closer inspection, however, demonstrates that the arguments deployed to deter him were, as Churchill apprehended, inadequate and inconsistent. On 20 January, Churchill was told he ought not to visit Turkey, since, despite Sargent and the Southern Department’s earlier enthusiasm, there was ‘no change in Turkish attitude,’ and the Prime Minister was liable to ‘court a rebuff.’ The moment was ‘not ripe’ for an approach to Turkey.48 At the War Cabinet meeting on 24 January, however, the Vice-CIGS indicated that an approach should be made, but at staff level, following meetings between Brooke and the Commanders-in-Chief in Cairo.49 Churchill received copies of telegrams from Hugessen, suggesting increased Turkish willingness to intervene in the Balkans following a German evacuation of the region, and expressing Hugessen’s belief that this might be exploited to achieve ‘earlier and more active co-operation.’ Churchill seized on these as evidence of a change in the Turkish attitude, as a result of German reverses in the Caucasus.50 He hoped to ‘cash in on the Russian victories, and on the favourable turn of events in the Mediterranean, and to nail Turkey to the mast.’ Churchill would not attempt to force Turkey into the war, but believed a thorough discussion with I˙ nönü would ‘show the world clearly which way the wind was blowing.’51 He no longer anticipated belligerency within weeks, perhaps a result of assessments which indicated that Turkish industry and communications were insufficient for Turkey to act as anything other than an ‘aircraft carrier’ for the Allies.52 Nonetheless, his visit would prepare the ground for belligerency later in 1943, once the Allies had corrected the deficiencies in the Turkish national defence. Eden and Attlee conceded that there had been progress in the Turkish attitude, but it was ‘slow and tentative.’ The War Cabinet and the Vice-Chiefs had ‘no doubt’ about the ‘great advantages’ of Turkish belligerency on the Allied side, but queried the timing and method of

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Churchill’s approach.53 By 27 January, however, I˙ nönü had accepted Churchill’s proposal, forcing Eden to fall back on the security and logistical obstacles to a visit to Turkey.54 Although Sargent and Cadogan contributed to the War Cabinet replies to Churchill,55 the most pow˙ erful articulation of FO opposition to Churchill–Inönü meeting is not on the official record, but in the diary of Eden’s private secretary, Oliver Harvey. ‘We all hate this plan . . . we shall be better without the Turks in the war . . . This is a hairbrained [sic] scheme.’56 No minute of comparable force can be found in the FO files for January 1943. Churchill would not be dissuaded, ‘was furious and contemptuous, and returned immediately to the charge.’57 He asserted that he had the backing of Roosevelt and Brooke, and urged his colleagues to reconsider. Confronted by the Prime Minister, the US President and the CIGS, the War Cabinet acquiesced, to Churchill’s delight. ‘ “This is big stuff!” he kept saying . . . and was obviously not unhappy at the thought of how right he had been and how wrong the Cabinet and their advisers had proved.’58 The meeting would go ahead on 30 January, in the southern Turkish city of Adana. One of the most striking aspects of Churchill’s performance at Adana is his emphasis on the possibility of post-war tensions between Turkey and the Soviet Union. In conversation with I˙ nönü, Churchill’s references to the possibility of post-war Russian ‘imperialism’ were surprisingly frank, albeit within the context of assurances that the new world organisation would aid Turkey and other small European powers against any new aggressor.59 The ongoing deterioration of Soviet–Turkish relations is discussed comprehensively in Chapter 5, but its attempted exploitation by Churchill at Adana merits consideration here. Churchill’s decision to raise the question of Russian ‘imperialism,’ may have been influenced by recent JPS papers recommending that Britain capitalise on Turkish fear of Russia to achieve a tangible commitment to the Allies.60 Churchill’s declaration, that he ‘would not be a friend of Russia if she imitated Germany,’ was intended to reassure the Turks of their post-war security, provided they joined the common cause against the Axis. Ian Jacob recorded Churchill’s proposal, while still at Casablanca, ‘to build up Turkey’s strength so that later on she could either come in or else, if things took an unfavourable turn, defend herself.’61 Again, this also assumed Turkish belligerency in the intervening period. The Turks can be forgiven for missing the nuances of his position, however: they assumed that Churchill was rearming them to withstand the post-war Soviet threat, regardless of their part in the war against Hitler. In mid-May, Hugessen reported a

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943 87

conversation with Saraco˘ glu, who gave his understanding of Adana to be that Churchill ‘wished Turkey to be strong and independent so that she could face any danger which might threaten her from whatever quarter. He made it clear that he was thinking not only of Germany but of Russia also.’62 Hugessen corrected him, asserting ‘that our sole idea was to beat Germany as quickly as possible,’ but Churchill’s rhetoric at Adana had seemed equivocal, and he did not make explicit his belief that Turkey must play a substantial enough part in the war to deserve post-war protection. Churchill’s enthusiasm for a paper he had recently prepared, a ‘note on post-war security’ entitled ‘Morning Thoughts,’ further distorted Turkish understanding of British intentions. In a similar vein to his comments to Eden in October, ‘Morning Thoughts’ rejected Roosevelt’s vision of a world dominated by the ‘Big Four,’ and reasserted the primacy of ‘the great nations of Europe and Asia Minor as long established,’ indicating that Churchill still thought of Turkey as an ‘ex-Great Power.’63 Churchill believed in Turkey’s importance as a post-war European power, declaring ‘Germany might be broken up, but some structure must be left to rebuild European order and Turkey must be part of it.’64 With due allowance for his desire to flatter I˙ nönü, ‘Morning Thoughts’ is a convincing survey of Churchill’s contemporary thoughts on postwar affairs, and his conception of Turkey’s role in European affairs was consistent with earlier musings on the post-war order, and the prominent role which Turkey might play in international affairs.65 The coincidence of Churchill and Roosevelt’s agreement at Casablanca invites a comparison between the two leaders’ respective, inflated expectations of their Turkish and Chinese allies, and the role each might play in the post-war world.66 As with his invocation of the post-war Soviet threat, Churchill hoped to lure Turkey into the war with promises of a major role in European and international affairs, provided Turkey entered the war in good time. Again, close reading of Churchill’s presentation indicates that the Turks can be forgiven for failing to appreciate that he was not offering an unconditional statement of Britain’s post-war interest in Turkey. It was easy to emphasise Churchill’s eagerness that Turkey ‘have a seat at the Council which would decide the future,’ and overlook his warning that this was conditional on Turkey’s being ‘among the victors.’67 Cadogan implicitly conceded this point, and was equivocal about Churchill’s success in conveying his intentions precisely. ‘PM tried to hint to them that . . . they must not hesitate too long to join the ranks of the victorious powers. PM has no doubt that they saw the point of this.’68

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The Adana press communiqué also emphasised those aspects of the conference touching on post-war affairs.69 Military discussions established the accelerated supply policy which Churchill had demanded in November 1942 to prepare Turkey for war. Britain would supply military equipment, based on exhaustive lists submitted by the Turkish General Staff, with British personnel to be sent to Turkey to supervise and train the armed forces in its use.70 Churchill was determined that the ‘Adana lists’ of military equipment and supplies should be fulfilled in their entirety, despite the scale of the demands, and the incapacity of Turkish communications to take even a fraction of the material requested.71 Ian Jacob, who participated in these negotiations, recorded that military supplies were ‘the only thing [the Turks] were really interested in.’ Like his colleagues in 1939, when the Turkish armaments mission visited Britain, Jacob unfairly characterised this as evidence of the Turks’ ‘oriental nature.’72 He nonetheless recognised that the Turks left Adana satisfied with the British commitment to support them with substantial military supplies, and Churchill’s pledge not to force them to enter the war. Churchill outlined a course of action to bring Turkey in, once the ‘still very powerful Nazi power’ had diminished, initially allowing the use of Turkish air bases and adopting an interpretation of the Straits regime which favoured the Allies, before entering the war as a belligerent at some later date. However, he ‘asked for no engagement . . . He would not advise Turkey to enter the war at present, nor to do so until she is ready . . . She was quite free to choose when and how to act.’73 Strict Turkish interpretation of this pledge caused recriminations at the year’s end, when Churchill and Eden appeared to go back on this undertaking.

Reactions to Adana The British left Adana convinced that they had taken a major step forward in their attempts to move Turkey towards belligerency on the Allied side. Hugessen was ‘overjoyed to see the whole effort of past months if not years realised . . . It is really a triumph.’74 Brooke concurred, expressing his satisfaction with the progress the mission had made, and increasingly optimistic that Turkish belligerency was imminent.75 If Churchill was less ebullient, his satisfaction was clear. ‘(T)heir meeting me, their whole attitude and the joint communiqué . . . ranged them more plainly than before in the anti-Hitler system, and will be so taken all over the world.’76

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Adana was certainly a friendly meeting between the two governments. ˙ Churchill’s personal rapport with Inönü was captured on contemporary newsreels, showing the two leaders in animated discussion, shaking hands and smiling broadly.77 Jacob described the effusive welcome the British received, ‘more like a family welcoming a relation than an official reception.’78 Cadogan subsequently recorded the ‘very friendly’ atmosphere of the conference, but declared that he ‘never saw men so resolutely disinclined to be drawn into a war.’79 This conclusion was not drawn by other members of the British delegation, as the comments from Churchill, Brooke, and Hugessen indicate. Nor was it stated so explicitly by Cadogan at the time, although he doubted Churchill’s success in conveying, in anything other than the kindliest terms, that British pledges of support, and Turkey’s elevated post-war status, were conditional on participation in the war. As in 1939–40, the British clung to the spirit of their accord with Turkey, whereas the Turks adhered to the letter of their agreement, which, as Churchill had intended, did not commit Turkey to enter the war on any particular terms whatsoever. Churchill was not discouraged by the ‘rather meagre figure on the credit side of our encounter with the Turks,’80 since he believed that I˙ nönü would not fail to see ‘which way the wind was blowing.’ He did not rule out the need to exert further pressure on Turkey,81 but was hopeful that his understanding with the Turkish president would remove the need for such pressure. Hugessen – who in December had declared that the chances of achieving Turkish belligerency were ‘negligible’ – shared this misapprehension. He accurately reported Turkish reactions to Adana, principally ‘relief that we laid emphasis on defence and made no concrete suggestions regarding Turkey’s future attitude to the war.’ Although aware that ‘some quid pro quo may eventually be demanded,’ the Turks were ‘thankful for the moment to have received offers of increased war material and at the same time to be left quiet for the next few months.’ Remarkably, however, Hugessen concluded this anodyne – but accurate – summary of Turkish reactions, with the bold statement, ‘It seems impossible now for Turkey to draw back from the position which the Adana meeting implies.’82 Nothing the Turks had said or done since 1939 indicated that they would base their policy on ‘implied’ positions, as opposed to firm engagements, deliveries of weapons and tangible demonstrations of Allied military support. Hugessen appears to have been overwhelmed by the enthusiasm and charisma of Churchill, who was euphoric at the prospect of a personal triumph in Turkey, achieved despite the War

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Cabinet and FO. Hugessen’s own conversations with Menemencio˘ glu, on Turkish intervention in the Balkans, and the conviction of Churchill and Brooke that great strides towards Turkish belligerency had been made at Adana, were sufficient – for a time at least – to reverse Hugessen’s belief that Turkey would remain neutral until the war’s final stages. Brooke’s support for Churchill must not be overlooked. Their reactions to the ‘Torch’ landings had indicated that both Churchill and Brooke were eager to capitalise on the possibilities in the eastern Mediterranean which might emerge from an Axis defeat in North Africa and the passing of the threat from the Caucasus, upon which Brooke had fixated during 1942. The coincidence of Adana with the imminent German defeat at Stalingrad was particularly significant; both for the optimism which a heavy German defeat engendered in Britain, and for the impact it had on apprehensions of the Turkish attitude. The apparent Turkish interest in intervening in the Balkans was predicated on premature assumptions – British and Turkish – of an imminent German collapse following their reverse in the Caucasus.83 German counterattacks during February and March disabused Britons and Turks alike of this optimism. Although the British delegates took the lead in articulating this positive interpretation of Adana, the FO failed to challenge it. The conclusions drawn by Sargent and his colleagues from previous, innocuous statements of Turkish policy – influenced by Churchill’s own enthusiasm for the Turkish gambit – had led them to hope that the improving military situation in North Africa and the Caucasus might rapidly lead to a move away from neutrality, towards belligerency on the Allied side. Before Adana, Eden and the FO were more cautious than Churchill, and resented the Prime Minister’s intrusion into their sphere of influence, but only Harvey recorded outright hostility towards the mission, and this was in his private diary. When the meeting was over, the FO acquiesced in the British version of the Adana conclusions.84 Although Eden and his officials denounced the Adana policy when its miscarriage became obvious in the summer of 1943,85 there is no official record of any contemporary challenge to the upbeat interpretation offered by Churchill and Brooke. That this version was echoed by their man in Ankara was perhaps decisive, although Cadogan’s non-intervention is curious, given his earlier, outspoken comments on the unlikelihood of Turkish belligerency. Although more reserved than either Hugessen or Brooke, Cadogan’s contemporary report did not explicitly challenge his colleagues, suggesting that even he was overwhelmed by

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the friendly reception in Ankara, and the enthusiasm of the Prime Minister. Cadogan’s silence is even more striking, given his privileged access to the most authoritative demonstration of British misapprehension of the Adana conference; a comprehensive statement of the Turkish position, despatched to diplomatic missions abroad and intercepted on 5 February. This telegram thoroughly contradicted the prevailing British concept of Adana, and clearly articulated the contrasting Turkish interpretation of the meeting. (T)he British Premier stated that he had observed that Turkey . . . lacked the mechanised weapons essential in modern warfare. Inasmuch as it was desirable in the common interests of both countries from the aspect both of war developments and peace preparations, that Turkey should be strong, our country must be equipped with the most modern mechanised armaments . . . The British Prime Minister [then?] spoke in terms of praise and admiration of the successful policy hitherto pursued by Turkey. He did not ask for the slightest alteration in this policy, nor did we enter into any engagement on [any?] point.86 Regular access to such documents contributed to the scepticism with which Cadogan and Bentinck viewed Turkish entry into the war, yet had exerted limited influence on Churchill or the Southern Department of the FO. On this occasion the latter can be exonerated, since circulation of this intercept was limited to Menzies, Cadogan (via his private secretary, Peter Loxley), War Cabinet secretary Sir Edward Bridges, and the Security Service. Sargent and junior members of the FO had no access to this bald statement of the extent to which Churchill, Brooke and Hugessen had misinterpreted the Adana conclusions. This decrypt was sent to the Prime Minister’s office by Menzies, but previous experience had demonstrated that Churchill could not be diverted from his chosen policy by individual items of intelligence which did not fit his plans. The documentary evidence suggests, moreover, that Churchill never saw this key decrypt; the cover sheet for that day’s intelligence dossier is headed, in black ink, ‘PM Absent.’87 If Churchill had seen this decrypt, it would have been uncharacteristic not to make some remark, or request further comments from Menzies, Eden or Cadogan, although he may in any case have kept faith with his implicit ‘understanding’ with I˙ nönü. Ignorance of this crucial decrypt,

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common to Churchill and members of the FO other than Cadogan – whose failure to assert his own opinion remains puzzling – contributed to an odd period during which the ‘Adana axioms’ articulated by Churchill and the other British delegates held sway. Further intercepted correspondence from the Japanese ambassador in Ankara, emphasising the Turks’ self-perception as an anti-Soviet bulwark, and an adjunct of British diplomacy in the Balkans, failed to make an impact.88 So too did warnings from the Middle East Intelligence Centre in Cairo, which echoed the version of Turkish policy given by the intercepted circular from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The Turks attach special importance to that part of the communiqué which stated that post-war problems were considered, and agreement reached on them, and deduce from it that Turkey, whether she becomes a belligerent or not, will take part in the settlement of postwar problems, and will bear the main responsibility for maintaining order in the Balkans . . . There has not apparently been any increase in feeling in favour of Turkey entering the war in the near future, and many Turks hope they will get great profit out of both sides without entering the war.89 The Southern Department instead read great significance into the apparent fruits of Adana. These included an ‘extraordinarily friendly’ speech by Saraco˘ glu, made to the National Assembly following his re-appointment as Prime Minister in March 1943. Saraco˘ glu enthusiastically praised Britain, friendship with whom was the ‘property of entire Turkish nation and its children.’ Turkey would ‘cordially grasp the hands stretched out to us’ by Churchill, whom the Turkish people ‘have grown to love . . . more’ since Adana.90 Praise for Britain and the United States was, unlike other Turkish public statements since 1941, not matched by professions of warmth and loyalty towards Germany, a ‘welcome and significant break away from precedent.’91 The FO was remarkably prepared to draw sweeping conclusions about the implications of this speech for the Turkish attitude, and it was many months before the embassy in Ankara sheepishly admitted that ‘(p)erhaps we had drawn over-optimistic conclusions from the Adana Conference and from the Turkish Prime Minister’s speech of March 17 last.’92 British misapprehension of Adana, and acquiescence in that misapprehension by senior diplomats who had previously scorned the very idea of Turkish belligerency, is curious, even without the interception of

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943 93

Turkish correspondence which demonstrated the error of British convictions. Churchill’s involvement was decisive, initially as the catalyst for the effort to bring Turkey into the war, then in forcing through the visit to Turkey, and finally in entrenching an interpretation of the Adana conversations which emphasised the friendliness and ‘implicit understanding’ achieved there, rather than the anodyne conference communiqué. Churchill’s enthusiasm for ‘Morning Thoughts,’ and his apparent willingness to arm Turkey ‘if things took an unfavourable turn,’ contributed to the Turkish preoccupation with the post-war aspects of the conference; a preoccupation which was evident in intercepted correspondence. FO opposition to Adana was ineffective and inconsistent. Cadogan and Bentinck were sceptical of achieving Turkish belligerency when the issue was raised in late 1942, but Eden, although aware of the difficulty of bringing Turkey in, shared Churchill’s desire for action. Sargent and the Southern Department anticipated a sea-change in the Turkish attitude towards the war in late 1942, inspired in part by the Prime Minister’s own enthusiasm. Although more cautious than Churchill immediately before Adana, the FO failed to produce a case sufficiently convincing to deter him. Hugessen initially shared the scepticism of Cadogan and Bentinck, but was diverted by Churchill and Brooke, and by apparent Turkish enthusiasm for a role in the Balkans. Significantly, Brooke supported Churchill at every step; in November and December 1942; at Casablanca, when Churchill was challenged by the War Cabinet and the Vice-Chiefs; and after Adana, about which the CIGS was also incredibly optimistic. Hugessen’s conversion to Churchill’s cause, and Cadogan’s quiescence, appear to have convinced the FO that the British delegates’ enthusiasm was well-founded, marginalising substantive, conflicting accounts and overemphasising ephemeral evidence which supported the prevailing conception of events.

‘Something rotten in the state of Turkey’ – problems in Anglo-Turkish relations, 1942–43 The FO conclusion, that all was well in Anglo-Turkish relations after Adana, was remarkable, given the existence of several significant, countervailing factors which militated against Turkish entry into the war, and contributed further to the erosion of Britain’s pre-war concept of Turkey. Anti-Soviet collaboration between Turkey and minor members of the Axis, and the deterioration of relations between Turkey and its pre-war Balkan allies, indicated a change in Turkey’s role as a regional

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power in south-east Europe. Economic and political discord in Turkey, and the measures deployed to counter it, undermined British assumptions about the stability of the republic, and threw doubt upon Turkey’s desirability as a post-war ally, reviving older, pejorative images of Turkey which had been suppressed during the ‘Kemalist’ interlude of the 1930s.

The Balkans Britain’s pre-war assumption of Turkish ‘leadership’ in the Balkans had misperceived the relationship between Turkey and the other Balkan nations, and the inspiration for Turkish involvement in Balkan collaboration during the 1930s. When the Balkan entente failed to keep the Great Powers out of the Balkans – an effort which had arguably failed by the spring of 1939, and certainly by the summer of 1940 – Turkish interest in Balkan collaboration waned. This had been brought home painfully – and painfully slowly – during the spring of 1941. The practical implications of this experience were not immediately apparent, however, as German hegemony in the Balkans, and urgent crises in the Middle East and the Soviet Union, concentrated minds elsewhere. British interest in post-war collaboration between the Balkan nations had been revived by a Greek–Yugoslav agreement in January 1942, raising the possibility of confederation as the solution to the region’s problems. Turkish neutrality, and the establishment in London of Greek and Yugoslav governments in exile, substituted a Greek–Yugoslav for a Greek–Turkish core in British plans for Balkan collaboration. British visions for Balkan confederation anticipated a common foreign and security policy, a customs union and a common currency, with a similar instrument for central Europe.93 This was a more comprehensive union than the pre-war Balkan entente and pact, involving a collective guarantee of the confederation’s frontiers. The Southern Department of the FO assumed close Turkish association with the Balkan confederation,94 but the Greek and Yugoslav governments made clear during the winter of 1942–43 that Turkey ‘should not form an integral part of the Balkan federation, mainly because Turkey was an Asiatic as well as a European power. The Balkan States did not wish, nor was it in their power, to guarantee Turkey’s eastern frontiers.’95 The FO had the same view.96 Although these plans came to nought, the equivocal terms on which Turkey, the erstwhile ‘leader’ of the Balkan bloc, was associated with them, and the emphasis on Turkey’s extra-European credentials, are noteworthy.

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943 95

The FO nonetheless sought to use Turkish interest in the post-war Balkans to fulfil Churchill’s instructions, to secure Turkish belligerency in the spring of 1943. In November 1942, Hugessen reported a conversation with Menemencio˘ glu and Saraco˘ glu, in which the Turks made it clear that they still assumed ‘leadership’ in the Balkans. Hugessen mentioned that the British were contemplating post-war plans for the region, and suggested a comprehensive exchange of views. ‘Numan rather jumped at this.’97 The FO agreed that Balkan affairs might be one means ‘of inducing [Turkey] to co-operate with us more openly and closely than her present attitude of strict neutrality.’ It was important, however, ‘not only to get Turkey interested in the Balkan settlement after the war, but to get her interested now.’98 Neutral nations must realise that they ‘are not likely to have much say on this subject which so interests them,’ and any Turkish initiative ought to be discouraged, since neither Britain nor its Greek and Yugoslav allies were agreed on the extent of Turkish participation in any Balkan scheme.99 These discussions coincided with revived Turkish interest in a wartime intervention in the Balkans, driven by the mistaken belief that German reverses in the Caucasus might rapidly result in ‘some wholesale withdrawal to a purely German front in the east.’100 Churchill seized on this in support of his Turkish mission. His enthusiasm for a Turkish peacekeeping role in the Balkans, ‘to help prevent total anarchy’ following a German withdrawal, or for Turkish belligerency, ‘her armies advancing into the Balkans side by side with the Russians . . . and the British,’ cut across FO policy, and ran counter to the views of the government in exile.101 Churchill’s ‘Morning Thoughts’ contemplated Balkan confederation, envisaging it as one of several, including Scandinavian and Danubian blocs. Churchill did not explicitly include Turkey within the Balkan bloc, but his previous tours de horizon anticipated a Turkish-led Balkan federation, with its capital in Istanbul,102 and post-Adana diplomatic intercepts indicate that the Turks understood themselves to have been anointed as the de facto leaders of the post-war Balkans, despite the reservations of the FO and exiled governments. It was unfortunate that Hugessen failed to react strongly to Menemencio˘ glu’s suggestion that Turkey, as the only neutral power in the Balkans, was in a unique position to facilitate post-war rapprochement among the Balkan nations. Menemencio˘ glu proposed complementing the Greek–Yugoslav agreement with an approach to Romania, the fourth member of the pre-war Balkan entente, and Hungary, not

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strictly a Balkan nation, but adjacent to the region and sharing frontiers with Romania and Yugoslavia. Romania and Hungary were members of the Axis, at war with Britain, and had fought alongside Germany in the Soviet Union. Although he stressed the need to include Moscow in any discussions on the Balkans, Hugessen was inclined ‘to encourage them to develop their ideas further.’103 Indeed, he emphasised Turkey’s importance as a post-war ‘element of stability in our favour in the Balkans and Middle East . . . Turkey occupies a key position against German or Russian penetration.’104 The British were soon aware, via diplomatic intercepts, of the ‘development’ of Turkish ideas. In mid-April, the Italians reported an approach to the Hungarian minister in Ankara by Menemencio˘ glu, proposing ‘a Balkan entente including all the States of southern Europe and designed to create a solid block of these countries in the face of the Soviet peril.’ A similar suggestion had been made to the Romanian government by the Turkish minister in Bucharest. Alarmingly, the Italians reported ‘the possibility that it might be something which had its origin in the Anglo-Turkish conversations at Adana.’105 The Japanese minister in Sofia reported similarly on Turkey’s Balkan diplomacy, and assumed that Turkey was working hand in glove with Britain.106 The Portuguese minister in Bucharest reported the views of his Turkish colleague, that Churchill’s support for a new Balkan entente, and a well-armed Turkey, was directed against Russia and Soviet communism.107 An alarmed and angry FO telegraphed Ankara, instructing the chargé d’affaires, Sterndale-Bennett, to terminate Turkish contacts with enemy nations.108 If the Italians and Japanese knew of these approaches, it was certain that Germany and Russia did too.109 Turkish approaches to Balkan members of the Axis contributed to the deterioration in relations with the Greek and Yugoslav governments. The Greeks reported a conversation with the Yugoslav Prime Minister, who opposed ‘any action on the part of Turkey which might conduce to her return to the Balkans or even to a spread of her influence in that region.’110 This hostility was reciprocated by Rauf Orbay, who denounced the Balkan nations’ ‘ “unworthy policy” of bad neighbours and . . . complete lack of morality and logic,’ and recommended establishing ‘a truly “sanitary cordon” round these Balkan countries.’111 The hollowness of enduring claims to Turkish ‘leadership’ of the Balkans – which nonetheless continued to be articulated by Turkish diplomats in the region112 – was exposed. The pre-war Greek–Turkish alliance, which Britons in the 1930s had understood to be the motor for Balkan collaboration, and which had been an important catalyst for Turkish rehabilitation in British eyes from

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943 97

the late 1920s, was in crisis. Tensions had been simmering since Turkish non-intervention in the German invasion of Greece, and were exacerbated by post-Adana anxiety that Churchill had given Turkey carte blanche to ‘boss the rest of the Balkans around’ after the war.113 ‘(T)he fact that the Greeks who . . . fought well and are condemned to suffer, must now watch the Turks being fed and armed so that they may strut into the Balkans when it is safe to do so, must be pretty riling to them.’114 Greek–Turkish relations were undermined by Turkey’s imposition, in the autumn of 1942, of a wealth tax, the Varlık Vergisi, ostensibly designed to combat war profiteering, but administered by corrupt officials to dispossess non-Muslim minorities in the business community, including Greeks and Jews, who bore up to 65 per cent of the burden of the new tax.115 Those who could not pay lost their businesses, and were interned in labour camps in eastern Anatolia.116 Ambassador Raphael threatened resignation, and told his government that Greek– Turkish friendship was ‘an empty phrase,’ alleging Turkish ambitions ‘to make Constantinople a purely Turkish city . . . It is putting this policy into operation in a truly ruthless manner, sticking at nothing.’117 Although Hugessen was unconcerned about Greek–Turkish relations, the FO – in possession of this intercepted correspondence – was more alarmed.118 Nonetheless, this crisis did not disrupt the atmosphere of self-satisfied optimism which dominated Anglo-Turkish relations following the supposed ‘breakthrough’ at Adana.

The Varlık and economic crisis in Turkey The imposition of the Varlık reflected the economic crisis afflicting Turkey, which had been building since 1939. The government had had no strategy for a war economy, and attempted to fund a ten-fold increase in Turkey’s pre-war armed forces by pursuing inflationary policies and increased state intervention in the economy. Turkey’s GDP dropped sharply, as did standards of living for all but a minority of war profiteers, military personnel and industrialists.119 By 1942, British consulates across Turkey reported economic distress and public dissatisfaction.120 The FO was anxious that these economic problems, which coincided with the desperate Allied military situation in North Africa, the Far East and the Caucasus, would be seized on by Germany to regain its pre-war stranglehold on the Turkish economy.121 By early 1943, Hugessen reported that economic difficulties, and the industrial dislocation caused by the war, meant that Turkey was unfit to participate as anything other than an ‘aircraft carrier’ for British and American air attacks on German shipping and the Balkans.122

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Britain’s failure, or inability, to compensate Turkey for the loss of its trade with Germany in 1939–40 contributed materially to Turkish neutrality in June 1940. The British had been disappointed by the conclusion of a comprehensive Turkish–German trade agreement in the autumn of 1941, although the severity of the war situation cautioned against ‘too much crying “stinking fish” about the Turks.’123 They were less sympathetic towards a renewed agreement in April 1943, despite clear evidence of Turkish economic straits. The FO admitted that British inability to supply the Turks made it impolitic to demand a complete cessation of trade with Germany, ‘but it is certainly most unsatisfactory that they should conclude even a paper agreement on [this] scale.’124 Turkey’s genuine need for German trade was obscured by disagreeable public statements by Saraco˘ glu, and articles in the Turkish press, which suggested that Turkey ‘regards the war primarily as a good opportunity for making material gains at the expense of both sides.’125 Turkish trade with Germany was rendered more controversial by the issue of chrome, an important element in munitions production found in abundant quantities in Turkey. Britain’s inept pre-war economic diplomacy had produced an exclusive Anglo-(French)-Turkish chrome agreement which expired in January 1943, despite Turkey’s offer of exclusivity for the duration of the war in 1939. This permitted Turkey to conclude a new agreement to provide chrome to Germany, as well as to the Allies. The Turks undertook to provide Germany with 90,000 tons of chrome in 1943 and 1944 in return for war materials to the value of 18 million Turkish lira.126 The Germans possessed no alternative source of chrome, and Britain and America accused the Turks, like other neutral traders in strategic raw materials, of propping up the German munitions industry. Churchill was unconcerned with the ‘politics of chrome,’ and chastised the FO for threatening to derail his Turkish policy in pursuit of this issue – ‘I am after the Turk; I am not after your chrome.’127 Others saw chrome as an ‘acid test’ of Turkish good faith, and Hugessen and the FO endeavoured, during the autumn of 1942, to limit its delivery to Germany.128 They were unable to prevent the implementation of the Turkish–German chrome agreement, which came into effect in January 1943, on the eve of Churchill’s supposed success at Adana.

Political problems in Turkey and the revival of old stereotypes The political consequences of economic distress undermined the final pillar of the pre-war British image of Turkey. Increasing public

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943 99

dissatisfaction with the government challenged the perception of a strong and unchallenged domestic regime, accepted if not warmly embraced by the majority of Turks. Opposition to the regime was not wholly new. The majority of the population were peasants and small farmers, whose standard of living had not improved greatly under the republic, and resented the intrusion of the state into their daily lives.129 The real change during the Second World War, evident by 1942, was the alienation of the bourgeoisie, which doubted that a government dominated by corrupt bureaucrats, big business and the military, would govern in their interests.130 Opposition became evident under Refik Saydam, and continued following his death in July 1942, which led to the appointment of a new government under Saraco˘ glu, with Menemencio˘ glu becoming Foreign Minister.131 British reactions to the new government were not entirely favourable, although Hugessen was enthusiastic.132 Pierson Dixon believed that Saraco˘ glu and Menemencio˘ glu ‘will enjoy unquestioned hegemony, I˙ smet perhaps still deciding.’133 This equivocation on ˙ Inönü’s role was mistaken, and indicated a failure to appreciate that the president’s grip on power remained as strong as Atatürk’s. This seems strange, given that contemporary propaganda consistently identified ‘the great leader of the Turkish Republic’134 as ‘the present Dictator,’ or ‘this second personal dictator of Turkey,’135 although the assump˙ tion remained that Inönü might ‘humanise’ a regime which had grown autocratic under Atatürk.136 Dixon believed that the Germans ‘will . . . get less change out of [Menemencio˘ glu] than out of the more impressionable Saraco˘ glu.’137 Previously seen as an Anglophile, Saraco˘ glu’s star had waned since Turkey’s treaty with Germany, in which he had been understood to glu as a be the prime mover.138 Bülent Gökay has characterised Saraco˘ Nazi sympathiser whose government embraced the right-wing of the Republican People’s Party (RPP) – large landowners, wealthy merchants and war profiteers – and tilted against the Soviet Union.139 Menemencio˘ glu remained ‘the real leader of Turkish foreign policy and by far the most capable Turk . . . He is certainly not pro-German and what gives rise to the impression that he is is probably the fact that his views are governed by nothing except the interests of Turkey.’140 Dixon had known Menemencio˘ glu during his service in Ankara, but those who had dealt with him more recently were less welcoming. Cadogan’s personal antipathy towards ‘that snake Numan’ is reflected in the official record, and was shared by Eden.141 Hugessen endorsed Dixon’s thesis, however. Given Turkey’s precarious position since 1940,

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Menemencio˘ glu ‘has to do a good deal of tight-rope walking . . . The Germans would no doubt like to shake the rope and bring Numan down on their side but I am not one of those who believe that this is at all likely.’142 Hugessen endorsed Saraco˘ glu’s promotion, asserting that the Prime Minister, although middle-aged, and a Cabinet minister since the 1920s, was ‘younger in outlook’ than his colleagues, and might reconcile those in Turkey who resented the perpetuation in power of the old revolutionary elite.143 Knox Helm, who returned to Turkey in 1942 having served there for several years to 1930, picked up this theme, drawing attention to the growing frustration, among younger Turks, with the ‘old regime’ in Ankara.144 Despite official anxiety about Turkish internal affairs, the British press took the opportunity of a general election in the spring of 1943 to reinforce the public perception of Turkish ‘democracy,’ welcoming trends in Turkish politics ‘towards a popular vote,’ and reminding readers that Turkey had adopted a one-party system, ‘not for doctrinal reasons’ but because Atatürk’s reforms ‘could not endure unless backed by a strictly disciplined political regime.’145 Pro-Turkish books and pamphlets distanced Atatürk and I˙ nönü from the fascist dictators. They explained that Turkey was a ‘democratic dictatorship,’ and sought parallels with classical dictatorship, where the dictator was ‘the trustee and servant of classical democracy.’146 During the 1930s, the British had not been concerned about the democratic credentials of the ‘totalitarian’ Turkish regime, nor of other autocratic allies such as Portugal, although they emphasised the peaceful foreign policy and respect for the rule of law which characterised these non-ideological dictatorships.147 The official statement of the ‘British case’ for war in 1939 firmly declared that the ‘dividing line of Europe is not . . . between democratic and non-democratic states . . . The government of Poland itself was definitely authoritarian.’148 The articulation, during the second half of the war, of a struggle ‘for democracy,’ broadly defined, necessitated a reorientation of British propaganda, although Turkey escaped the violent criticism directed at pro-Axis Spain, for example. This arguably reflected the successful propaganda of the 1930s, which had painted the Kemalist dictatorship so favourably, and emphasised the amity between Turkey and the Soviet Union, still understood as a system striving for social progress rather than a totalitarian dictatorship. Kemalist Turkey was understood to be a forward-looking, dynamic state, ranged on the side of ‘civilisation’ and ‘progress.’ This understanding was under threat, however.

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Turkey’s wartime economic problems, particularly the Varlık, revived older images of Turkey; the ‘Sick Man of Europe,’ and the ‘Terrible Turk.’ Concerns about the former – the ‘Sick Man of Europe’ – were raised in March 1942, when the military attaché in Ankara, General Arnold, submitted a damning report on the failings of the Turkish administration, and what he saw as a falling away of the achievements of the pre-war period. ‘I now realise with somewhat of a shock that this country is moving eastwards after the tremendous westwards impetus imparted by the late Atatürk.’149 Arnold’s frustrating experiences administering the import of Allied war material into Turkey were the impetus for this outburst, but his report also demonstrated the ephemeral British understanding of the achievements of the republic since 1923. Having initially displayed scepticism towards Atatürk’s ambitious reform programme, the British had become zealous enthusiasts for the ‘new Turkey,’ embracing Turkish propaganda and the sympathetic reporting of foreign correspondents, proclaiming the achievements of the republic. Throughout the 1930s, British readers were informed at length of the great advances in education and industry, accompanied by impressive photographs of modern residential developments in Ankara, efficient new factories, and young doctors, lawyers and other professionals, many of whom were women.150 The new capital was ‘rather like an unfinished garden-city,’ ‘not unlike those straggling suburbs which sprang up in the wake of the London tube.’151 The impression was not of a country gradually working its way towards parity with western Europe, but of a nation which had all but achieved that objective in less than 20 years.152 There was little awareness, for example, of the extreme limits of electrification in Turkey, which had only 9 miles of power lines by 1943.153 The rural population had seen no great improvement in the provision of health care, education or communications, and Ian Jacob recorded his amazement upon arriving in Adana. The villages we saw were extremely squalid. The houses are built of mud, the general practice being for the family to live in an upper storey reached by a ladder, and built over the shed which is the home of the cattle, goats, and poultry. The roads are atrocious, and the whole country is obviously primitive in the extreme.154 Britons such as Arnold, who had arrived in Turkey in 1939, at the height of Britain’s ‘Kemalist’ interlude, did not react to the deflation of their exaggerated hopes by admitting their own errors or misapprehensions.

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Instead, they dramatically characterised the problems afflicting Turkey as evidence of a ‘move eastwards,’ or a revival of ‘oriental’ ways. Responding to Arnold’s dramatic reports, Sargent asked Hugessen: Are we witnessing merely a natural reaction after the fierce pace set by Atatürk, which will not necessarily be either permanent or farreaching? Or is it that Turkey feels that she is destined, as a result of the war, to cease, politically and militarily speaking, to be a European power, and that she must therefore turn to her oriental past in order to find a new centre of gravity?155 Sargent wondered whether ‘a return to Oriental ways of life [might] show its effect in the military and administrative field and possibly lead Turkey back to that fatalistic inefficiency which characterised the Ottoman Empire.’ He repeated these concerns later in 1942 – contemporaneous with his enthusiasm for Churchill’s Turkish gambit – when he declared that ‘there is something rotten in the State of Turkey,’ and speculated on a national collapse as occurred in France in 1940.156 Might a ‘return to Oriental ways’ revive ‘memories of the Ottoman Empire in the Middle East?’157 The events of 1941–42 – the loss of the Balkans and the crises in the Middle East in the spring of 1941, and the German threat to North Africa and the Caucasus – led the British to think of Turkey increasingly within a Middle Eastern context; a trend exacerbated by doubts about Turkish involvement in the post-war Balkans. This contributed to concerns, albeit swiftly dismissed, about a revival of Turkish ‘imperialism’ in the Middle East,158 and even of the Caliphate, although Turkish officials quickly informed their British interlocutors that Turkey would not tolerate the ‘reanimation of the corpse’ of this ‘useless institution.’159 Hugessen refuted Sargent’s contention that Turkey might be ‘turning to her oriental past.’ He cited the Turkish leadership’s enduring conviction that the loss of the Ottoman Empire was a blessing, and recalled their determination to hang on to eastern Thrace ‘and thus remain European . . . I should say with confidence that Turkey is not going “Oriental.” Her face is set to the West.’160 Regarding Turkey’s immediate problems – the economic crisis, and the administrative inertia which undermined efforts to resolve it – Hugessen shared his colleagues’ concerns. ‘I have been conscious for some months of a certain deterioration in the internal situation . . . Whatever the progress of the last twenty years . . . the Turks have no long tradition of efficient government, and things do not work out as in a normal

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943 103

European country.’161 The larger questions about the durability of the Kemalist reforms were shelved following Hugessen’s stout reply. Nonetheless, a precedent had been set, and questions which British officials would not have asked in 1939 had been raised for the first – but not the last – time. During the second half of 1943 and 1944, the possibilities of a ‘national collapse’ in Turkey, and the re-emergence of the ‘Sick Man of Europe,’ were revived once again. *

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The imposition of the Varlık, and the penalisation of Greeks and Jews, revived memories of earlier attacks on minorities, and recalled the old stereotype of the ‘Terrible Turk.’ The embassy in Ankara warned that further anti-Jewish measures might be introduced,162 and xenophobic and anti-Semitic sentiments were evident in the Turkish press.163 Britons in Istanbul asserted that the ‘Turks are doing something in the true Nazi method . . . the Turk is a much more suitable friend to Hitler than to Churchill.’164 They wrote to Churchill, invoking the fate of the Armenians in the First World War,165 and the Archbishop of Canterbury, William Temple, wrote to Eden to express his grave concern.166 British officials who had previously been sympathetic to Turkey’s wartime diplomacy were also critical.167 ‘Many very good friends of the Turks are horrified, disgusted and disappointed. It will take them many, many years to live it down.’168 Although the FO rejected lurid comparisons between the Turks and the Nazis, the whole episode was ‘inexcusable . . . a very shameful episode of modern Turkish history.’169 It nonetheless sought to prevent details of the Varlık from reaching the western press, to minimise the damage to public perceptions of their Turkish allies.170 The American journalist Cyrus Sulzberger defied the British censorship, and articles describing the Varlık’s impact were published in the New York Times early in 1943.171 The US State Department warned that the Varlık could disrupt Turkish– American relations, should the impression become widespread in the United States – where the image of the ‘Terrible’ or ‘Unspeakable Turk’ had lingered longer than in Britain – ‘that the Turkish Government is reverting to the persecution of minorities on religious grounds.’172 By September, the Turkish ambassador in Washington reported the ‘very unfavourable atmosphere created in the United States by the tax on wealth,’ and recommended the removal ‘immediately and rapidly [of] any [controversies?] that will alienate from us the [vast Christian?] world, and will revive old disputes.’173

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The Varlık controversy was at its height early in 1943, contemporaneous with the Adana discussions, and the inflated British expectations which informed them. Adana was also contemporaneous with the deterioration of Greek–Turkish relations, Greek and Yugoslav doubts about Turkish collaboration in the post-war Balkans, the implementation of the Turkish–German chrome agreement, and British awareness of severe economic dislocation and its implications for Turkish participation in the war effort. The British undertook no comprehensive review of their Turkish policy during this period, and the cumulative implications of all these problems, parallel to Churchill’s elucidation of the ‘Turkish gambit’ in the winter of 1942–43, were not addressed. It would take a number of weeks, and further blows in the form of the antiSoviet manoeuvres in the Balkans and the renewed Turkish–German trade agreement, before the British realised the extent to which their post-Adana optimism was mistaken.

The British realise their mistake By early April, Hugessen felt bound to report that recent friendly exchanges between Britons and Turks were ‘unlikely, in the near future . . . to be converted into more active help to us in winning the war.’ Hugessen thought it was necessary to sound this warning, ‘as there are indications of an assumption . . . that Turkish policy has already veered in the direction of active collaboration with us in the prosecution of the war.’174 As we have seen, Hugessen directly contributed to and reflected such assumptions after Adana. The Southern Department noted ‘a very timely reminder that we must not expect to achieve our objectives in Turkey yet awhile,’175 although they took no action to revise British policy. By mid-April, Cadogan observed with disappointment that Turkey had not absorbed the ‘hints that Turkish participation in post-war arrangements was dependent on their contribution to the fight against the Axis’.176 We have seen the extent to which Churchill obfuscated and masked those ‘hints’ in kind words at Adana, as Cadogan implicitly conceded at the time. Eden was one of the few students of Anglo-Turkish relations to acknowledge that the great events of the war continued to influence Turkish policy. In February, following victory at Stalingrad, the Turkish consulate in Moscow had predicted the imminent conclusion of the Soviet–German war, announcing that ‘the lands which the Germans have destined for their living space will become their dying space.’177 This decrypt was seen by Churchill, and may have reinforced his

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943 105

post-Adana optimism.178 However, German counter-attacks soon made it clear that the war in the east would continue for many months. In North Africa, the Germans fought a fierce defence of Tunisia which only ended in May 1943. The strategic revolution which optimistic Britons anticipated in the autumn of 1942 had not materialised. Turkey’s position had not been revolutionised either, and Eden admitted that they had ‘returned’ to a mood of caution which would not pass until the course of the Russian war became clear, and the Axis had been expelled from North Africa.179 The JIC deprecated a German invasion of Turkey from the Balkans, but German armed strength remained intact, as Churchill had conceded at Adana.180 An air strike against Istanbul and I˙ zmir – the scenario which the Turks had feared since the destruction of Belgrade in April 1941 – could not yet be ruled out, even if Menemencio˘ glu exaggerated that threat in negotiations with the western Allies. Service attachés in Ankara agreed that the weakness of the Turkish air force and antiaircraft defences would lead to catastrophe in Istanbul, with serious implications for morale in the rest of Turkey.181 The chair of the JIC, Victor Cavendish-Bentinck, had offered a lucid critique of Turkish policy during late 1942, when intercepted correspondence, and Hugessen’s testimony in London, made it clear that Turkish belligerency was not imminent, despite the ambitions of Churchill and Brooke. Bentinck kept his own counsel during the Adana period, although no JIC assessment supported wild contentions of a ‘great leap forward.’ Writing in August 1943, however, he delivered a trenchant attack on the entire Adana policy. It is quite clear that the Turks have got no intention of coming into the war. To do so would probably place an added strain on their finances and internal economy. They doubtless think that they will be running some risk, and all we can offer them is a place at the peace conference. This is not a good bargain from the Turkish point of view, more especially as they go on getting arms and supplies from ourselves without having to take any active part in the war.182 Bentinck admitted that ‘(o)ne of the phenomena that has puzzled me since September 1939 is the way in which we continue to imagine that the Turks will come into the war of their own free will to please us.’183 In the spring of 1943, as in 1940 and 1941, the British were guilty of this misapprehension. Realisation that they had been mistaken manifested itself as a conviction that they had been misled, not by their own wishful

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thinking, but by the Turks, ‘playing double’ or ‘doing the dirty.’184 This contributed, along with belated cognition of the other problems articulated here, to a significant change in the tone of Anglo-Turkish relations, although an attempt to comprehensively revise British policy towards Turkey, in the summer of 1943, proved abortive. We will consider this in Chapter 6. The 1943 review was also strongly influenced by the trilateral relationship between Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, to which we must first turn.

5 Turkey and the Anglo-Soviet Alliance, June 1941 to September 1943

We saw at the end of Chapter 1 how starkly divergent were British and Turkish responses to the German invasion of the Soviet Union in June 1941, and particularly how Turkish satisfaction with the outbreak of the Russo-German war convinced British officials that the partnership that had appeared to characterise Soviet–Turkish relations during the interwar period had been replaced by ‘axiomatic’ or ‘atavistic’ hostility. Given the strategic importance of Turkey on the Northern Front during 1941 and 1942, the British were therefore compelled to tread carefully in their relations with both powers. They must forge a working relationship – and subsequently a fully fledged military alliance – with the Soviet Union while attempting to assuage Turkish concerns about the Stalinist threat to Turkish independence and sovereignty, lest fear of the Soviet Union prompted Ankara to seek reinsurance with Hitler – a recurring British anxiety since the summer of 1940. Turkey was increasingly and inevitably subordinate to the Soviet Union in the British strategic concept, however, and British officials grew increasingly frustrated with the anti-Soviet prejudices of the Turkish leadership, which they understood to be a consequence of German propaganda and a failure in Ankara to recognise the sea-change in Soviet foreign policy which the British perceived during 1942 and 1943.

Eden in Moscow, December 1941 Within hours of the Wehrmacht launching its invasion of the Soviet Union, Hugessen wrote from Ankara, reporting Turkish anxiety at the prospect of close Anglo-Soviet collaboration against Germany. Hugessen asserted that the Germans had a ‘political advantage’ over Britain: whereas Britain sought to ‘uphold’ Russia, Hitler sought to ‘destroy’ it.1 107

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This was a remarkable statement given Turkey’s previous role as a ‘bridge’ between Britain and the Soviet Union, articulated by Hugessen a year earlier, and indicated the extent to which British perceptions of the Soviet–Turkish relationship had shifted during the preceding 12 months. Similar telegrams followed on subsequent days. During a BBC broadcast on 22 June, Churchill’s statement that Russia had not been rewarded for its efforts in the First World War was understood by anxious Turks to be a veiled threat against them; one with particular resonance given Churchill’s membership of the British government which had promised Constantinople to the Tsar.2 Although Churchill dismissed such insinuations, the Turks remained concerned that Britain would reward Russian resistance with concessions at Turkish expense.3 In mid-July, the British approached Maisky, proposing Anglo-Soviet guarantees of Turkish sovereignty and territorial integrity, and recognition of Turkish authority over the Straits.4 Eden admitted that ‘the Turkish Government have not treated [the Soviet Union] well in concluding the recent treaty with Germany,’ but ‘neither Government should allow such feelings to come in conflict with the necessities of a sound long-term policy.’5 The guarantees were issued on 10 August, but were received coolly in Ankara.6 Turkish diplomats whose intercepted correspondence identified them as critics of the Anglo-Soviet partnership – such as Aktay in Moscow, and his colleague in Tehran, Cemal Hüsnü Taray – were denounced as ‘defeatists.’7 Aktay was fiercely critical of the occupation of Iran in August, suspicious of a British ‘sell-out’ of Turkey to the Soviet Union, and sceptical about the Red Army’s chances of resisting the German advance. Those who reported encouragingly on Soviet resistance to the Germans, such as the Turkish military attaché in Moscow, were well thought of by comparison,8 but the British military mission in the Russian capital was preoccupied with joint war plans in which the nonbelligerent Turks could not participate, restricted the development of a confidential relationship at that level.9 Sir Stafford Cripps’ professional relationship with Aktay had deteriorated, partly as a consequence of Cripps’ zealous efforts to revise the Straits regime in 1940, and he was forbidden from passing Aktay sensitive information, since the Germans were also intercepting Turkish diplomatic traffic.10 These limits on Anglo-Turkish co-operation in Moscow (and subsequently Kuibyshev, to where the diplomatic corps was evacuated in October 1941) perpetuated suspicions of Anglo-Soviet collusion at Turkish expense.11 When Eden travelled to Moscow in mid-December, the Turks reacted with anxiety. Aktay anticipated discussions on ‘the future New Order

Turkey and the Anglo-Soviet Alliance 109

of the world . . . Contact with the Soviet, of whose world embracing conceptions no-one is ignorant, on this doubtful issue . . . is, I am sure, a dangerous experiment.’12 In London, the relatively pro-Soviet Rü¸stü Aras agreed that Britain and the United States were at a disadvantage in any negotiations with the Soviet Union, since both were under attack in the Far East, following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour on 7 December. Britain was also struggling to achieve a breakthrough in North Africa, whereas Russia was now holding its own against Germany. Given Stalin’s strong bargaining position, ‘we must be prepared to find the Russians raising certain questions in the course of the Moscow conversations . . . which are of direct or indirect concern to Turkey.’13 In fact, discussion of Turkey in Moscow was benign. Although Soviet counter-attacks had halted the German advance, Stalin remained sufficiently embattled to reverse his earlier policy, proposing post-war territorial concessions at the expense of Syria and Bulgaria to ensure that Turkey continued to block Germany’s way to the Caucasus and the Middle East.14 Vojtech Mastny suggests that a generous settlement might have led Turkey to accommodate Soviet demands for control of the Straits, and intercepted correspondence demonstrated a brief improvement in Soviet–Turkish relations immediately Stalin’s terms became known.15 Nonetheless, the Turks remained concerned that Eden – representing a government which had suffered setbacks in the Middle East and faced new demands in the Pacific – had secured an agreement for continued Russian belligerency which might prejudice the post-war interests of Turkey and the other small states of Europe. Despite Stalin’s assurances, the Turks were increasingly suspicious of Soviet–Kurdish collaboration on the Turkish–Iranian frontier, prompting Hugessen to warn that unrest in Azerbaijan ‘poisons the whole atmosphere’ of Soviet–Turkish relations.16

The Papen bomb incident A serious breach in Soviet–Turkish relations occurred in February 1942, when a bomb exploded in the diplomatic district of Ankara. Its target was the German ambassador, Franz von Papen, who escaped unharmed. A number of Turks and foreigners were arrested on suspicion of involvement with the assassination attempt, among them two Soviet citizens, employed by the Russian consulate and trade bureau in Istanbul. The Russians were put on trial in Ankara, alongside two Turks. Hugessen believed that the Soviets staged the attack ‘to provoke trouble between

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Germany and Turkey. They are expecting to have the whole German weight thrown against them in the Spring and it would be natural for them to seek to create a diversion.’17 Soviet pressure to release the suspects, before the trial began, did not succeed. Saraco˘ glu warned Vinogradov that Turkey had ‘no need for friendship [with the Soviet Union] if its price be the independence of the Turkish courts and the Turkish state.’18 The Soviet press retaliated with attacks on the trial, the Turkish legal system and the Turkish government.19 It was difficult for the British to intervene, since they were on the eve of negotiations with Molotov, culminating in the AngloSoviet alliance.20 A telegram from Aktay demonstrated the seriousness of the situation, however. I called upon [Deputy Foreign Commissar] Vishinsky and informed him that I had read the insulting and slanderous articles which have appeared in the Newspapers . . . with great astonishment and disgust . . . The Russians are definitely taking no account of relations between our two Governments . . . If the trial goes against them, they will intensify their attacks upon us and perhaps go so far as to break off diplomatic relations.21 Hugessen warned that ‘feeling over this trial . . . threatens to impair seriously Turco-Soviet relations and to complicate our own position vis-à-vis both Russia and Turkey, while the only country to benefit is Germany.’ The Turks had acted foolishly in detaining Soviet prisoners, but Russian intervention on their behalf ‘is extremely short-sighted and . . . has been calculated to exacerbate latent Turkish distrust and dislike of Russia.’22 The FO instructed the new ambassador in Kuibyshev, Sir Archibald Clark Kerr, to ‘impress on Soviet Government danger of the situation which is developing and which may get out of control unless immediate steps are taken to check it.’23 Britain likewise entreated the Turks to ‘do all in their power to create a better atmosphere and thus contribute glu was not in a conciliatory mood, towards a friendly solution.’24 Saraco˘ however, warning that ‘even if it comes to war we shall not change our attitude.’25 Vishinsky also reacted badly, and the British wondered what else they could do, mystified as to why the Soviet Union would risk a break with Turkey over such a minor issue.26 ‘One would have thought that on the eve of the German offensive they would have wished to propitiate the Turks in every way possible.’27 The situation cooled down from late April, and the trial ended on 17 June, with the Russians sentenced to 20 years’ imprisonment.28

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Russian press criticism continued, however, and the Daily Express was reprimanded for reprinting a jaundiced report from the Englishlanguage propaganda paper, Soviet War News.29 In October, the Turkish appeal court ordered a retrial, prompting concern that earlier antagonisms would be revisited.30 It was not until December – when the retrial ended with the validation of the original sentences – that the British felt confident that the issue was no longer a serious threat to Soviet–Turkish relations.31 The Papen assassination attempt was peripheral to the ‘big’ issues of Soviet–Turkish relations: the future of the Straits, and the Soviet–Turkish frontier in the Caucasus. It was nonetheless significant, demonstrating the extent to which Soviet–Turkish relations were characterised by a mutual lack of trust, and political conflict between the two was becoming axiomatic.

The Anglo-Soviet alliance The Northern Department had warned in April that ‘(t)his is . . . a very bad moment to have a political incident between the Soviet and Turkish Governments,’ since the Turks were ‘foolishly’ suspicious of the negotiations for an Anglo-Soviet alliance.32 Decrypts such as one from the Turkish ambassador in Washington, Mehmet Münür Ertegün, reflected these suspicions. Ertegün believed that Britain sought ‘Roosevelt’s consent for the post-war programme of Stalin . . . it is not improbable that, under the pretext of military necessity, the British are causing the Americans to incline towards serving Russian imperialism.’33 Anxiety that Britain’s need to keep Russia in the war would be used by Stalin to extract concessions at the expense of smaller powers was evident in Turkish intercepts since the autumn of 1941, and figured prominently in FO discussion of the prospective alliance.34 The Turks believed that Cripps, now a member of the War Cabinet, favoured meeting Russian territorial demands in the Balkans, the Baltic and eastern Europe, although Turkish control of the Straits was not understood to be threatened.35 Aktay echoed Ertegün in suspecting that Britain would ‘(sacrifice) the independence of several countries in the agreement which she is to conclude with the Soviet.’ Although Stalin’s desiderata did not yet threaten Turkey directly, ‘(t)here is . . . the possibility that the Russians, who are angry at the recent turn of events, will go back on their original decisions concerning us [at Moscow].’36 On the eve of the Anglo-Soviet treaty, however, Aktay’s deputy in Kuibyshev was optimistic that the new agreement would guarantee

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Turkish independence and territorial integrity.37 Despite recent descriptions of ‘atavistic’ Turkish suspicion of Russia, British propaganda portrayed the treaty in similar terms, as ‘a charter guaranteeing the continuance of the Turkish Republic,’38 which had rendered Turkish fear of Moscow, revived by the Nazi–Soviet pact, ‘obsolete.’39 To demonstrate British good faith, Rauf Orbay was advised of Molotov’s presence in London, and allowed to see the terms of the treaty prior to its publication.40 Yet Orbay, too, speculated that Britain might sacrifice Turkish interests – as it had the Baltic States – to maintain relations with Moscow. He suggested American association with any Anglo-Soviet guarantee, to reduce the risk to Turkey.41 Even if Britain’s commitment to Turkey was sincere, Orbay found it ‘hard to believe that these provisions are equally consistent and even [groups missing] with the interests [groups missing] Russia.’ If the Soviets defeated Germany, they would pursue their aspirations in eastern Europe and the Near East, and ‘it would be foolish . . . to imagine that our British Allies, weary as they will be, could put up so strong an opposition as to [compel?] the Russians to respect the treaty.’42 Orbay’s early apprehension of Britain’s post-war weakness is noteworthy. He subsequently reported that the Baltic States and the Polish government in exile had given up on Britain as the guarantor of their interests, and were looking towards the United States instead. Perhaps other small powers, such as Turkey, might be compelled to seek American, rather than British protection against Russia.43 Orbay informed Eden that the treaty was satisfactory, if it would ‘keep the Russians in the war,’ but regretted that he could not be certain ‘that the Russians will respect their [undertakings?] equally with yourselves.’44 Menemencio˘ glu was similarly ambivalent. ‘Russia with a Treaty was better than Russia without, since putting things at their lowest, Russia would have to violate a treaty before pursuing selfish aims.’45 The Germans sought to capitalise on uneasy Anglo-Turkish relations by supplanting the Allies as Turkey’s principal suppliers of military equipment; an undertaking which coincided with alarming British defeats in North Africa and the renewed German onslaught in South Russia, explored in Chapter 3. Intercepts revealed a visit to Germany by a Turkish military mission, and the FO apprehended ‘unmistakeable signs that the Germans are launching an economic and moral drive to oust us from our position in Turkey.’46 Germany sought to disrupt Anglo-Turkish relations and foment Soviet–Turkish ill-feeling, while accompanying instructor personnel could provide cover for espionage, infiltration of the Turkish armed forces, and German arms transports

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to the Caucasus.47 As we saw in Chapter 3, the Soviets were already suspicious of Turkish ambitions in the Caucasus: German economic diplomacy in the summer of 1942 only added to the catalogue of Soviet grievances against Turkey. *

*

*

Reflecting on Anglo-Soviet relations early in November, Menemencio˘ glu told Knox Helm that we had of late rather made a mistake in our attitude towards Russia. The Prime Minister’s original approach had been the right one, i.e. two Great Powers temporarily joined together in order to achieve their national Interests . . . By all means give Russia all the military and material help we can, but do not let us imagine that the Russians like us any more than they did when they signed their agreement with Germany in August 1939.48 In December the minister in Ankara, John Sterndale-Bennett, wrote to Sargent, discussing Turkish concerns about post-war relations with Moscow, particularly over the Straits. Bennett suggested reassuring the Turks about British interest in their post-war future, perhaps with a new treaty.49 An accompanying paper by Helm worried that Britain risked repeating what Helm understood to be the mistakes of the period before the First World War, when Britain chose détente with Russia over closer relations with the Young Turks, driving the Ottoman Empire into alliance with Germany. ‘As then, the Turks are ready and anxious to tie themselves on to our chariot if we are ready to have them . . . but a cardinal condition would be that we should stand by and help them and above all that we should safeguard them against Russia.’50 Notwithstanding Helm’s questionable assertion that Turkey was willing to ‘tie’ itself to Britain, the FO reacted hotly to these proposals. Bennett and Helm ‘have got hold of completely the wrong end of the stick.’ Although the British believed Turkish fears to be unjustified, they hoped ‘to exploit Turkish anxiety about Russia’s part in the post-war settlement in order to break down their neutral attitude,’ as instructed by Churchill.51 Even Sargent was disturbed by the Ankara embassy’s assumption ‘that the post-war friendship of Turkey will in itself be of such benefit to us as to warrant our modifying our general policy towards the Soviet Union to the extent . . . of practically guaranteeing Turkey against possible future Russian aggressions.’52

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

Menemencio˘ glu’s ruminations on the Anglo-Soviet alliance, and the outraged FO reaction to the treatises provided by Helm and SterndaleBennett, illustrated a key point of difference between London and Ankara. The British perspective on their relationship with Turkey and the Soviet Union was transformed by Anglo-Soviet collaboration against Germany, whereas the Turkish perspective was not. Menemencio˘ glu assumed a return to the status quo ante following a German defeat. He failed to recognise the extent to which the Grand Alliance curtailed the influence which Turkey had had during the period of Anglo-Soviet antagonism, and which continued to some extent during 1941–42, while the German military threat to Britain in the Middle East remained grave. Menemencio˘ glu raised an important point, however, warning Helm not to imagine ‘that the Russians like us any more than they did . . . in August 1939.’ British perceptions of the Soviet Union, and their hopes for the post-war international order, had been substantively altered by the Grand Alliance, but Soviet perceptions of Britain – and of the smaller powers, like Turkey, on their frontiers – had not.

Soviet–Turkish relations at Adana and after At the start of 1943, before his volte-face at Adana, Hugessen was convinced that Turkey would remain neutral ‘to conserve their strength ˙ against Russia.’53 Inönü told Churchill of his anxiety about a postwar renewal of Soviet pressure on Turkey, citing Russian bad faith in October 1939, during Saraco˘ glu’s visit to Moscow, and November 1940, when Molotov travelled to Berlin.54 The Soviet demands for bases at the Straits, leaked by Hitler in March 1941, were not invoked directly, perhaps because the Turks realised that to do so would only antagonise the ˙ British, who dismissed them as German propaganda.55 Inönü instead referred to the Soviet ‘attitude’ following the fall of France, and recalled the offer to Bulgaria of a non-aggression pact and territorial concessions at Turkish expense, about which the British had known at the time.56 The Turks nonetheless accepted Churchill’s suggestion that they attempt to improve relations, and Churchill wrote to Stalin to recommend this course. Stalin acquiesced, although he pointedly reminded the Prime Minister of Turkey’s treaty with Germany, concluded ‘three days before the German attack on the USSR.’57 Churchill hoped for ‘a warm renewal of friendship between Russia and Turkey similar to that achieved by Mustafa Kemal.’58 The FO shared this ambition, now asserting that Soviet–Turkish tensions were ‘eradicable,’ not ‘axiomatic’ or ‘atavistic’ as they had been depicted since June 1941.59

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Crucially, this belief was based on the assumption, in the immediate wake of the Adana conference, that Turkey would soon be engaged in the war on the Allied side, removing the most immediate reason for Soviet hostility towards Turkey, and taking Turkey under the protective umbrella of the post-war international organisation.60 Despite their professed optimism, the FO nonetheless equivocated on the desirability of substantive Soviet–Turkish talks, and drew up a list of topics which ought not to be raised, including the Straits and the postwar Balkans.61 Talks to improve bilateral relations were encouraged, but they must not address the controversial, substantive issues at the heart of the relationship – not a recipe for successful rapprochement. After Casablanca, moreover, the British became proprietorial about their lead role in Allied policy, and resented Molotov’s suggestion that ‘our policy towards Turkey is subject to the agreement of the Soviet Government.’62 Soviet–Turkish talks took place in Ankara and Kuibyshev, without great incident or progress.63 More significant were the deteriorating relations between the Soviet Union and the Polish government in exile. The Soviets broke relations with the London Poles in April 1943, following the revelation of the Katyn massacre. As in 1939–40, the Turks saw Soviet policy towards Poland as portentous of future policy towards Turkey, and understood British failure to challenge Moscow as indicative of their attitude to the smaller nations of Europe.64 The British were criticised for ‘subservience’ to Moscow, and Rauf Orbay reported American concern that Britain was pursuing ‘the same [policy] as she had pursued at the time of the Munich talks towards Germany.’65 The ambassador in Washington, Ertegün, was dismayed by British ‘indifference’ to Poland and the Baltic nations, and feared a ‘sellout’ of Turkey. The extent of Soviet demands against Turkey was not yet clear, however. ‘Do Russia’s real desires extend no further than effective control on the Dardanelles, exercised in conjunction with ourselves and purely in the interests of her security? Or are they aiming at the acquisition of Istanbul, the Straits, and other portions of our territory?’66 Ertegün expected possible demands in eastern Turkey, for bases if not annexation, to secure the Soviet oil industry in the Caucasus. One of his colleagues in Kuibyshev went further, anticipating the extension of Soviet ambitions in the direction of the Persian Gulf.67 When British planners came to consider these issues in the summer of 1943, they appear to have done so in ignorance of this early articulation of similar Turkish concerns.68 Turkey’s assignation to a British ‘sphere of influence,’ implicit in the British interpretation of Casablanca, was hardly more satisfactory than

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

subordination within a Soviet one. ‘(H)as the whole of Turkey been left to England’s political domination in the Near East? . . . (I)f Germany is defeated, Russia and England will remain alone on the political stage and will be prepared to make large concessions to one another for the sake of world domination.’69 Turkish suspicion of an Anglo-Soviet condominium became acute as the outlines of a post-war settlement became apparent, and American willingness to play a leading role in international affairs remained unclear. By late summer, Soviet–Turkish relations were at best awkward, and at worst laden with menace.70 Confidence in Moscow was at an all-time high following the German defeat at Kursk, in July, and the Soviets were able to conduct their diplomacy from a position of unparalleled strength, emphasising the coincidence between the Turkish–German treaty and the invasion of the Soviet Union, and denouncing Turkish neutrality as ‘particularly favourable’ to Germany, now that Hitler was in retreat. The Greek ambassador in Ankara, Raphael, warned his government that, whereas Turkey in the 1930s had been Russia’s ally in the Balkans, in contrast to the anti-Bolshevik royal dictatorships, the Soviets now warned against Turkish interference in the region.71 The Greeks were concerned that close association with the discredited Turks would antagonise the Soviets, rather than acting as a ‘bridge’ between Moscow and the Balkan nations. These intercepts formed the basis of a War Cabinet paper which highlighted Soviet dissatisfaction with ‘reports that Turkey wishes to intervene in the Balkans should that area fall into anarchy following German withdrawal.’ In contrast to Churchill’s stated ambition at the time of Adana, this paper declared that Britain had no interest in Turkish intervention in the Balkans after a German withdrawal, ‘though they . . . would warmly welcome any help the Turkish Government could give us to clear the enemy out of those parts.’72 Turkey’s failure to enter the war on the Allied side caused Churchill to express concern that it would be difficult to ‘protect them from Russia,’ although he doubted that the Soviet insecurity was so great as to be alarmed by the endurance of an independent Turkey, given the preponderance of Soviet strength.73 The FO professed to be ‘very much in the dark about Russia’s real attitude towards Turkey.’74 This ambiguity was clear during the summer and autumn of 1943, during the review of policy towards Turkey discussed in Chapter 6. Apprehension of a possible Soviet threat coexisted with Hugessen’s outspoken criticism of the Turks’ ‘simply idiotic’ and ‘insane Russian complex,’ which the ambassador likened to a ‘national psychosis.’75

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Hugessen’s outburst reflected a deeper trend in contemporary British foreign policy. Although they did not doubt the endurance of a historic ‘Russian chauvinism,’ which would doubtless lead to a difficult postwar relationship, the Anglo-Soviet alliance had led to a radical revision of the British government’s pre-war assessments of Soviet Russia. The British identified a newly ‘cooperative’ Soviet Union whose relationship with the non-communist world had been revolutionised by the alliance against Hitler. Pre-war antagonism and ideological conflict would be replaced by post-war collaboration and the pursuit by the Soviet Union of a ‘normal’ foreign policy, driven by the Russian national interest rather than the ideological impulses of Soviet communism.76 Whereas the British had adjusted to the great changes in Soviet foreign policy, the Turks, ‘assume the worst of Russia, with no justification and no attempt to understand the evolution of the last two years.’77 Having been subjected to a lecture along these lines by Hugessen in July 1943, Turkish Prime Minister S¸ ükrü Saraco˘ glu caustically remarked ‘that he realised he was not to say unpleasant things about Russia to us.’78 However, even if Turkish officials held their tongues while talking to the British, diplomatic SIGINT appeared to demonstrate a Turkish ‘obsession’ with the Russian threat, and an entrenched ‘Russophobia’ among leading Turks. By the summer of 1943, British dismay at Turkey’s ‘idiotic’ attitude towards the Soviet Union coalesced with the frustrations and recriminations arising from the breakdown of the Adana policy, prompting the FO to attempt a comprehensive – and radical – review of British policy towards Turkey, in war and peace.

6 The Eastern Mediterranean, in Peace and War: May to October 1943

By the late spring of 1943 it was clear that the Adana policy had miscarried. Turkey’s ‘extremely cordial’ reception of Churchill and other grandees would not translate into the abandonment of neutrality desired by Britain as a prelude to belligerency on the Allied side. Despite victory in Tunisia, and Soviet containment of German counter-attacks in Russia, Turkey continued its ‘illogical’ adherence to neutrality. Indeed, the British recognised that Allied successes had reinforced that neutrality. The North African victories increased the likelihood of an Allied call on Turkey, and a pre-emptive German attack on the approaches to ‘Fortress Europe,’ while the German failure to breakthrough on the Russian front foreshadowed Soviet hegemony in the post-war Balkans.1 Unable to acquiesce in the Turkish challenge to British authority, and increasingly cognisant of other factors undermining Anglo-Turkish relations, the FO sought to penalise Turkey for defaulting on its ‘obligations’ to Britain. Although this search proved abortive, it raised issues of postwar policy towards Turkey, and the Soviet Union, which dominated relations between these three powers for the remainder of the Second World War. Contemporaneous with this policy review, Churchill’s determination to capitalise on the Italian armistice with a British-led campaign in the Eastern Mediterranean revived – for the final time – the question of militarily useful (as opposed to politically expedient) Turkish belligerency against the Axis. Once again, the Prime Minister’s personal policy ran counter to that of the FO and others in Whitehall, who had all but eliminated the possibility of a Turkish declaration of war and were increasingly preoccupied with the post-war balance of power in the region. 118

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‘I have pretty well given these people up’ Having warned that Adana had not precipitated the ‘great leap’ towards belligerency anticipated by Churchill, Brooke and Sir Hughe KnatchbullHugessen, the ambassador had, by May 1943, reverted to his earlier position, emphasising Turkey’s ‘permanent desire to keep out.’2 Faced with Turkish intransigence, Hugessen requested that ‘laudatory’ British press articles on the Anglo-Turkish alliance be replaced by more ‘objective’ reporting, suggesting that Turkey discontinue a neutrality which might come to benefit Germany rather than Britain.3 An article along these lines duly appeared in the Manchester Guardian, contrasting Turkey’s prudent and admirable policy up to 1942 with continuing adherence to a neutrality which was at odds with recent Allied successes, and was attracting unwelcome praise from Berlin.4 Hugessen recommended taking criticism of Turkish policy ‘on to a rather higher plane,’ raising the moral obligations of ‘a modern and progressive state which professes its devotion to international law and international co-operation.’ Britain might argue that it was not in British interests to declare war on Germany when Poland was invaded. ‘(W)e acted not in fulfilment of our obligations but because we saw what was at stake for the world.’5 These comments reflected a wider development in the character of the world war. The war which broke out in 1939 was in many ways a traditional European conflict, from which the United States and the Soviet Union stood apart. Following the expansion of the conflict into a genuine world war, the commitment to human rights and justice enshrined in the January 1942 declaration of the United Nations, and the doctrine of unconditional surrender, articulated at Casablanca, made it easier to characterise the war as one between ‘good’ and ‘evil,’ ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’6 By remaining neutral in the face of Allied pressure, the Turks were banking on the revival of traditional power politics following the defeat of Hitler.7 Hugessen proposed reminding the Turks that, while they deserved credit for standing by the Anglo-Turkish alliance during 1940–41, ‘it was probably the alliance alone . . . which saved Turkey’s independence.’ He recommended that Britain rub in that practically the whole world is united in combating an evil which would otherwise destroy it and that, if Turkey stands aside, pursues a purely egotistic policy and talks of “chests full of gold and bins full of corn” it will do her no good in the long run.8

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

This jaundiced analysis minimised the extent to which Turkish neutrality during 1941–42 helped preserve the fragile security of Britain’s Northern Front. Hugessen also neglected the extent to which Turkish independence was preserved in 1941, not by the treaty with Britain, but by Hitler’s war with the Soviet Union, the miscarriage of which established the conditions for Turkey’s long-term neutrality. A sympathetic reporter of Turkish affairs since 1939, it is perhaps surprising that Hugessen led the FO’s anti-Turkish backlash in the summer of 1943. Yet it was the ambassador’s personal disillusionment that distorted his analysis. Like other erstwhile Turcophiles, Hugessen’s estimation of Turkey had further to fall than that of cynics like Cadogan; his reaction against Turkish ‘hedging’ and ‘immoral’ behaviour after Adana was therefore more violent. Hugessen had been made to look foolish by his bold statements about the great strides made at Adana, in contrast to his previous declaration that the chances of Turkish participation in the war were ‘negligible.’ Hugessen wrote to Cadogan, declaring ‘I have pretty well given these people up and feel nothing is of use except a continued turn of the screw which would bring home to them their dependence on us.’9 With Hugessen’s disillusion echoing their own post-Adana misgivings about Turkish diplomacy – including the failure of all efforts to improve Soviet–Turkish relations – the FO seized on this latest outburst as the catalyst for a thorough review of British policy towards Turkey. The Southern Department agreed that Hugessen’s telegram ‘brings the whole Turkish situation to a head,’10 and Eden approved an approach to the Chiefs of Staff (COS) requesting guidance for future policy towards Turkey, following the miscarriage of the Adana policy.

Wartime policy Of most immediate concern was short-term policy towards Turkish participation in the war. Did operational plans make Turkey’s entry into the war necessary, and if so, when? If the Chiefs attached ‘no particular or immediate importance’ to Turkish belligerency, could the FO plot a new course, abandoning the Adana policy of ‘pumping arms into the country’ and adopting the frigid stance recommended by Hugessen?11 In fact, the COS had articulated their attitude towards Turkish belligerency following the Anglo-American conference in Washington in May 1943. It was here that the Americans received British assurance of an invasion of north-western France in 1944, and an agreement to limit operations in the Mediterranean to make such an invasion possible.12

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There would now be insufficient forces in the Mediterranean to follow up landings in Sicily with operations against the Italian mainland, and mount a full-scale campaign to open the Aegean and assist Turkey. British plans for military assistance to a belligerent Turkey, agreed when General Wilson visited Ankara in May and code-named ‘Hardihood,’ anticipated the immediate deployment of 25 RAF squadrons, plus three anti-tank regiments and anti-aircraft artillery. These would be followed by 20 further RAF squadrons; five further antiaircraft and two anti-tank regiments; and two armoured divisions, which could not be maintained in Turkey until I˙ zmir had been opened to the Aegean.13 These plans could not now be implemented until 1944, after the campaign in Italy. Given the constraints on resources, and given that Turkish belligerency would be of limited use until the Axis had been cleared from the Aegean, the Joint Planners recommended an order of priority for any operations which were feasible in the eastern Mediterranean in 1944, of ‘ “Accolade” [Allied assault on Rhodes] first, “Hardihood” second.’14 The Chiefs nonetheless recommended the continuation of military supplies to Turkey, since Turkish belligerency following operations in Italy could not be ruled out, and it would be premature to prejudice future relations to satisfy the FO’s irritation with Turkish neutrality.15 The FO’s ambition, ‘to leave the Turks coldly alone until the day for the “showdown” comes,’ had been thwarted.16

Italy and Quebec The arrest of Benito Mussolini on 25 July threw policy into flux, as Churchill returned to the fray, seeking to capitalise on the fall of the Fascist regime in Italy. Given the limited resources available, Churchill diverted supplies from Turkey to exploit Italian weakness on Crete and in the Aegean, despite the Chiefs’ recommendation to maintain a steady stream of supplies to Turkey.17 Churchill anticipated an Italian collapse, and a German withdrawal as far north as the Po, leading to ‘increasingly favourable turmoil’ in the Balkans. Turkish belligerency would permit short-distance bombing of the Romanian oilfields; enable British submarines to enter the Black Sea via the Straits, to harass Germans withdrawing from the Crimea; and permit assistance to Russian landings in Romania, and the recapture of the Crimea by air.18 Churchill revived his strategic concept for collaboration with the Soviet Union via the Black Sea, to which he clung for the remainder of the year. To the confusion and chagrin of the FO,

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

Churchill advocated the reverse of the policy recommended by the COS; cut supplies to Turkey, yet press Turkey to enter the war.19 Churchill’s intervention echoed his articulation of the Turkish gambit in 1942, when he had anticipated swift victories following the landings in north-west Africa. He now overestimated the immediate implications of Mussolini’s fall. The Germans were able to occupy locations in central and northern Italy, and Hitler rescued Mussolini, installing him as a puppet figurehead in the north of the country. British troops which had been preparing to occupy Rhodes, the largest and most strategically important of the Italian-held Aegean islands, were diverted to India, with the result that Britain lacked the strength to prevent a German occupation of Rhodes following the Italian armistice on 9 September, although they landed garrisons on the other islands – Leros, Cos and Samos – by 12 September.20 Early in October, Hitler reversed the policy of retreat to the north, deciding to stand and fight south of Rome.21 As in Tunisia, he would make the Allies fight for every inch of ground. Churchill also overestimated the importance to Turkey of the fall of their erstwhile nemesis. Italy had been enemy number one at the height of Mussolini’s Mediterranean imperialism during the 1930s, before the emergence of the German threat to the Balkans, and the deterioration of relations with the Soviet Union. By 1943, the Italian threat had so diminished that the Turks, although happy to see Mussolini fall, would not alter their attitude to the war because of events in Italy.22 The possibility of a renewed Turkish gambit proved too much for Cadogan. Does anyone still suppose that Turkey is coming into the war on our side? (I never did) . . . They will doubtless crawl into the war just before it’s all over . . . We used to think we should have to ask them for air bases. Plainly, we might just as well ask for the moon.23 Displaying a candour which was lacking earlier in the year, Eden agreed that ‘I never liked Adana meeting or Adana policy. When the issue of further supplies for Turkey v General Wilson’s urgent demands to enable him to capture the Dodecanese was raised I had no hesitation in backing the latter.’24 Douglas Howard joined the chorus. ‘I can justly claim that no one liked the Adana policy less than I did (a) because I felt it was throwing good material down the drain, and (b) because I did not think it would have the desired effect on the Turks.’25 Minutes arguing this position immediately after Adana were, as we saw in Chapter 4, absent.

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To the relief of Cadogan et al., the COS vetoed the latest attempt to revive the Turkish gambit. Limited forces were available in the Aegean, but, as they had made clear, there was no surplus for large-scale operations from Turkey. Bombing the Romanian oilfields from Turkish bases remained desirable, but a general bombing offensive from northern Italy was even more so. The Chiefs reiterated the organisational and communications weaknesses which might make Turkish belligerency counterproductive. Turkey should instead be asked for a stricter interpretation of the Montreux convention to exclude passage of all German shipping ‘of military value.’ Turkey should cease chrome supplies to Germany, and address several issues which had troubled British visitors to Turkey; they must improve their internal communications, complete the airfields and storage facilities required for ‘Hardihood,’ and raise the effectiveness of their fighting forces.26 The Anglo-American conference at Quebec, in August 1943, confirmed the marginalisation of the Mediterranean theatre begun in Washington. The United States secured a British commitment to an invasion of north-west France by 1 May 1944, and agreement to divert seven divisions from the Mediterranean to Britain. There would be no major land operations in the Balkans, although support to local guerrillas would continue, and strategic bombing and minor commando raids were permitted. The US Chiefs endorsed their British counterparts’ decisions on Turkey. ‘(T)he time is not ripe for Turkey to enter the war.’27

The Aegean Although apparently settled by mid-August, the question of Turkey’s military role was revived during the autumn of 1943 by Britain’s attempt to hold the Aegean islands taken from Italy, and wrest control of Rhodes from Germany. An Allied occupation of the Aegean islands had been contemplated since the spring of 1943, as the Italian war effort deteriorated. Churchill had suggested that Rhodes be given to Turkey as a ‘prize’ for participating in Allied operations, but this was vetoed by Eden, who warned of further damage to Greek–Turkish and Anglo-Greek relations.28 Limited resources in the Mediterranean following the Washington conference had led the Chiefs to rule out Aegean operations, but events in Italy revived Churchill’s ambitions.29 These were thwarted almost immediately by the German occupation of Rhodes, and the further reduction of Allied forces in the Mediterranean. The British occupation of the smaller islands was rendered untenable by German air power in the theatre,

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

and the strong German garrison on Rhodes.30 Churchill nonetheless remained committed to the Aegean campaign, to the alarm of Sir Alan Brooke, who was concerned that the Prime Minister’s obsession with Rhodes was making him unbalanced.31 For an under-resourced campaign in the Aegean to succeed, the British required Turkish assistance in the supply of British forces, and the use of Turkish airbases from which to strike at the Germans. This last requirement became urgent following the loss of Cos, the only island with an airfield from which British aircraft could operate, on 3 October.32 The Turks were prepared to offer the former, since the work could be done in a clandestine fashion, under the cover of a civilian relief effort for the islands, administered by the Turkish Red Crescent.33 Turkey facilitated the evacuation of British and Greek escapees from islands which fell to the Germans, and committed other un-neutral acts which benefited the British.34 Although tempted to draw wider conclusions from Turkish collaboration, the FO recognised that support was being offered in specific circumstances, on a small but crucial scale, where the risk of German retaliation, and the impact on Turkey’s economy and armed forces, was slight.35 The minister in Ankara, Sterndale-Bennett, emphasised that Britain should not confuse willingness ‘to turn a blind eye to a number of things’ with eagerness to undertake ‘any act of positive hostility towards Germany.’ Turkey would not permit the use of airbases to attack German interests in the Aegean, while the Allies remained unable to provide anti-aircraft support for the Turkish army in Eastern Thrace, or for Istanbul, I˙ zmir and Ankara.36 Turkish non-intervention exacerbated a desperate situation. Leros fell on 16 October, and British troops on Samos were evacuated through Turkey. Churchill railed against Turkish refusal to collaborate more meaningfully in the British campaign. ‘I shall of course use with the Turk the argument that Leros was his fault for not giving us the bases needed to protect it.’37 Yet General Kennedy and the Joint Planners had warned since the autumn of 1942 that Turkish belligerency could not be achieved, and would be of negligible benefit, before the Axis had been cleared from the Aegean. The COS had repeated that conclusion when strategic decisions at Washington and Quebec so circumscribed Allied forces in the Mediterranean to make a successful Aegean campaign unfeasible before 1944. The FO agreed ‘we have no chance whatever of getting anything serious from the Turks until we have got the Dodecanese.’38 Churchill pressed on regardless with an under-resourced campaign, diverting supplies from Turkey in order to

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do so. Counterproductively, the miscarriage of the Aegean operations reinforced Turkish apprehensions of German reserve strength in the Mediterranean. ‘(I)t can hardly be encouraging to the Turks to take another step along the path of co-operation, to realise that their first step was quite needless, because we were unable to hold [the Dodecanese islands].’39 Turkish non-participation in the Aegean campaign confirmed the erosion of Churchill’s personal sympathy for Turkey. It had begun earlier in the summer, as it became apparent that Adana had failed to break down Turkish neutrality,40 and coalesced with Churchill’s willingness – stated to Roosevelt’s envoy Harry Hopkins at Casablanca, and to Eden in the summer of 1943 – to reach a quid pro quo with the Soviet Union at the Straits.41 This would become clear during the ‘Big Three’ conference at Tehran.

Post-war policy The development of Churchill’s own views on the Straits and the eastern Mediterranean – turning against the neutral Turks and increasingly sympathetic to Britain’s fighting ally, the Soviet Union – ran counter to contemporaneous developments in Whitehall. Having been thwarted in its efforts to ‘to leave the Turks coldly alone’ for the rest of the war, the FO turned instead to Britain’s post-war interests in Turkey, which were reviewed comprehensively for the first time. The catalyst was a query from Cadogan, whether the Soviet Union ‘must at all costs be prevented from controlling the Straits.’ Given the development of submarine warfare and air power, Cadogan doubted ‘whether possession of the shores of the Dardanelles nowadays assures an exit for a fleet into the Mediterranean.’42 The Joint Planning Staff (JPS) had identified this as ‘a matter for urgent consideration’ in January 1943. Assuming suspicion of the Soviet Union to be the principal obstacle to Turkish belligerency, they sought to clarify the British position in the event that their Soviet allies emerged as a post-war threat to Turkish independence, and in particular to Turkish sovereignty over the Straits. Would Britain acquiesce in Soviet control of the Straits, given the increasing importance of air over sea power, and the potential significance of Iranian and Iraqi oil? If Britain attempted to thwart Soviet ambitions at the Straits, ‘we should probably be confronted with a claim for rights of transit through Persia to a port on the Persian Gulf. This . . . would be most undesirable.’ The Planners recommended the urgent adoption of ‘a firm policy . . . with regard to our

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

post-war attitude on the Dardanelles question and other matters of a primary interest to the Turks.’43 Preoccupied with Adana, where the Straits were not discussed, the FO put this question aside for several months. It re-emerged in early July, prompted by Cadogan. The Southern Department believed that a withdrawal of British political support for Turkey would, in the absence of a German counterweight in central Europe, force Ankara to conclude a quid pro quo with the Soviet Union, subordinating Turkey to a Soviet sphere of influence. Turkey might acquiesce in an agreement similar to the one rejected by Saraco˘ glu in October 1939, offering the Soviet Union de facto control over the Straits. ‘Are we prepared to face such an eventuality, which it has been the traditional policy of Great Britain for two hundred years to forestall?’44 The FO sought guidance from the COS, who sent the problem back to the Joint Planners, and to Gladwyn Jebb’s Post-Hostilities Planning Sub-Committee. They reported that Soviet control of the Dardanelles would permit a Russian surface fleet to threaten communications at Suez, but this threat could be neutralised by air and naval bases elsewhere in the central and eastern Mediterranean. The threat from Russian submarines would be more difficult to neutralise, however. The build up of Soviet forces in the region of the Straits would assist an advance through Turkey by the Red Army, with the objective of seizing the Suez Canal, and would split Turkish resistance between the Straits and their Caucasian frontier. Soviet land forces at the Straits might also attack Greece through Eastern Thrace. Most significantly, the Planners warned that control of the Straits would permit Russia to construct airfields on either side, allowing aircraft to strike at British bases on Egypt’s Mediterranean coast.45 The same threat would emerge, however, if the Soviet Union constructed airfields in Bulgaria. The Planners concluded that it was ‘most desirable,’ given British strategic interests in the eastern Mediterranean, to prevent the Soviet Union from gaining control of the Straits, but emphasised that if the Russians gained control of Bulgaria, ‘the importance of denying them the use of airfields near the Dardanelles would largely vanish.’46 This was explicit acknowledgement of a crucial strategic concept, of which Stalin had been aware in 1940, and which the Turks would seek to make clear in the autumn of 1943. It was a concept which the British struggled to keep in mind, or reconcile to their wider Soviet or Turkish policies, during the remainder of the war. The Chiefs felt that the Planners’ analysis was too vague on Soviet ‘control’ of the Straits. This could mean a treaty agreement securing

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unlimited passage for Russian warships, or a physical occupation of the territory either side of the Straits, equivalent to the bases which Molotov had demanded of Hitler in November 1940. Since the consequences might be different in each case, a more comprehensive appreciation was required before the Chiefs could submit their recommendations to the FO.47 The Joint Planners produced a revised report in mid-September. Considering an attack through the Balkans and Turkey – equivalent to the German threat in 1940–41 – the Planners emphasised the benefits to any Soviet campaign of sea communications through the Straits, given the limited alternative lines of communication. The submarine threat in the eastern Mediterranean, and the limited threat from a Soviet surface fleet, were reiterated, as was the air threat from bases on either side of the Straits, yet the equivalent threat from bases in Bulgaria was overlooked. Providing the specific conclusions desired by the Chiefs, the Planners declared that it was ‘essential’ that the Soviet Union be denied physical control of the Straits, and ‘most desirable’ that they be denied unrestricted passage under a revised Straits agreement.48 A far greater threat than any through the Straits was a Soviet attack from the Caucasus, through Iran to the Persian Gulf, echoing the German threat to the ‘Northern Front.’ ‘Since our sources of oil and sea communications in the Persian Gulf constitute our most vital interests in the Middle East, a threat from this direction would be of first importance to us.’ If denial of Soviet ambitions at the Straits was likely to result in ‘additional claims or threats’ from the direction of the Caucasus, it would be to Britain’s advantage ‘to concede certain points’ from the Montreux convention.49 These issues infringed on ‘our whole position vis-à-vis Russia in the post-war world,’ and the JPS and Post-Hostilities Planning Staff (PHPS) now undertook this far greater task, prompted by their exploration of the Straits question. The COS approved the thrust of the Planners’ conclusions. However, they amended the final version of this report to blur once again the distinction between Soviet control of the Straits through military establishments on either shore, and unlimited transit rights for Soviet shipping, declaring the maintenance of the status quo ‘most important’ in both cases, although the Straits remained secondary to the prevention of Russian claims in the direction of the Persian Gulf.50 The Chiefs’ opposition to any degree of Straits revision would become untenable, but their conclusions in the autumn of 1943 thwarted the ambitions of Cadogan and the Southern Department, which had originally anticipated ‘that if we could or should acquiesce in Russia

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

obtaining control of the Dardanelles,’ Turkey ‘would no longer be able to exploit our long-suffering patience by assuming . . . that . . . we should always . . . be compelled in our own interests to bolster her up and defend her against Russia.’51 The unaltered JPS conclusions, with their emphasis on the undesirability of Soviet bases, would have moderated British opposition to Straits revision, ‘so long as there was no question of [the Soviet Union] occupying strategic points.’ The final answer received from the COS was, however, ‘sufficiently definite for us to work on the assumption that Turkish integrity and control of the Straits is still a principle of British foreign policy.’52 Divisions now emerged among the geographical departments of the FO. The Southern Department readily conceded that ‘we shall have to stretch our patience yet further and that it will be difficult to call the Turkish bluff.’53 However, the Northern Department, responsible for policy towards the Soviet Union, denied ‘that we must continue to “support Turkey” . . . and submit to Turkish blackmail,’ and rubbished the Southern Department’s original hypothesis, ‘that if we are a little tougher with Turkey now . . . she will hurl herself into the arms of Russia and surrender control over the Straits.’54 The head of the Northern Department, Christopher Warner, posed a question which Britain was unwilling to confront in the years ahead. ‘(I)f Russia wants to control the Dardanelles, how are we going to stop her? She will almost certainly be able to use airfields in Roumania [sic] and Bulgaria . . . and will have an overwhelming army with which to threaten – and if necessary overrun – Turkey.’ Warner reminded his colleagues of the Bulgarian airfields emphasised by the JPS, but dismissed the idea of a Soviet threat from there or the Caucasus. ‘Is Russia likely in the next five, or even ten years, to want to challenge our position in the Middle East by force? The answer is surely “no,” though she may intrigue there.’55 Although he did not accept its conclusions, Warner acknowledged that part of the review which recommended a quid pro quo with the Soviet Union at the Straits, if such action could divert covetous Soviet eyes away from the Persian Gulf. The Southern Department did not address this issue at all, and was surprisingly ready to abandon its brief flirtation with a radical revision of policy towards Turkey. Given the imminent Allied discussions at Moscow and Tehran, Sir Orme Sargent’s hope, ‘that the issue [of the Straits] will never be raised with the Soviet Government,’ was unrealistic.56 Sargent nonetheless noted the promise of a further JPS–PHPS study which might settle the argument within the FO, and approached Jebb for their provisional conclusions.

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The PHPS took a flexible position, declaring that Straits revision in favour of the Soviet Union was not a grave danger to British interests, given the means at Britain’s disposal to counter a Soviet surface fleet. Soviet control of the shores of the Straits, ‘whether by annexation or by the appearance of a Soviet controlled or even Russophil [sic] Turkish government,’ would menace vital British interests, hence the PHPS reiterated the importance of maintaining a ‘genuinely independent Turkey.’ This revisited the original Southern Department contention, also addressed in an intercepted telegram from the Turkish ambassador in Washington, which posited that British abandonment of Turkey would – for better or worse – lead to its political subordination to the Soviet Union.57 The PHPS reiterated the equivalent threat posed by Bulgarian air bases, ‘within easy range of Istanbul,’ which could menace the North African coast, and coerce Turkey into doing Soviet bidding in the eastern Mediterranean and Middle East. They recommended British resistance to ‘the absorption of Bulgaria in any Soviet system.’58 Yet the Northern Department doubted that such a solution was feasible, not least given that the Quebec conference had decided, in August, that Britain and the United States would undertake no large-scale military campaign in the Balkans. The PHPS shared the Joint Planners’ assessment of Soviet ambitions in the direction of the Persian Gulf. Echoing British strategy for the Northern Front in 1941–42, they warned that the appearance in Anatolia of Soviet forces ‘would constitute a serious threat to our position in Iraq and in the Middle East as a whole,’ since Turkey remained an important bulwark between Britain and the Soviet Union in the Middle East. They joined the Chiefs in vetoing the reorientation of British policy towards Turkey, initially sought by the FO. ‘The maintenance of a truly independent Turkey must . . . still be considered as a vital British strategic interest.’59 The Northern Department’s questions remained unanswered, however. Post-war Russian intentions remained vague, but the means by which Britain might counter any post-war Soviet campaign against Turkey and the Middle East, or challenge Bulgarian ‘absorption’ in the Soviet system, were equally elusive. The JPS had implicitly acknowledged this, suggesting a quid pro quo at the Straits to deflect Soviet ambitions in the direction of the Persian Gulf; ambitions which Britain, with or without Turkish assistance, could not challenge by force. The PHPS had revived the Turkish bulwark to deter a military threat from the Caucasus – this time Russian, rather than German – despite earlier recognition of Turkish weakness against any serious armoured

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and airborne force, and the relegation of the Turkish armed forces to a delaying role, buying time for a notional British defence of the Middle East proper. The PHPS were concerned not with British (or Turkish) capabilities, but British requirements for the defence of the Middle East, which earlier plans to resist a German advance from the Caucasus had shown to be untenable. The Northern Department doubted that the Soviet Union posed an urgent military threat from this quarter, but as an exercise in contingency planning, the revival of the Turkish bulwark was scarcely credible. The Southern Department’s Douglas Howard had previously identified the ‘snag’ in the British policy review; the assumption that ‘we would do something to protect the Turks against the Russians.’ Although Britain’s 1939 treaty with Turkey – valid for 15 years – committed Britain to come to Turkey’s aid against a threat from any European power, ‘in the event [we] may want to back out of our undertaking.’60 The FO was aware of the Turkish hope – and Soviet suspicion – that arms supplied by Britain and the United States since Adana might offer Turkey some protection against the Soviet Union.61 Yet, as Cadogan had recognised in May, ‘(w)ith any amount of armaments, the Turks will never be able to hold against the Russians.’ Their only hope, he reasoned, was to join the war on the winning side ‘before it’s too late,’ and associate themselves with the victors in the world war, although even this would not afford ‘permanent security’ against the Soviet Union.62 By August, George Clutton was prepared to go further. ‘I am more and more certain that unless Turkey comes into the war pretty soon, the continued existence of Turkey as she is at present is very problematical.’63 With a powerful post-war Soviet Union all too likely, Anglo-Turkish relations in decline and the political, social and economic achievements of the republic apparently under threat, the preservation intact of Kemalist Turkey, in the face of Soviet ambitions at the Straits or in the Caucasus, could not be taken for granted. This was the sobering view from Whitehall ahead of the ‘Big Three’ conference at Tehran, which commenced at the end of November 1943.

7 Alliance Diplomacy and the Rise of Anglo-Turkish Antagonism, October 1943–September 1944

The foregoing discussions about Turkey and the war during late 1942 and the first half of 1943 (Chapters 4 and 6) focused particularly on the British perspective, at a time when Turkey did not bulk large in Soviet or American policy. Increasing security in the Caucasus reduced Soviet anxiety about Turkish opportunism in that area, while the fighting elsewhere in the Soviet Union remained bitter. The United States was, to a large extent, willing to leave Turkey to Britain. Their limited interests in the Balkans, the eastern Mediterranean and the Middle East meant that they had been prepared to let Britain take the lead on behalf of the western Allies. Churchill believed that he had formalised this agreement at Casablanca, with Britain authorised to ‘play the hand’ in Turkey, as the United States did in China. In the autumn of 1943, however, Allied conferences drew Turkey back into international politics and Alliance diplomacy. More than ever, British policy towards Turkey was influenced by the interests and actions of its two Great Power allies, with the Soviet Union able at last to think clearly about its own ambitions for the post-war world, and the United States – now the dominant partner in the Anglo-American alliance – increasingly willing to overrule Churchill and the British and impose its own vision on Allied grand strategy. Churchill’s enduring ambition for a campaign in the eastern Mediterranean, and an Anglo-Soviet ‘junction’ via the Black Sea, remained the focus of increasingly desultory British efforts to bring Turkey into the war. The failure of this policy, by the end of 1943, resulted in a period of Anglo-Turkish antagonism, during the first 6 months of 1944, which dissipated only when the extent of post-war Soviet influence in the Balkans and the eastern Mediterranean became clearer in the summer of that year. 131

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

Moscow Ahead of the Big Three conference at Tehran, the Allied Foreign Ministers – Eden, Molotov and Cordell Hull – met for a preliminary discussion in Moscow in October 1943. The Soviet agenda for this meeting was frank: the adoption of further ‘Measures to shorten the war.’1 Encouraged by recent successes against the Wehrmacht, Stalin briefly entertained the possibility of a successful Soviet attack on central Europe, without Allied landings in the west. As a consequence, the Soviet Union looked more favourably on a large-scale Anglo-American campaign in the Mediterranean, which Stalin may temporarily have believed was the quickest way to defeat Germany.2 At the Moscow conference, therefore, Molotov appeared eager to push Turkey into the war. He proposed concerted Allied pressure for an immediate Turkish declaration of war, which Stalin asserted might divert ten German divisions away from the Soviet Union. Hull was unenthusiastic,3 but Eden expressed his qualified agreement, proposing Turkey’s incremental entry into the war, beginning with the abandonment of strict neutrality. This reflected the needs of Britain’s contemporary Mediterranean strategy, which had indefinitely postponed a substantive military role for Turkey, but desperately required Turkish air bases to support their forces in the Aegean, following the fall of Cos.4 Eden’s proposal also reflected British inability to fulfil its ‘Hardihood’ commitments, if the Allies compelled Turkey to enter the war: voluntary abandonment of neutrality would relieve Britain of the obligation to send the agreed air and land forces to Turkey.5 It was agreed that Britain would initially request Turkish non-belligerence and air bases, in exchange for a subsequent Anglo-Soviet undertaking to pressure Turkey to enter the war as a full belligerent by the end of 1943.6 Both Eden and Averell Harriman, the US ambassador in Moscow, left the meeting convinced of the importance the Soviets attached to bringing Turkey into the war.7 This conviction contributed to a further distortion of British policy during the autumn of 1943.

Cairo – round one Eden arranged to meet Numan Menemencio˘ glu in Cairo, ‘to give him a frank description of what has been going on here as regards his country.’ Faced with unanimous Great Power agreement, the Turks ‘may well take an entirely different view of the risks that they would run by coming into the war.’8 Eden secured agreement to speak on behalf of all

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three Powers; Molotov was ‘confident that we could do more for his point of view at this meeting than a Russian representative could hope to achieve.’9 Yet the US veto on an Anglo-American military commitment to the Balkans, and the limited air support which the western Allies could provide against German reprisals, meant that Eden travelled to Cairo ‘on the one hand (with) a mandate to press the Turks to enter the war, and on the other a firm indication that he could offer them no inducements to do so.’10 Moreover, the Anglo-Soviet agreement at Moscow (subsequently adhered to by the Americans11 ), fuelled Turkish suspicions of Allied policy which had existed since 1941 and remained lively throughout 1943. Turkish anxiety about the Soviet Union was evident in intercepted correspondence during October and November. The departure of the American delegation for Moscow precipitated an anxious telegram from ambassador Ertegün in Washington, suggesting a bilateral settlement with the Soviets to forestall an even less agreeable Great Power agreement at Turkey’s expense: the scenario which the Northern Department of the Foreign Office had scornfully dismissed only days previously.12 The Foreign Ministry reported anti-Turkish Soviet propaganda in Bulgaria, while the Japanese ambassador in Ankara reported Turkish concerns that the Soviets intended to annex the border region around Kars and Erzerum; a variation on the Soviet ambitions in the Caucasus recognised by the British in the summer of 1940, but neglected thereafter.13 During the Moscow conference, Molotov pointedly reminded the new ambassador Turkish ambassador there, Hüseyin Ra˘ gıp Baydur, that ‘certain questions’ remained outstanding between the two governments, which could not be resolved while ‘we are in the middle of a war.’14 One of these questions was the future of the Straits, an issue on which Churchill was pugnacious in his instructions for Eden’s Cairo mission. ‘If Turkey fails to act with us . . . we shall be unable to plead Turkey’s case with the Soviet. The whole question of the Straits will be open.’15 Churchill had expressed this view on several occasions prior to the Aegean debacle. Now he went further. ‘We shall regard the Alliance as a fraud . . . if she fails us now she can settle her troubles for herself with Soviet Russia.’16 Sargent and the Southern Department sought to draw Churchill’s attention to the review being conducted by the Chiefs of Staff (COS), which had indicated that Britain had an ongoing interest in the future of the Straits.17 Cadogan intervened to support the Prime Minister, however. ‘(W)e are . . . right in telling the Turks that, if they disoblige Russia by refusing the latter’s appeal . . . to come into the war, they

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can’t expect us to plead their . . . case effectively with the Soviet. That is a fact: they can’t.’18 Eden and Hugessen met Menemencio˘ glu for a series of talks between 4 and 8 November. Far from crumbling in the face of Great Power unanimity, Menemencio˘ glu was truculent, refusing to distinguish between Allied use of Turkish air bases and a declaration of war, since the outcome – German reprisals including air attacks on Istanbul and I˙ zmir – would be the same in either case. He refused the use of air bases, and referred the question of Turkish belligerency back to his government in Ankara.19 Menemencio˘ glu alleged that Britain had avoided renewed pressure for a second front in Europe by granting Stalin a ‘free hand’ in the Balkans, and expressed particular concern about Turkey’s neighbour, Bulgaria. Menemencio˘ glu was thinking along similar lines to British planners, who had warned that Soviet air bases in Bulgaria would be sufficient both to overrun the Straits, and mount attacks on British interests in the eastern Mediterranean, equivalent to the threat posed by Soviet bases at the Straits.20 Eden brusquely dismissed the idea that the Soviet Union had territorial ambitions in Bulgaria, but the contemporary recommendation of the Post-Hostilities Planning Staff (PHPS) – that Britain should prevent the ‘absorption of Bulgaria into any Soviet system’21 – indicated that the Soviet Union would not require territorial annexations to overshadow Turkey or to threaten the British Empire in the eastern Mediterranean: political control of Bulgaria would be quite sufficient. Menemencio˘ glu’s concerns were picked up by George Clutton, who articulated the point that often eluded the British in the months ahead. ‘If the Russians have bases in Bulgaria they will control the Straits and dominate Turkey. In fact Turkey without Bulgaria is not worth struggling for.’22

Turkey’s Balkan credentials revived For 18 months the FO had equivocated about Turkish participation in Balkan affairs, influenced by the ambivalence, if not opposition, of the Greek and Yugoslav governments in exile, and by the antiSoviet complexion of Turkish proposals for a Balkan bloc, as revealed by decrypts in the spring of 1943. Alerted to the strategic problems raised by the PHPS/JPS review, the FO now sought to resurrect Turkey as an alternative point of influence in the Balkans, to forestall exclusive Soviet dominion there as a consequence of the penetration of the Red Army into eastern and south-eastern Europe. The conversations

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at Quebec had ruled out an Anglo-American land commitment to the Balkans, and the Greek and Yugoslav governments were ‘ineffective and feeble.’ Unless Turkish influence was restored, ‘the drift of all Balkan countries towards Russia’ would ‘rapidly become a landslide.’23 Once again, however, this ambition was predicated on Turkish participation in the war against the Axis. As Churchill had hoped – and failed – to make clear at Adana, only a Turkey which participated fully in the war against Germany could play a meaningful role in the post-war Balkans, and assuage Soviet grievances. Following the Moscow conference, moreover, the FO assumed that the Soviets were eager to achieve Turkish belligerency, in which case they ‘ought to be ready to purchase Turkey’s entry into the war by coming to terms with her over South East Europe.’24 This drastically overestimated Soviet interest in bringing Turkey into the war, and remarkably misperceived the balance of forces in the Balkans. The idea of a Soviet–Turkish quid pro quo would have seemed laughable to the Russians, who had already signalled their opposition to Turkish interference in the region. In Moscow several days earlier, Eden had told Molotov that ‘neither of us would welcome Turkey’s aspirations in that area, once [the defeat of Germany] had been accomplished. To this Molotov gave ready assent.’25 Another recurring characteristic of British policy towards Turkey was also present. FO plans were formulated against a strategic backdrop which had ruled out military operations requiring Turkish belligerency – as opposed to the abandonment of neutrality to secure the use of air bases – until the completion of the Italian campaign, and had vetoed the deployment of Anglo-American ground forces in the Balkans. Once again, the British advanced a ‘purely political reason for bringing Turkey into the war,’ analogous to Eden’s attempt to bring Turkey into a Balkan front in the spring of 1941.26 The FO and Joint Planning Staff (JPS) both hoped that a Turkish declaration of war might have a decisive ‘psychological impact’ on Bulgaria and Romania, whose defection would increase German liabilities in the Balkans.27 This was an ambition shared by Churchill, who remained convinced that the Bulgarian defection in the First World War had had a ‘domino effect’ on the rest of the Central Powers.28 The Prime Minister also remained hopeful that a renewed campaign in the Aegean could be mounted, this time with Turkish assistance, and continued to cling to the possibility of Anglo-Soviet collaboration in the Black Sea, where British submarines might assist in Soviet landings in Romania, and attack German and Romanian evacuees from the Crimea.29

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

British hopes for ‘great political reactions’ to a Turkish declaration of war assumed, despite the experience of 1941, and two and a half years further experience of Turkish diplomacy, that Turkey would declare war on Germany – and risk antagonising the Soviet Union still further – for ‘political reasons.’ As in 1941, Eden was rebuffed when he pursued this line of argument with Menemencio˘ glu, who declared that ‘the advantages expected from the moral effects are not sufficient to throw an entire nation into the fire.’30 The British also overestimated – again, as in 1940–41 – the leverage which the threat of war with Turkey might exert on Bulgaria and Romania, when set against the vicious German retribution which could be meted out against both countries. This had been spelt out to minor members of the Axis following the defeat at Stalingrad.31 The final obstacle to this latest British scheme was the lack of enthusiasm shown by the United States. US policy towards Turkish belligerency had been stated at the close of 1942, contemporaneously with Churchill and Brooke’s Turkish gambit. The United States would welcome Turkish collaboration on the Allied side, should they come in unilaterally, and would support diplomatic efforts to that end. They would not, however, deploy Anglo-American military forces as part of an eastern Mediterranean or Balkan front which would divert resources from the cross-channel invasion of Europe. The United States acquiesced in the Adana policy of large-scale arms shipments to Turkey, but they were unenthusiastic, and as it became apparent that optimism about Adana was misplaced, Roosevelt spoke dismissively of Churchill’s ‘fishing trip’ with I˙ nönü.32 At Quebec, the Joint Chiefs of Staff endorsed GHQ Middle East’s request to use resources earmarked for Turkey elsewhere in their vast theatre of operations.33 Britain could continue its efforts to bring Turkey into the war, ‘but it should be made quite clear to the Turks that little US aid would be available to them (thus ensuring the unlikelihood of such efforts prevailing).’34 Roosevelt privately admitted that he ‘did not have the conscience to urge the Turks to go into the war,’ but acquiesced in Britain’s latest Turkish gambit, provided ‘no British or American resources will be committed to the Eastern Mediterranean area which in the opinion of the commanders responsible are necessary for Overlord or for operations in Italy.’35 The Soviets recognised American antipathy for Turkish belligerency, and realised that Anglo-American strategy, with its emphasis on a massive invasion of north-western Europe, increased the likelihood of Soviet predominance in the Balkans.36 Stalin’s earlier confidence in a German collapse in 1943, and Soviet ability to drive into central Europe without

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an offensive in the west, was also shaken by a German counter-attack around Kiev, hence his renewed support for ‘Overlord’ when the Allies met at Tehran.37 This resulted in the Soviets’ abandonment of their previous enthusiasm for a Turkish declaration of war, although the volte-face was officially attributed to Eden’s desultory talks with Menemencio˘ glu.38 The FO’s wild hopes of the Soviet Union ‘purchasing’ Turkish entry into the war by concluding a Balkan agreement with the Turkish government were at an end. The Soviets were nonetheless prepared to acquiesce in British proposals for Turkish belligerency by the end of 1943: proposals that were, once again, driven by Churchill’s ambitions for a revived campaign in the Aegean and for Anglo-Soviet collaboration in the Black Sea.39 They were prepared to do so because they would reap the benefits of an Anglo-Turkish estrangement if – as it surely would without American backing – British policy miscarried. These benefits were spelt out clearly by Churchill at Tehran. Despite his rough treatment at Cairo, Eden had not invoked Churchill’s threat to abandon support for Turkey at the Straits, if they continued to cling to neutrality.40 On 29 November, however, Churchill informed Stalin that if Turkey refused ‘the solemn invitation put forward by the USSR, the United States and the United Kingdom, we should lose interest in her territorial rights, particularly the Dardanelles and the Bosphorus.’41 Shortly after Tehran, a paper prepared for Molotov by the former ambassador to Britain, Ivan Maisky, offered an ‘early and precise depiction of [post-war] Soviet geopolitical interests’, recommending the exclusion of Turkey from Balkan affairs, and the ‘undermining of its position as the “sentry” of the Straits.’42

Cairo – round two Churchill and Eden travelled to Cairo, where – accompanied by ˙ Roosevelt – they again met with Inönü and Menemencio˘ glu. The Turks were unwilling to enter the war before the end of 1943, but undertook to do so by 15 February 1944, on which date 12 Royal Air Force (RAF) squadrons would fly into Turkish airfields, subject to adequate preparations by British specialists infiltrated into Turkey during the preceding weeks.43 This operation was code-named ‘Saturn.’ This agreement was not easily secured, with the Turks reminding Churchill of his Adana promise not to force them into the war.44 I˙ nönü emphasised the two sides’ differing perceptions of German strength. ‘The Turkish Government saw Germany as stretching from the Crimea to Rhodes and with Turkey encircled, and they felt that Germany had

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fresh forces with which she could attack.’45 Hugessen remained sympathetic to these concerns, and the Joint Planners agreed that German air attacks could still ‘paralyse’ Turkey, leading to ‘chaos, which would result in Turkey becoming a liability rather than an asset to the Allies.’46 Although they debunked Turkey’s obsession with a German ‘strategic reserve’ in the Balkans – exacerbated by the British defeat in the Aegean – the Vice-Chiefs advised the COS that ‘nothing will move the Turks from the view they wish to hold.’ After the Aegean debacle, only a major Allied land commitment to the Balkans, vetoed by the United States at Quebec, could move the Turks ‘from their exaggerated estimate of German power in south-east Europe.’47 Churchill and Eden nonetheless insisted on 15 February as a deadline for Turkish entry into the war.48 This was a hollow British victory. They had secured a conditional Turkish commitment to enter the war, for which the Soviets, Americans and Turks had little enthusiasm. The FO gambit for ‘political’ Turkish belligerency, to offset an exclusive Soviet sphere of influence in the Balkans, had been thwarted by Stalin’s volte-face at Tehran. An ostensible military objective of Turkish belligerency was a renewed campaign in the Aegean, including an invasion of Rhodes. This was despite the autumn 1943 debacle, and repeated injunctions that Turkish belligerency must await the clearing of the Aegean, which must in turn await the conclusion of the Italian campaign. The other was assistance to the Soviet Union in the Black Sea, Romania and the Crimea, despite Soviet opposition to British intervention in a theatre from which Stalin had anticipated an Anglo-Turkish threat in 1939–40. These objectives reflected Churchill’s personal strategic concept, rather than the military and political realities of December 1943. The Turkish response to the British ultimatum was calculated to preclude belligerency. Menemencio˘ glu told Hugessen that, while Turkey accepted the February deadline in principle, this was conditional on fulfilment of the other half of Churchill’s Adana promise – to equip the Turkish armed forces to participate in the war. As Roosevelt and the British Vice-Chiefs had anticipated, Menemencio˘ glu made extensive demands for munitions and military assistance which the Allies were unable to fulfil without detriment to operations in Italy, and the preparations for ‘Overlord.’49 Hugessen described the Turkish response as ‘deplorable,’ but Menemencio˘ glu once again emphasised the possibility of a German attack on Istanbul and the Straits, if Turkey was not rearmed by the Allies.50 Churchill, seriously ill in Tunis, again described Turkish refusal to comply with British demands as ‘the virtual end of the alliance,’51 but

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his unwillingness to actually break with Turkey, which would thwart once and for all his ambitions for an invasion of Rhodes, led the British to persevere in their effort to change Turkish minds for several weeks.52 Hugessen was instructed to make clear that the Allied offer was final, and that refusal or deliberate procrastination would lead Britain to disinterest itself in Turkey’s future. Though in the past the status of the Dardanelles had been a vital interest to this country, this was no longer the case owing to the development of air warfare . . . it would be a miscalculation to believe that whatever Turkey does now she can always reckon on British support to resist Russian demands in this region.53 As at Cairo, it is unclear whether anyone appreciated the implications of ‘the development of air warfare’ in the eastern Mediterranean, if the Soviet Union secured bases in Bulgaria. As a means of exerting pressure on the Turks, such tactics backfired spectacularly. Turkish suspicions of British perfidy had been confirmed by the Allied conferences, notably Eden’s attempt to exert three-power pressure at the first round of Cairo conversations.54 Hugessen was now subjected to a ‘bitter and violent’ tirade from Menemencio˘ glu, who denounced Britain for having ‘sold them to Russia behind their backs . . . . The fact that we had signed a bargain of this kind was not a pretty page in our history and . . . he would take good care to see that everybody knew it.’55 Churchill’s response to this outburst established the principles which drove British policy towards Turkey during the first half of 1944. This time he did not soften the blow. Failure to comply with the 15 February deadline will be the end of the alliance between Britain and Turkey . . . Not only would there be no further imports of munitions, but we should completely disinterest ourselves in the future of Turkey. If for instance at the peace conference Russia demands Constantinople and the Straits, Great Britain would in no wise resist her.56 *

*

*

Following the first round of Cairo conversations, Menemencio˘ glu had urged the British to ‘trust him . . . Without this trust . . . his hopes and glu’s outburst at Hugessen aims would be disappointed.’57 Menemencio˘

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

indicated the breakdown of trust in Anglo-Turkish relations, as both men admitted.58 The Turks did not trust the British not to ‘sell them out’ to the Soviet Union, and believed that Churchill had broken his promise, never to force Turkey to enter the war. The British did not believe the Turks would honour their latest agreement to enter the war, and anticipated the ‘virtual end of the alliance’ even as they conducted the negotiations at Cairo.59 Perceived Turkish failure to honour previous commitments, imagined or real, following the fall of France, the Axis invasions of the Balkans, and the conference at Adana, created an image of ‘shifting,’ untrustworthy Turks, ‘doing the dirty again.’ This was despite belated recognition of the genuine internal problems afflicting wartime Turkey, and the wider issues, involving Allied grand strategy and alliance politics, which militated against Turkish participation in the war effort. Rendered impotent by the United States and the Soviet Union, the British – particularly Churchill, whose dream of a triumphant Aegean campaign and an Anglo-Soviet front in the Black Sea was at an end, and Eden, whose personal relations with Menemencio˘ glu had deteriorated beyond repair following the talks at Cairo – took out their frustrations on the intransigent Turks. Anglo-Turkish relations had reached an impasse by the end of 1943. The British had been stripped of the assumptions which informed their pre-war friendship with Turkey – Turkish ‘leadership’ in the Balkans; Greek–Turkish amity; the security and stability of the Kemalist regime, and its impressive social, economic and industrial reforms – while the most urgent wartime need for the Turkish alliance, as a bulwark against a German threat from the Balkans or the Caucasus, had passed with the Soviet destruction of the Nazi war machine. Yet there was no consensus on Turkey’s future role in British strategy and diplomacy, as the FO reaction to the Chiefs’ strategic review, the Chiefs’ own disagreement with the conclusions of their wartime and post-war planners, and the interventions of Churchill and Eden at Cairo and Tehran, had indicated. The Turkish gamble was that the status quo ante would be restored after the defeat of Hitler, with British opposition to the Soviet Union at the Straits, in the Balkans and the Middle East necessitating continued support for Turkey, despite its ungallant wartime role. Menemencio˘ glu nonetheless realised that Russia carried ‘greater weight’ with Britain than Turkey.60 As we saw Chapter 6, the British were alive to possible post-war problems in their relations with the Soviet Union, and of potential Soviet threats to British interests, but could not accept AngloSoviet enmity as the basis for post-war policy, hence their denunciation

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of ‘idiotic’ and ‘insane’ Turkish suspicions of Soviet policy. The impasse in Anglo-Turkish relations would continue until the summer of 1944, when the British began to revise their appreciations of post-war relations with the Soviet Union.

British ‘aloofness’ As it became clear that Turkey would not enter the war, negotiations for Operation ‘Saturn’ were ended. The British military mission was withdrawn, and non-essential diplomatic contacts suspended. ‘(T)he tactics we are adopting consist of not saying anything, generally sulking and taking negative action such as cutting off armament supplies.’61 The vitriolic tone adopted by the FO during this period is striking, as is the apparent equanimity with which the British anticipated Soviet ‘vengeance’ against Turkey when scores were settled after the war. Eden expressed his ‘hope’ that Menemencio˘ glu would become ‘the first victim’ of this process.62 ‘Turks are not to be trusted and Numan least of all. I should like to see the latter scragged!’63 The Minister of Economic Warfare, Lord Selborne, raged against chrome sales to Germany, denouncing ‘Turkish chicanery and double-dealing – treachery indeed would not be too strong a word.’64 George Clutton indicted Turkey for its ‘betrayal’ of ‘its neighbours and friends,’ and revived concerns raised previously about the post-war survival of the Turkish republic. ‘I doubt if Atatürk’s Turkey will survive and I suppose we shall once again have a sick man to attend to with all the squabbling between the doctors – unless of course the Russians step in with a radical surgical operation.’65 The JPS was even asked to consider, given ‘signs that the Turkish internal position is very uneasy,’ whether ‘the Foreign Office may at some stage . . . exploit this for political purposes.’66 Disillusionment with Turkey manifested itself in Parliament and in the press, and reflected hostility towards the remaining neutrals, which had grown alongside Allied military successes in 1943. Questions were asked about neutral trade with the Axis, and Britain’s failure to exert pressure on the Mediterranean neutrals – Spain, Portugal and Turkey – in particular.67 The Times entreated Turkey ‘to take up the honourable position to which she is entitled among the nations striving for the creation of a better new world,’ and again questioned the ‘moral character’ of continued neutrality.68 Echoing sentiments expressed previously by Hugessen, the press declared that Turkish suspicion of Russia ‘cannot be rationally justified. The observer who asks for the evidence of the supposed evil intentions

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of Soviet Russia towards Turkey asks in vain; he never receives anything more than the reiteration of an ingrained prejudice.’69 Yet British officials privately anticipated Soviet ‘vengeance’ or a ‘radical surgical operation’ on Turkey, and Sir Edward Grigg, subsequently Minister of State in the Middle East, stated in print that ‘Turkey has not played a distinguished part in this war, and she will have to make what terms with Russia she can.’70 Turkish reactions to British tactics were mixed. Some Turks reacted belligerently to the high-handed British policy. One minister angrily declared: ‘We are not Portugal . . . Portugal found it necessary to cede bases [in the Azores] to protect the future of her colonies . . . We have no colonies to protect.’71 The Foreign Ministry’s official commentary from mid-February, intercepted by the British, once again contrasted British and Turkish assessments of Germany’s residual military strength, and emphasised Turkish demands for increased supplies to meet this perceived threat, exacerbated by the German occupation of Hungary in March 1944.72 ‘There is no possibility in the present conditions of making any accommodation in our requests . . . we cannot accept the responsibility of entering the war if they are rejected by the Allies.’73 Axis diplomats reported Menemencio˘ glu’s conviction that the war would end in a compromise peace, and ‘declared that Turkey would avoid war in all circumstances.’74 General Arnold agreed that ‘(t)he threat of isolation . . . does not frighten them . . . The Turkish view roughly is that God has placed them in such a geographical position that there can be no Balkan settlement without Turkish participation’.75 In mid-March, Papen reported Menemencio˘ glu’s declaration that British ‘aloofness’ would fail to bring about the desired result, and his expectation ‘that Eden would shortly make a conciliatory statement in Parliament.’76 British arms continued to handicap British diplomacy. Cadogan lamented that ‘diplomacy depends entirely on military performance and all our difficulties . . . are due to our check (to put it at its lowest) at Cassino,’77 where British forces remained stalled by fierce German resistance until May 1944. Hugessen and Clutton both rejected a suggestion from Washington that Britain ought to use the Soviet advance in Romania to have another ‘crack’ at Turkey. ‘Other people’s victories are dangerous stuff on which to base your own policy . . . until we make a little progress in Italy our propaganda is not going to make much headway.’78 As the weeks passed, however, British sources reported diminished Turkish confidence. The embassy’s office manager, CS Palmer, reported the reaction of the ‘man in the street,’ based on dealings with

Anglo-Turkish Antagonism, October 1943–September 1944 143

lower-ranking Turkish officials. Palmer reported concerns that the government had been mistaken in not improving the fighting services sufficiently to enter the war on the Allied side. He apprehended anxiety about post-war Soviet intentions, and a growing belief in accommodating the western Allies, to stake a ‘moral claim’ to assistance.79 By early April, Hugessen found Menemencio˘ glu ‘ill and worried and . . . fairly meek.’80 By the end of the month, Denis Wright, consul in Mersin, reported ‘a sort of moral collapse in this country now: there is general dissatisfaction with the leaders of the country and much grumbling and criticism but no one can offer a solution or point to better leaders.’81 Throughout this period, the British nonetheless sought to keep Allied policy in their own hands, and resisted the interventions of both of their principal allies. Turks and Americans alike had recognised this tendency during 1943, following the agreement at Casablanca that Britain would ‘play the hand’ in Turkey.82 Despite the deterioration of Anglo-Turkish relations in the winter of 1943–44, the tendency remained.83 Both Churchill and the FO reserved the right, as a result of Britain’s treaty with Turkey, to act independently of both Great Power allies.84 When Sir Archibald Clark Kerr warned that ‘in our dealings with one of USSR’s neighbours it behoves us . . . to keep in step with Soviet Government,’85 the Southern Department was indignant, and almost naïve in its assertion of British primacy in Turkey. ‘It is not the Russians who hold a special position and have a special interest in the country.’86 The British were also anxious to avoid being usurped by the United States; a concern reflected in the hot reaction to suggestions that American propaganda might be included in the daily BBC bulletin to Turkey. ‘Turkey was our ally, not America’s . . . We had no interest in helping the Americans to butt in on Middle East affairs.’87 British appeals to the Anglo-Turkish alliance were, despite private doubts about the treaty, signed in October 1939 for 15 years. (W)e are saddled with a Treaty which still has more than ten years to run and the terms of which bind us to come to Turkey’s assistance if she is involved in hostilities with any European Power, including the Soviet Union . . . even though Turkey, militarily speaking, has in the past given us on her side nothing more than passive assistance.88 The British contemplated ‘legitimate arguments’ which would allow them to escape ‘this possibly most inconvenient Treaty.’89 They nonetheless invoked the alliance as a justification for freezing the United States and Russia out of Turkey.

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Since 1942, Turkish suspicions of Anglo-Soviet collusion at the expense of smaller European powers had caused them to look hopefully towards the United States as a post-war guarantor of their independence and sovereignty. By 1943, the State Department sought to assert American interests in Turkey, responding to the Turkish belief that Britain had made ‘commitments’ which would prevent them exercising a ‘restraining influence on Russia after the war.’ These concerns could only be offset by convincing them that the United States retained ‘a strong interest in Turkey’s welfare.’90 By 1944, however, the Turks were uneasy about ‘the solidarity between Stalin and Roosevelt.’91 Despite the deterioration of Anglo-Turkish relations, and lingering suspicions of a British ‘sell-out,’ Eretegün hoped that Britain would ‘act independently in order to save herself and her Empire,’ since ‘Roosevelt thinks of nothing but the destruction of Germany even at the [cost?] of the destruction of England and of Europe.’92

An incremental revision of British policy, April–June 1944 Despite the hostile rhetoric, there was grudging acknowledgement of the ‘unneutral’ support which Turkey afforded the British fighting services during the diplomatic impasse. Turkey permitted naval raiders to attack German shipping in the Aegean from Turkish territorial waters, and allowed the operation of a British depot at Ku¸sada to supply these raiders.93 It was important to avoid an obvious rift with Turkey, which would demonstrate that there was no longer even a notional military threat to Germany in the Balkans. Military planners hoped that deception plans involving Turkey would divert German divisions away from western Europe ahead of ‘Overlord,’94 although the security leak in the British embassy in Ankara, and Menemencio˘ glu’s indiscreet conversations with foreign ambassadors, had diminished German anxieties.95 An Anglo-Turkish rapprochement began in April, when the Turks suspended chrome deliveries to Germany. The chrome issue had dragged on for months – to the chagrin of Churchill, to whom it seemed a trifling issue – and was a key component of the moral attack on Turkey. ‘Does it not seem an extraordinary thing,’ asked one MP, ‘that an Ally should export to the enemy goods for the destruction of the soldiers of its own Ally?’96 Some Britons admitted that their own short-sightedness contributed to an undesirable situation, having rejected the 1939 offer for all chrome supplies for the duration of the war.97 The Turks were nonetheless criticised for their legalistic attitude towards commercial

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agreements with Germany, at a time when it seemed clear that Hitler would be comprehensively defeated. The Turkish decision to suspend chrome shipments was welcomed by the British,98 and caught Germany unawares.99 As Cadogan made clear, however, this concession ‘can only be regarded as a first step on the way back to favour, and the Turks have a long way still to go before we shall once again consider them as worthy of the name of Ally.’100 In his parliamentary review of the war on 24 May, Churchill spoke ‘bluntly’ of his disappointment at Turkish policy since Cairo, and anticipated the extension of their compliant attitude to other spheres.101 The Spectator endorsed his straight talking, echoing sentiments expressed by those conducting economic negotiations with Turkey in 1939 and 1943. ‘The Turkish Government has been playing the historic game of the Oriental haggler, seeking the maximum for itself and giving the minimum in return . . . (T)he war in the Balkans will go on without her, and the peace, of course, be made without her.’102 Eden told the War Cabinet that the Turks ‘have become frightened at the position of isolation into which Turkey has drifted.’ Britain’s policy of ‘aloofness and indifference’ had ‘at last made influential Turkish circles realise that those who had conducted the military conversations last winter have not after all been as clever as they thought they were.’103 He reiterated, however, that this policy should not be reversed. The Turks were still exporting commodities of value to Germany, while a stern economic warfare policy would further deceive Germany about Allied intentions in the eastern Mediterranean. The British doubted that a rapprochement could be reached while Numan Menemencio˘ glu remained Turkey’s Foreign Minister. Menemencio˘ glu was the public face of Turkish foreign policy, and the most prominent figure, both in the Anglo-Turkish disagreements of the autumn of 1943, and in intercepted conversations with neutral and Axis diplomats which exposed what was perceived as a ‘two-faced’ Turkish diplomacy. Allegations that Menemencio˘ glu was ‘pro-German’ had circulated for months, and the Southern Department insisted that ‘there is . . . evidence from 1940 that Numan . . . was . . . in German pay and completely in the German pocket.’104 This was despite repeated assurances from those who knew him that Menemencio˘ glu ‘is certainly not proGerman . . . his views are governed by nothing except the interests of Turkey.’105 Sir Orme Sargent recognised that Menemencio˘ glu was not dictating Turkish foreign policy, but was implementing a diplomacy approved by I˙ nönü himself.106 Nonetheless, the negative effect of his conduct on the

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tone of Anglo-Turkish relations was clear, and was exacerbated by intercepts which showed the Foreign Minister assuring Papen that divisions among the Allies would enable Turkey to maintain its neutrality.107 Menemencio˘ glu continued to ‘steer between the rocks . . . making concessions from time to time to one side or the other . . . he would continue to proceed thus to avoid war.’108 Faced with an impasse in Anglo-Turkish relations, he attempted an audacious diplomatic coup by reviving Soviet–Turkish relations and achieving a bilateral quid pro quo in the Balkans. The British did not object to the effort per se, but Menemencio˘ glu did not inform Hugessen of his demarche, and swore the Soviet ambassador, Vinogradov, to secrecy. Vinogradov instead leaked the proposal to Hugessen, and the Foreign Minister’s perceived duplicity further antagonised the British.109 The FO contemplated taking direct action to precipitate Menemencio˘ glu’s downfall, but the idea was abandoned as impracticable, and diplomats in London and Ankara instead fell back on hints that an Anglo-Turkish rapprochement could not take place while Menemencio˘ glu remained in office.110 Following the resolution of the chrome issue, the most immediate problem in Anglo-Turkish relations was the passage of camouflaged German auxiliary shipping through the Straits, between the Aegean and the Black Sea. This dated back to 1943, but had received increased attention since January 1944, as ‘Ultra’ intelligence revealed intense naval traffic.111 It was difficult to convince the Turks to take action over these reports, however, without revealing British sources.112 The issue gained urgency as Soviet advances curtailed German naval and support operations in the Black Sea, and traffic through the Straits became one-way, evacuating the Black Sea to reinforce the Aegean. ‘Turkish behaviour over these ships has been outrageous . . . the Turkish authorities have allowed them to slip through without any attempt to examine them properly.’113 Hugessen opposed an attack on German shipping in Turkish waters. Sabotage was impracticable owing to police controls, and, as in 1941–42, SOE activities might jeopardise other secret operations, about which the Turks ‘have become increasingly complacent.’114 A renewed crisis in Anglo-Turkish relations would also disrupt economic negotiations designed to aid Allied deception plans in the eastern Mediterranean.115 Hugessen was instead instructed to tell I˙ nönü that the Turkish response to further attempts to pass shipping through the Straits was ‘the acid test of Turkey’s capacity to . . . respect legitimate British interests . . . It is . . . entirely contrary to the spirit and intention of the Montreux Convention.’116

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Menemencio˘ glu clung to the letter of the convention, rather than its spirit. The German vessels were of a new design, not covered by Montreux, and he insisted that Turkey had no authority to intervene. Furthermore, he insisted that Turkish acquiescence in British pressure to reinterpret Montreux would be used by the Russians as proof that Turkey was too weak to administer the Straits alone, without succumbing to Great Power pressure. This had been the Soviet position since 1936, as Sir Stafford Cripps had realised in 1940. In the summer of 1944, however, the British did not care whether Turkey violated the ‘moribund’ Montreux convention, any more than if they broke a commercial agreement with the Nazis.117 With policy towards the post-war Straits regime in flux, the British were unwilling to accept fear of Russian retaliation as a legitimate reason to permit German shipping to leave the Black Sea, for use against British forces in the Mediterranean. Hugessen again warned London that any attempt to ‘eliminate’ Menemencio˘ glu ‘would contribute largely to opposite result . . . and expose us to charge of internal intrigue.’118 Hostility towards Menemencio˘ glu, combined with a legitimate conviction that he had lost sight of the damage his legalistic intransigence was causing to AngloTurkish relations, caused the FO to stand firm, however. They were aware that Menemencio˘ glu’s removal would not bring about a ‘fundamental change’ in the Turkish attitude. Nonetheless, he was a serious obstacle to Anglo-Turkish understanding because of his conviction that he could have the best of both worlds and continue to manoeuvre between the belligerents. The FO – guided by Eden – wanted the Turkish Foreign Minister gone.119 They soon had their wish. I˙ nönü refused to criticise his Foreign Minister in front of Hugessen, but privately he was anxious about the repercussions of Menemencio˘ glu’s handling of foreign policy, which seemed to antagonise the British at every turn. The Southern Department believed that the recent Soviet rebuff to Menemencio˘ glu’s diplomatic approaches exacerbated I˙ nönü’s anxiety that his Foreign Minister was in danger of leaving Turkey isolated.120 In contrast to the war of attrition in Italy, the D-Day landings now gave serious military weight to British diplomacy. Although the result of ‘Overlord’ remained in the balance, no one could doubt the scale of the Allied undertaking, which was complemented at the other end of Europe by a renewed Soviet campaign against Finland. Menemencio˘ glu resigned, or was forced to resign, on 15 June 1944. The official Turkish report on his departure, intercepted by the British, stated that

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Menemencio˘ glu, by adhering to the strict letter of the Montreux Convention and by not taking advantage of the rights and powers given to Turkey by this Convention was adopting an attitude adverse to the Allies. Hence a difference arose between him and his colleagues and, observing that he did not approve the line being taken, he tendered his resignation.121 A recent account based on Turkish sources depicts Saraco˘ glu – as Prime Minister in an unpopular government, the next most vulnerable person if Turkish diplomacy permanently estranged their Great Power ally – and the Education Minister, Hasan Ali Yücel – an Anglophile close to the British Council – as vigorous advocates of Menemencio˘ glu’s departure.122 Convinced that he was working for the Turkish national interest, Menemencio˘ glu had for several months pursued policies that were contrary to that interest. Knox Helm, who had known Menemencio˘ glu for many years, reported a conversation with the Assistant Secretary-General of the Foreign Ministry, Feridun Cemal Erkin. ‘I suggested that Numan had begun to lose himself among the trees. Mr Erkin . . . said that the English saying absolutely described the position.’123

The alliance revived Following Menemencio˘ glu’s resignation, Hugessen sought ‘an immediate response to recent developments . . . of such a nature that it would both encourage the Turkish Government and give time for the preparation of our desiderata.’124 Eden concurred. ‘It is fair to assume that Numan’s departure opens a new chapter in Turkish affairs . . . I now propose that we should ask Turkey to break off relations with Germany.’125 Hugessen approached Saraco˘ glu, acting as Foreign Minister, and requested that Turkey break with Germany. Saraco˘ glu told his ambassadors abroad that he would agree only if the Allies recognised Turkey as an ‘equal partner’ in the building of peace,126 but the SIS reported a general conviction in Ankara, that I˙ nönü ‘will adopt an increasingly pro-Allied attitude and will insist on all questions . . . being solved henceforward in accordance with British and Allied wishes.’127 The success of ‘Overlord,’ and stunning Soviet victories in their massive summer offensive, ‘Bagration,’ which saw the Red Army push into Poland and towards the Balkans, powerfully confirmed the need to reach an accommodation with the Allies. Japanese diplomats nonetheless reported I˙ nönü’s

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promise to Papen that Turkey ‘would continue to devote her utmost efforts to maintaining her neutrality.’128 Churchill announced the Turkish decision to the Commons on 2 August, declaring that it ‘infuses new life in the Alliance.’ He recalled Turkey’s earlier faith in Britain, and historic Anglo-Turkish amity, professing sympathy with the weakness of the Turkish armed forces while Germany remained powerful. He hoped that the Turkish decision would benefit Soviet–Turkish relations.129 Churchill was more sympathetic than in his previous speech in May, although the Foreign Secretary intervened to tone down his original draft. Eden preferred to ‘infuse new life into’ the alliance rather than ‘revive [it] in its pristine form . . . We do not want to restore the Alliance with its old and embarrassing Treaty, though we are all in favour of a strong and healthy Alliance plain and simple.’130 Such sentiments, repeated throughout the remainder of the war, recalled the equivocal British attitude towards the alliance during 1939–40. It was important to range Turkey ‘on our side,’ but undesirable to make binding commitments to aid Turkey against a Great Power aggressor. The Ministry of Information took its lead from Churchill.131 The Times described the break with Germany as ‘(a)n outstanding portent of the revolution in allied fortunes,’ while the Manchester Guardian viewed the Turkish break with Germany as almost as encouraging an action as the ongoing battle in France.132 This unintentionally echoed a satirical rhyme from the New Statesman’s resident poet, ‘Sagittarius,’ which had appeared several days earlier. What makes the well-informed assert that peace is now in sight? It’s not the super spectacle of military might It isn’t Alexander’s threat, or Rokossovsky’s blow Or sweep of Allied victories from Lessay to St Lo— It’s the absolute conviction of an inner force at work Which will change the neutral outlook of the perspicacious Turk, Unenterprising, temporising, pussyfooting Turk . . .133 *

*

*

This critical missive from ‘Sagittarius’ was the last of its kind, however. ‘Bagration’ had undoubtedly contributed to the Turkish decision to terminate relations with Germany. At a farewell luncheon for Hugessen, who left Ankara in September 1944 after over five years’ service, I˙ nönü expressed his anxiety about Turkish relations with both Britain and the

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Soviet Union. Hugessen warned the President that the Anglo-Turkish alliance, created to address the wartime situation, would have to be recast ‘in the light of the future peace settlement of Europe and of our own alliance with Russia.’134 This was certainly true. However, the scale and success of the Soviet offensive had not only surprised and alarmed the Turks. The arrival of the Red Army in Bulgaria and Romania, and the concomitant marginalisation of British influence in the Balkans, revived British interest in the Anglo-Turkish alliance, and compelled the FO – directed closely by Eden, but crucially without the direct engagement of Churchill – to undertake a hasty revision of recent Anglo-Turkish relations. The period of ‘aloofness,’ a consequence of the failure of Britain’s Turkey policy at the Allied conferences during the second half of 1943, was at an end.

8 The Balkans, 1944–45

Soviet opposition to Turkish belligerency after Tehran, and the breakdown of Anglo-Turkish relations in the winter of 1943–44, had suspended British plans to revive Turkey’s Balkan role as a means of preventing ‘the drift of all Balkan countries towards Russia.’ Even during the period of Anglo-Turkish antagonism, however, both the FO and the Chiefs of Staff (COS) envisaged a role for Turkey as an adjunct of British diplomacy in the Balkans. Soviet unilateralism in the Balkans contributed to the revision of the policy of ‘aloofness’ in the late spring of 1944, driven by Anthony Eden. The strategic and political landscape in the Balkans had altered radically since the heyday of Turkish ‘leadership,’ however, and the new arbiters in the region – Stalin and Tito – were disinclined to permit the revival of Turkish influence, especially if it was intended as a proxy for the British Empire.

Turkey and the Balkans during the period of British ‘aloofness’ In January 1944, George Clutton predicted the consequences of continuing neutrality for Turkey’s already diminished status among the Balkan nations. ‘If Turkey does not enter into the war, no one in the Balkans or elsewhere will forget it.’1 Clutton took no pleasure in this. ‘Without a friendly independent Turkey there are small chances of British influence being properly felt in south-east Europe, for the Balkan States, in default of a strong Turkey or with Turkey completely cowed by Russia, can only look to the last named country for support.’2 The notion of ‘proper’ British influence in the Balkans was a new one. Having taken little interest in Balkan affairs during the 1930s, 151

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a combination of factors raised wartime interest in the region. These included the intervention in Greece in 1940–41, commitments to the exiled governments, hostilities with Bulgaria and Romania, and (inconsistent) assessments of Bulgaria’s strategic significance as the land bridge to the Straits. The failure of the pre-war Balkan entente indicated to the FO that the Balkans would ‘inevitably’ fall under the influence of some external power. Germany, Italy and France had all been defeated or marginalised. Unless Britain, or a British proxy, intervened, the Soviet Union was the only other external power left standing. British interest in the Balkans in the 1930s, such as it was, had encouraged the exclusion of Great Power rivalries through the medium of regional collaboration. Turkey was a key ally in this endeavour. By 1943–44, the British encouraged Turkish intervention in the Balkans to ensure that ‘British influence,’ not a major concern in the pre-war decade, was ‘properly felt’ in the post-war period. A War Cabinet paper, presented early in April 1944, reaffirmed British commitment to ‘a fully independent and sovereign Turkey, politically and economically free from the domination of any great Power.’ Turkey could contribute to British influence in the Balkans, and would act as a stabilising influence in the Mediterranean and Middle East, where the Turks remained in sympathy with British policies. ‘It is impossible, however . . . to lay down as a fixed principle that after the war Turkey must be so vital as to warrant our making special sacrifices in other directions.’3 British ambitions to build a Turkish counterweight to Soviet influence clearly remained subordinate to the Anglo-Soviet alliance. If not overtly anti-Soviet, however, ambitions for a significant British presence in the Balkans clashed with Soviet conceptions of their own strategic interests in the region, elucidated in the Molotov–Hitler–Ribbentrop conversations in November 1940.

The Soviet Union enters the Balkans, April–September 1944 Within weeks, the policy of ‘aloofness’ underwent revision, driven by Eden’s concerns about Soviet policy in the Balkans, as victories in the Crimea and Ukraine left the Red Army poised at the frontiers of Romania and Hungary.4 The steady advance towards the Balkans was accompanied by recalcitrance in Soviet dealings with their allies in the region. They began clandestine, bilateral negotiations to recognise the Italian government, yet denied all knowledge when challenged by the British.5 Molotov refused to assist Britain in neutralising the

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communist EAM/ELAS guerrillas in Greece, and made allegations of anti-Soviet collusion between the Romanian government and a British mission parachuted into that country in December 1943.6 The immediate response to this aggressive Soviet diplomacy was an Anglo-Soviet quid pro quo which allotted Greece to a British and Romania to a Soviet sphere of influence, to avoid further recriminations. Eden was also alarmed by the revival of proposals for a Yugoslav– Bulgarian bloc, endorsed by the Soviet press.7 Such a bloc, Eden warned Churchill, would overshadow Greece, and facilitate Soviet preponderance in the Balkans. It might advance claims in Greek Macedonia and Thrace, including an outlet to the Aegean. This territory had been occupied by Bulgaria since 1941, and its retention ‘would in practice mean having the Russians on the Aegean.’ A South Slav union would also separate Turkey from Greece, weakening their capabilities for mutual defence.8 Eden wondered whether a long-term ‘answer to Russian behaviour might be a rapprochement between Greece and Turkey and Turkey and ourselves.’ Reviving British interest in Turkish belligerency, he suggested a military role for Turkey ‘which would not make too heavy a demand upon her resources but would . . . enable us to resume our rearmament of Turkey?’9 Eden may have been influenced by intercepted correspondence indicating that the Greek government was interested in reviving the Greek–Turkish alliance. The Greek Prime Minister, Papandreou, told the Turkish ambassador that a comprehensive Balkan confederation was no longer possible, and proposed a Turkish–Greek alliance as the eastern bastion of ‘a broad European Confederation (to include a defeated Germany) [to resist] the ideological invasion which will come with all forces from the east.’10 Cadogan agreed that ‘our card of entry into the Balkans is our vital interest in the Eastern Mediterranean. We should therefore try to recreate . . . the Greek-Turkish Entente.’11 The head of the Northern Department, Christopher Warner, had previously been alarmed by what he saw as a tendency among his colleagues to assume post-war rivalry with the Soviet Union, without articulating how Britain might fund or garrison such a confrontation. He again wondered whether ‘it is wise [to] assume . . . that there is no way of reconciling Russian and British interests in the Balkans.’ Warner did not disagree, in principle, with measures designed to support British influence in the eastern Mediterranean. ‘But the mental approach implied by talk of building up an “Anglo-Greek-Turkish bloc” suggests that we are laying the basis for a conflict and, if we do . . . the Russians . . . will make

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preparations on their side, and it seems to me that they will hold the higher cards.’12 The next FO paper for the War Cabinet incorporated the Northern Department’s concerns, although it continued to posit a wide definition of ‘proper’ British influence in the Balkans. We should not hesitate to make clear our special interests in the Eastern Mediterranean and therefore in Greece and Turkey, and indeed elsewhere in the Balkans, clear to the Russians: but in any steps we take to build up our influence, we must be most careful to avoid giving the impression of a direct challenge.13 As suggested above, even a policy which was not intrinsically antiSoviet risked clashing with Soviet conceptions of their own Balkan security interests, making it difficult to avoid the ‘impression of a direct challenge.’ By early June, it was accepted that, if Britain was to restore the Greek– Turkish entente ‘we should have to abandon our present policy of trying to force Turkey into the war under the implied threat that . . . we shall leave her “to stew in her own juice” after the war.’14 The obstacles to an Anglo-Turkish rapprochement – British mistrust of Menemencio˘ glu, and the problem of German auxiliary shipping through the Straits – were soon resolved. Following the success of ‘Overlord’ and the commencement of the Soviet summer offensive, it was clear that Turkey would acquiesce in the British request to break diplomatic and commercial relations with Germany. Having taken little interest in Turkey during the period of ‘aloofness,’ Churchill re-entered the fray, asserting that a break with Germany, ideally followed by a declaration of war, would be ‘of immense strategic and political importance,’ perhaps ‘cleansing the whole of the Balkan peninsula through the withdrawal of the German troops without any important military action by the Turks.’15 The JIC believed that the impact on the Balkan satellites would be negligible.16 They recognised that Turkey was not the arbiter of Balkan affairs; a position which had long belonged to Germany, and would shortly be the privilege of the Soviet Union. Nonetheless, the revival of Churchill’s ambition, to repeat the German collapse in the Balkans which he believed had contributed to victory in 1918, drove him to enquire whether Royal Air Force (RAF) squadrons and equipment previously earmarked for Turkey might be restored, ‘(n)ow that they have come back and are prepared to be helpful.’17

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On 10 August, several days after the Turkish break with Germany, Eden replied to Churchill’s proposals for Turkish belligerency by indicating that the only useful role Turkey could play would be against Bulgaria.18 The COS agreed that action which pushed Bulgaria out of the war would be ‘militarily most valuable,’ and could be achieved without an intolerable burden on the Italian campaign, since the restoration of the RAF squadrons and equipment would enable the Turks to tackle Bulgaria. The FO was ‘most anxious to proceed with this business,’ and Churchill signalled his approval.19 The Yugoslav government in exile had also reversed its earlier hostility, entreating the Turks to extract a British guarantee concerning the future of the Balkans. ‘Your Government is now the only one whose word will count in the Balkans.’20 Military developments in fact indicated that the Soviet government was the only one whose word counted, and rapidly precluded the possibility of Turkish intervention against Bulgaria. The Soviet offensive against Romania made swift progress against Romanian armies decimated in the Caucasus and the Crimea. An anti-Axis coup in Bucharest on 23 August surprised all the belligerents, but the Soviets capitalised on the conclusion of hostilities with Romania to achieve a rapid occupation of Bulgaria.21 The Red Army crossed the Bulgarian frontier on 8 September, and captured the whole country within a few days.22 As news broke of the invasion of Bulgaria, Eden urgently minuted: ‘We want to keep close to Turkey.’23 As Soviet influence in the Balkans increased, Eden sought to restore relations with Ankara to assert British influence in the region. The Turkish alliance was the basis for the postwar British–Turkish–Greek combination which he and Cadogan had encouraged in May and June. Within days, however, General Wilson, concerned solely with the ongoing war in the Mediterranean, seized on the ‘favourable strategic developments in the Balkans’ to request the cancellation of all military commitments to Turkey.24 During the first week of September, Sargent had suggested that military supplies and personnel to Turkey might be reduced to avoid Soviet accusations that Britain was sending weapons to use against Russia.25 The Vice-Chiefs of Staff disagreed, and argued that supplies to Turkey should be maintained. The burden on British forces in the Mediterranean was not great, and Turkish participation in an attack on the Dodecanese had not been ruled out on military grounds, although politically it was inimical to Greek–Turkish relations.26 The Vice-Chiefs would only support action which did not antagonise the Turks. ‘Turkey should be friendly, not only because we might require

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facilities . . . in connection with the occupation of the Dodecanese, but also from the point of view of the military situation in the Middle East after the war.’27 These recommendations coincided with Eden’s instruction to ‘keep close to Turkey.’ The Northern Department’s warnings had taken root, however. The Vice-Chiefs ‘are on the wrong track’ if ‘they are thinking of possible trouble with Russia . . . we cannot . . . provide Turkey with military material for the purpose of warding it off nor . . . send anything like a sufficient amount to be effective in that contingency.’28 Hugessen warned Saraco˘ glu that ‘it would be quite unthinkable, if only for physical reasons, that His Majesty’s Government could give Turkey active support against Russia.’29 Nonetheless, the FO’s immediate priorities had been rapidly re-ordered by developments in the Balkans. The invasion of Bulgaria meant that the Red Army would soon be on Turkey’s European border. The new Turkish ambassador in London, Ru¸sen Esref Unaydin, believed that the Soviet Union had taken advantage of Anglo-American pre-occupation with Italy and the war in the west to move into the Balkans ‘and freely engage in such terrible faits accomplis.’30 The Southern Department was anxious that the withdrawal of military assistance would have a disastrous political effect in Turkey. ‘It is all the more important with the Russian advance through the Balkans that we keep in well with the Turks . . . we should go on slowly till we see a bit clearer what the Russians are up to in the Balkans.’31 Nonetheless, the COS and Churchill – again losing interest now that the brief window of opportunity for Turkish military action had gone – approved Wilson’s request. Wilson was informed on 16 September that ‘Military commitment to Turkey is now cancelled. No further forces should be sent to Turkey.’32 Despite this defeat, the Southern Department endeavoured to renew the Anglo-Turkish alliance. FO instructions to Knox Helm, on how to break the decision to suspend arms deliveries to the Turks, were remarkably eager to spare Turkish feelings, given their earlier vitriol. Most important thing obviously is to avoid rubbing in the fact that Turkey has missed the bus or suggesting that this decision in any way affects our intention to maintain the alliance . . . the withdrawal in no way implies that our feelings of friendship for Turkey or our determination to maintain the alliance have weakened.33 Hugessen’s designated successor, Sir Maurice Peterson, had a similar, conciliatory conversation with Unaydin, telling him that ‘British official

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circles appreciated what Turkey had been able to do,’ but ‘the “man in the street” felt a little disappointed over Turkey’s part in the war and the result shown by the Treaty of Alliance.’34 The FO’s mission instructions for Peterson adopted the same, disingenuous tone. Our general long-term interest in Turkey is really unaffected by Turkish behaviour in the past . . . The criticism of Turkey which recently appeared in the British press reflected the natural reactions of disappointment regarding the past felt by the man in the street. His Majesty’s Government took a wider view and looked to the future.35 Peterson must make it clear that ‘while we are in no way acting against the interests of our Soviet Ally, we are determined to reinforce the AngloTurkish Alliance by the conclusion of a new and better treaty as soon as possible.’ The Turks should ‘give increased vitality to Anglo-Turkish relations’ by making ‘serious efforts . . . to give active help to the Allied cause both in what remains of the war and in the post-war period.’36 Despite this eagerness to emphasise the enduring Anglo-Turkish alliance, the usual qualifications were in place. ‘We want to keep close to Turkey,’ but ‘we do not like the treaty in its present form.’37 A new treaty was precluded by Soviet suspicion of the Anglo-Turkish connection, lack of clarity on the shape of post-war world security organisation, and public opinion, which ‘would very justifiably ask why His Majesty’s Government were concluding a treaty with a Government which had so conspicuously failed to fulfil its obligations under its previous treaty.’38 To this end, as Eden had indicated that summer, Britain must foster the alliance as distinct from the treaty. This was a position close to the one adopted in 1939–40: Britain continued to seek the benefits of the Turkish connection, but shied away from entangling commitments. Despite these qualifications, the FO – Eden included – was certain that ‘the desirability of maintaining our influence in Turkey has been increased as a result of the recent spread of Soviet influence in the Balkans.’ Britain must foster the alliance, ‘[as] one of the main factors in our whole policy in the Eastern Mediterranean where the maintenance of a close mutual understanding between Turkey, Greece and Great Britain will . . . be essential to our permanent strategic interests.’39 Stated bluntly by the Southern Department, the revival of the Anglo-Turkish alliance was ‘inevitable.’40 Unfortunately, no one advised Churchill of this realignment of British policy, with significant consequences when he and Eden travelled to Moscow in October 1944.

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Turkey and the Balkans at the Moscow conference, October 1944 Although often obscured by subsequent Soviet hegemony in both nations and by Churchill’s ‘percentages agreement’ at Moscow, the British conceived of Romania and Bulgaria quite differently in the summer and autumn of 1944. Eden’s alarm at the prospect of Soviet intervention in Greece had contributed to the conclusion of the May 1944 quid pro quo, a precursor to the October 1944 agreement. Following the invasion of Romania in mid-August, the FO would not consider that nation’s appeals for peace with the western Allies. Romania had been at war with the Soviet Union since 1941, and had fought the Red Army in the Caucasus and the Crimea. There could be no questioning the primacy of the Soviet Union in dictating peace terms to Bucharest. ‘(T)he position [in Bulgaria] is quite different.’41 The Soviets did not declare war on Bulgaria until September 1944, and no Bulgarian had fought on the Eastern Front, whereas Britain and the United States had been at war with Bulgaria for several years, and British forces in Greece had been defeated by Germans marching through Bulgaria in 1941. Eden also recognised Bulgaria’s greater strategic significance. We can afford to allow Russia to play a predominant part in Roumania [sic] and Finland, which are limitrophe countries, but if we were to abandon . . . Bulgaria, which borders on Greece, Yugoslavia and Turkey and is a threat to all of them, our credit would suffer throughout the Balkans and especially in Greece and Turkey.42 He warned Churchill that an arrangement similar to the GreekRomanian quid pro quo must not be contemplated over Bulgaria. ‘We must of course stake our claim to a predominant position in Greece, but we can do this without selling out over Bulgaria.’43 Eden’s hopes for anything other than a token British presence in Bulgaria were over-ambitious, given the strength of the Red Army there. He nonetheless demonstrated the strategic insight which had been lacking, or had appeared inconsistently, a year earlier. Since the spring of 1944 Eden had grown concerned about the threat to British interests in the Mediterranean, indicated by unilateral Soviet diplomacy in Italy and Greece. This prompted his enthusiasm for a revival of the Greek–Turkish entente, and awakened him to the strategic implications of Soviet hegemony in Bulgaria, identified by Britain’s post-war

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planners in 1943. Churchill recognised the poverty of the British ‘hand’ in the Balkans, but underestimated the consequences of exclusive Soviet control in Bulgaria. When he met Stalin in Moscow, Churchill ceded the prevailing influence in Bulgaria to the Soviet Union, in return for a renewed Soviet commitment to leave Greece in British hands. He was preoccupied with Greece, and was disinclined to argue with Stalin over Bulgaria. Churchill held the Bulgarians in a contempt which may have led him to overlook their country’s strategic importance now that the Germans had been driven out.44 Stalin challenged Britain’s interest in Bulgaria. ‘Bulgaria was a Black Sea country; was Britain afraid of anything? Was she afraid of a Soviet campaign against Turkey?’ Instructively, it was Eden who responded, denying that Britain was ‘afraid of anything,’ and defending the right to a share in the control of Bulgaria.45 After several meetings with Molotov, however, Eden conceded that ‘we have got as much as is humanly possible [on the Bulgarian armistice].’46 Churchill’s handling of the Straits question in Moscow will be addressed in Chapter 9, but his outspoken comments on Turkey belong in the context of Britain’s Balkan policy. Churchill’s interventions in Turkish affairs during 1944 had been infrequent and erratic. At the turn of the year, he led the way in articulating the policy of ‘aloofness,’ and reacted bitterly to the abortion of his plans for an assault on Rhodes. During the controversy over German shipping in the Straits, he inveighed against Turkey’s ‘pusillanimous policy; they are preparing a dark day for themselves.’47 The prospect of a German collapse in the Balkans revived Churchill’s Adana rhetoric, declaring it ‘an essential part of British policy to have the Turks around the table at the settlement.’48 When the Balkans fell to the Red Army, he lost interest once again, and endorsed Wilson’s request to cancel British military commitments to Turkey. Churchill’s papers for the autumn of 1944 indicate that he received none of the briefs articulating FO policy following the Turkish break. He was unaware of the extent to which the FO, at Eden’s urging, now saw the Anglo-Turkish alliance as a pillar of post-war British policy in the eastern Mediterranean. Eden nonetheless made a belated effort to bring the Prime Minister up to speed, briefing him on 6 October about his plans for a treaty with Greece, perhaps followed at a later date by a tripartite treaty between Britain, Greece and Turkey.49 Churchill ignored the Foreign Secretary’s advice, and Eden and his officials were alarmed by his declaration to Stalin, that ‘Britain had no ties with Turkey except the Montreux Convention, which was inadmissible today and obsolete.’50

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Douglas Howard was perplexed by Churchill’s statement. ‘I am not clear what exactly the Prime Minister meant . . . We have, after all, a Treaty of Alliance.’51 Sargent had prepared a detailed brief, explaining the FO’s revival of the Turkish alliance, but Eden was unable to communicate its contents to Churchill before his outburst on 9 October. Sargent warned that the occupation of Romania and Bulgaria, and the deterioration of relations with the Yugoslav partisan leader Marshal Tito, had left the British position in south-east Europe ‘very weak, and we should strenuously conserve any bargaining counters in our possession, two of which are the Anglo-Turkish alliance and the age-long British opposition to Russian ambitions in regards the Straits.’52 The problems with Sargent’s analysis of the Straits question will be addressed in the following chapter. As far as the Balkans were concerned, the FO was back in a position similar to the one it had adopted the previous autumn, advancing the Anglo-Turkish alliance as the best conduit for British influence in the Balkans. In 1943 they had anticipated that the Soviet Union might welcome Turkey back into the Balkans as the price for clearing the Axis from the region. In 1944 the Red Army was established in Romania and Bulgaria, and developing closer relations with Tito. Soviet antipathy towards Turkish intervention in the Balkans was clear. The British hand was poor, and Eden’s earlier injunctions to preserve British influence in Bulgaria were untenable. Eden nonetheless spoke to Churchill along the lines desired by Sargent, albeit after the Prime Minister’s declaration to Stalin.53 On his return to London, Eden assured his officials that ‘Prime Minister said much, but he would have said a great deal more but for my appeal and injunctions.’54 Throughout 1944, Turkish anxiety at British acquiescence in Soviet domination of the Balkans had been encouraged by German propaganda, the indiscreet comments of Britons overseas, and embittered Yugoslavs in exile.55 Peterson reported the intensification of this anxiety after Moscow, and intercepts showed that the Turks suspected British acquiescence in a South Slav union between Yugoslavia and Bulgaria.56 Further indiscretions by British and American officials nonetheless suggested to Turkey that relations with the ‘difficult’ Soviet Union had deteriorated in the Balkans.57 Eden met the Turkish ambassador, Unaydin, reassuring him that Britain had not abdicated its role in the Balkans, and would continue to work alongside the Russians.58 The Turkish report of this interview, intercepted by the British, demonstrates the remarkable candidness with which Eden articulated his Balkan policy, despite the insecurity of Turkish ciphers. Eden expressed satisfaction with apparent

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Soviet acceptance of the ‘Mediterranean Basin’ as a vital British interest, and reiterated British interest in Bulgaria, in contrast to ‘limitrophe’ Romania. Eden told Unaydin that the Anglo-American representatives on the Allied Commission in Sofia would gradually carry more weight, and asserted that ‘(t)he Russians have fully comprehended that we have close interest and connections not only in Bulgaria but also (obviously) in the Balkans at large; and they have agreed in principle to the necessity of our working together in every part of the Balkans.’59 Notwithstanding the need to reassure the anxious Turks, Eden’s optimistic vision of a British sphere in the ‘Mediterranean Basin’ is difficult to reconcile with the meagre concessions he had secured in Bulgaria. Neither Stalin nor Molotov had demurred when Churchill declared that ‘Britain must be the leading Mediterranean Power,’ but nor had they endorsed an exclusive British sphere of influence there.60 During the spring of 1945, Eden’s realisation, not only that Anglo-Soviet co-operation in the Balkans was at an end, but also that the Soviet Union had not abandoned the ‘Mediterranean Basin,’ led to his articulation of a robust British response to Soviet diplomacy in the Balkans and the Mediterranean which contributed to the breakdown of the wartime Grand Alliance. It is unclear how far the Turks accepted Eden’s interpretation of the Moscow conversations. In the summer of 1944, during fighting between the Greek partisan factions, they were aware of British munitions supplies to EDES, and contacts between EAM/ELAS and Tito, which they assumed were initiated by Moscow.61 Germany had evacuated Greece by mid-October, and British forces filled the vacuum. During November and December intercepts reported Turkish anxiety, despite Eden’s assurances, that ‘(t)he Greek civil war is turning into a struggle for domination between Britain and Russia,’ and that ‘the USSR will . . . join hands with the Greek communists and advance to the Aegean.’62 The Turks apprehended a sinister role for Tito, who had taken Belgrade with Soviet and Bulgarian assistance in October, and Unaydin reported that the British, too, suspected ‘Tito’s underhand interest and influence in the operations of ELAS.’63 When Churchill reported to the House of Commons on the Greek crisis in January 1945, the anti-Soviet Turkish journalist Hüseyin Cahıt Yalçın advised his readers that Churchill ‘had disclosed the truth about the Communist danger which was threatening Greece. He had called it Trotskyism out of courtesy to Moscow.’64 Although sympathetic with British aims in Greece,65 Turkish reports were equivocal in their support for the military intervention in the winter of 1944–45. When fierce fighting broke out in

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Athens, the ambassador in Cairo reported that ‘the British have begun to fight against the national forces with the troops who were guilty of collaboration with the Germans.’66

Turkey and the Balkans in 1945 With the residual German threat from the Balkans and the Aegean at an end, there was no military barrier to a Turkish declaration of war, even if belligerency was, for the same reasons, militarily useless. The Turks were concerned that a belated declaration of war would be treated with scorn or derision; a concern for which even Cadogan had sympathy.67 Such anxieties were outweighed by an invitation to the founding conference of the United Nations Organisation in San Francisco, if Turkey declared war on Germany by 1 March 1945; an invitation secured at Churchill’s insistence at the Yalta conference.68 Turkey declared war on Germany on 23 February. After so many fruitless months, it was greeted without fanfare in Britain. ‘Turkish entry into the war is treated with most unseemly jocularity in this country; and I am not surprised.’69 The Times rehearsed the now orthodox line, lamenting the ‘exaggerated’ caution of Turkish diplomacy in 1943–44, but recalling Turkey’s fidelity to the alliance ‘during this country’s darkest days of the war.’70 Such expressions of support lacked the enthusiasm of the pre-war or early wartime period, and were a mechanical retread of Churchill’s Commons speech from August 1944. In the Commons debate on the Yalta conference, Churchill followed a similar line, repeating almost verbatim his earlier comments.71 FO readers were doubtless vexed by the levity of Prime Minister Saraco˘ glu, as reported by the Spanish minister in Ankara. ‘When I . . . congratulated him for the success of his policy, [Saraco˘ glu] jokingly answered:– “We have decided this step feeling that in view of the long duration of the war it will never end without our intervention.”’72 In similarly poor taste, the ambassador in Athens told the Greek Prime Minister ‘that our neutrality had been of greater service to the Allies than our entry into the war would have been.’ Given the brutal Axis occupation of Greece, the desperate food shortages, the annihilation of the Jewish population, and the country’s descent into civil war, the ambassador’s comments were tactless, to say the least. ‘You have been spared its destruction,’ the Prime Minister replied, with admirable restraint, ‘this is certainly a great advantage for you.’73 Greek–Turkish relations remained difficult, the result of Greek resentment at their suffering under the Varlık, and Turkey’s good fortune in

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avoiding the horrors of war visited upon Greece. The Greeks also suspected Turkish designs on the Dodecanese islands,74 while the Turks were disturbed by demands in the Greek press for the occupation of eastern Thrace.75 The FO nonetheless reasserted its conviction in Turkey’s post-war importance ‘as a sort of counter-weight together with Greece against the solid block of Slavs in the Balkans . . . under Russian control.’76 The elucidation of Greek–Turkish collaboration on these terms indicated the diminution of Britain’s Balkan ambitions since the autumn of 1943, when the FO had hoped to revive Turkish influence throughout the Balkans. The FO had effectively abandoned Romania in the summer of 1944, and the British influence in Yugoslavia was dwindling. Eden had asserted the need to maintain British influence in Bulgaria, to neutralise the threat to Greece and Turkey, but the Soviet occupation in September 1944 made that ambition unlikely, even if Eden believed that the Moscow agreement safeguarded a measure of British influence. In March 1945, Sargent described Soviet policy in the Balkans as the creation of a ‘cordon sanitaire et strategique against Germanism.’77 He apparently did not consider that Stalin’s ‘cordon sanitaire’ might also exclude Britain. Balkan exiles welcomed Turkish participation in the San Francisco conference as ‘important from the point of view of the protection of Balkan interests,’ while the British press wrote warmly of Turkey’s ‘important moderating part among the Balkan nations in the years before the war.’78 Their counterparts in Tito’s Yugoslavia, by contrast, warned that, ‘neither her geographical position nor her past political record gives [Turkey] any right to a say in the settlement of Balkan questions after the war.’79 As the Southern Department had warned in January 1944, ‘no one in the Balkans’ had forgotten Turkish neutrality. Soviet propaganda adopted the approach outlined by Maisky at the turn of 1944, applauding the ‘failure of Turkish Imperialistic plans in the Balkans where Turkey had hoped to maintain order. Balkan countries show no inclination to accommodate Turkey.’80 Following the Moscow conference, the British had maintained that Turkey had a ‘legitimate interest’ in the future of the Balkans.81 Tito and Stalin, the new arbiters of Balkan affairs, disagreed. Turkish diplomats shared British opposition to the establishment of a ‘great South Slav power’ in the Balkans, although post-war experience indicates that the instigators were Tito and Dimitrov, rather than Stalin.82 Peterson was concerned about the ‘disquieting’ situation in Bulgaria, where the Red Army remained in situ, and the old centre and

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right of Bulgarian politics had been summarily executed in February 1945.83 Despite disturbing reports of Soviet military concentrations in southern Bulgaria, the British did not apprehend an immediate military threat to Turkey.84 Of greater concern was the impact of the Soviet ‘war of nerves’ – hostile propaganda and apparent troop movements, in Iran as well as in the Balkans, designed to intimidate the Turks into making concessions to the Soviet Union, particularly at the Straits.85 In April, Sargent admitted that a comprehensive spheres of influence agreement with the Soviet Union might ‘save’ Turkey, Yugoslavia, Austria and Czechoslovakia, at the expense of Poland, Bulgaria and Romania, but rejected ‘the abdication of our right as a Great Power to be concerned with the affairs of the whole of Europe and not just areas in which we have a special interest.’86 By July, Sargent had abandoned Romania and Hungary, but called for a diplomatic offensive in Bulgaria, Finland, Poland and Czechoslovakia.87 As with Eden in 1944, belated recognition of Bulgaria’s strategic importance for the Straits and the eastern Mediterranean contributed to Sargent’s repudiation of the spheres of influence policy pursued by Churchill in Moscow.88 Sargent proposed a more definite commitment to ‘the affairs of the whole of Europe’ than many pre-war Britons would have made. No one would have challenged Britain’s status as a ‘Great Power’ during the 1930s, but few Britons had any interest in Balkan affairs, and Cadogan had been prepared by 1938 to ‘cut our losses in central & eastern Europe – let Germany . . . find her “Lebensraum” and establish herself . . . as a powerful economic unit.’89 As Elisabeth Barker reminds us, the British only conceived of a particular set of ‘interests’ in the Balkans following the Balkan campaign in 1940–41.90 These interests developed with the establishment of the exiled governments in London and the diminution of French, Italian and German influence. Yet, as Barker also reminds us, in 1940–41 the Soviet Union had also staked out its interests in the post-war Balkans. In the FO, Gladwyn Jebb recognised that British efforts to assert their interests in Bulgaria and Yugoslavia may have contributed to renewed Soviet interference in Greek affairs during the summer of 1945.91 By 1945, the British could not rely on Turkey in the Balkans as in the pre-war period. The reservations of the exiled governments, and British ambitions for a post-war Balkan confederation, had marginalised Turkey as a factor in Balkan politics, but the abandonment of those plans in the face of Soviet opposition, and British disillusion with the exiled governments, revived Turkey as a ‘counterweight’ to the Soviet Union in the autumn of 1943. Whereas Turkey’s pre-war Balkan role was inspired

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by the need to ‘keep the Balkans Balkan,’ and beyond the reach of the Great Powers, Romania and Bulgaria were now ‘Russian,’ while Greece was ‘British.’ Tito’s Yugoslavia was a special case, but was aligned – for the time being – with the Soviet Union, and was an outspoken opponent of Turkish involvement in Balkan affairs. Turkey, previously the most ‘pro-Russian’ member of the pre-war Balkan entente, was now, if not axiomatically ‘anti-Russian,’ viewed with suspicion and contempt by Moscow, and appeared ‘anti-Slav’ in its opposition to a Yugoslav– Bulgarian bloc. By the winter of 1944–45, the Turkish–Greek entente, itself in less than robust health, was all that remained of Britain’s Balkan ambitions. There was no longer any basis for greater Turkish–Balkan collaboration.

9 Russia, the Caucasus and the Straits, October 1944 to July 1945

At Tehran and Cairo, Winston Churchill disclaimed British support for Turkey at the Straits, a result of Turkish refusal to enter the war on the Allied side. Churchill had expressed similar sentiments throughout 1943, but never to the Soviet leadership, or in such vitriolic terms. Apparent British willingness to revise the Straits regime coincided with the revival of Soviet interest in such a revision, stated at Tehran. Britain’s post-war Straits policy remained unclear. The Chiefs of Staff (COS) assessed British interests conservatively, opposing Soviet seizure or possession of the Straits, and any revision of the Straits convention that would allow the Soviet Union to pass a surface fleet from the Black Sea into the Aegean. The Chiefs accepted that Britain ought to make concessions at the Straits if this might deflect Soviet ambitions in the direction of the Persian Gulf. They failed, however, to absorb a warning that the air threat to Suez and the North African coast, emerging from Soviet military bases at the Straits, would be replicated if the Soviet Union secured air bases in Bulgaria, which could also menace the Turkish-controlled Straits. The Southern Department of the Foreign Office admitted that ‘Turkey without Bulgaria is not worth fighting for,’ but used this to support its abortive policy of reviving Turkey as a Balkan counterweight to the Soviet Union. The Northern Department’s question, ‘if Russia wants to control the Dardanelles, how are we going to stop her?’ remained unanswered. The controversy over German shipping led the British to question Turkish control of the Straits, if Turkey was unable to uphold the spirit of the international convention. Menemencio˘ glu argued the opposite case; if Turkey did not uphold the letter of the law, Russia would accuse it of being unable to stand up to Great Power (British) pressure, and incapable of administering the Straits without assistance from other Black Sea nations (the Soviet Union). I˙ nönü and other leading 166

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Turks concluded that strictly upholding Montreux was less important than satisfying the Power which might assist Turkey in the event of a Soviet threat. Hugessen had indicated that Montreux was ‘moribund and would require revision,’ while Soviet–Turkish discussions during the summer of 1944 made clear that Straits revision was an essential prerequisite to the improvement of bilateral relations.1 Anthony Eden’s concern for the security of the British sphere of interest in the Mediterranean informed his revival of the Anglo-GreekTurkish alliance during 1944, and drove his abortive efforts to keep a foothold in Bulgaria. His interpretation of the Moscow conference asserted Soviet acceptance of the ‘Mediterranean Basin’ as a vital British interest. In fact, Russian documentary releases demonstrate that any conviction that the Soviet Union had abandoned this area to Britain was mistaken. Artiom Ulunian has used the archives of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) to articulate a Soviet concept of the ‘Mediterranean basin’ which went far beyond the Mediterranean Sea and included ‘all seas washing the shores of North Africa, South and South-East Europe and western Asia (Middle East) . . . It therefore follows that the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia, Albania, Bulgaria and Rumania are typical Mediterranean regions.’2 This theme has been taken up by Sergei Mazov, who uses documentary releases from Maxim Litvinov’s commission on peace treaties and the post-war settlement to demonstrate the basis for Soviet interest in the former Italian colonies in North Africa. Mazov understands this interest to have been based on Realpolitik imperatives, rather than ideological considerations. In a paper for Molotov from June 1945, ‘(t)he value of each territory for the USSR was established in accordance with traditional Russian geopolitical aims in a southerly direction: control over the Black Sea Straits – penetration to the Mediterranean and establishment of strongholds there – a breakthrough into the Ocean.’3 Mazov characterises this report as ‘a Soviet bid to become an oceanic superpower, instead of a great naval power.’ Litvinov wrote: ‘Our control over the Straits and a free exit for our maximally strengthened navy from the Black Sea can be regarded as a prerequisite for the acquisition and retention by us of any of the aforementioned objects.’4 This was the context for a crisis in Anglo-Soviet relations in the spring and summer of 1945.

The Straits at Moscow, October 1944 Britain’s deteriorating position in the Balkans in the autumn of 1944 led Sir Orme Sargent to revisit the Straits question. Sargent reiterated

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the Chiefs’ case from 1943. Britain should deny the Soviet Union physical control or unrestricted passage through the Straits, although concessions might be considered if faced with other Soviet ambitions, through the Caucasus towards the Persian Gulf. Although the FO acknowledged Soviet ‘uneasiness’ and ‘(sensitivity) to its . . . dependence on Turkey’ under the existing Straits convention,5 Sargent warned that restricting Turkish sovereignty over the Straits, ‘would endanger Turkey’s . . . integrity and sovereignty in general’ and urged the maintenance of the ‘age-long’ British opposition to Russian ambitions at the Straits.6 Notwithstanding the questions posed by the JPS and the Northern Department about the tenability of British obduracy at the Straits, Sargent appears to have overlooked Churchill’s verbal concession to Stalin at Tehran. He was soon to be given an abrupt reminder of Churchill’s trenchant views on this subject, when the Prime Minister and Eden travelled to Moscow. Churchill repeatedly endorsed Russian claims to a more favourable Straits regime, and even to Istanbul itself: his earliest recorded declaration to this effect dates from 1897.7 During the First World War, Churchill had been part of the government which promised Constantinople to the Tsar, and had been thwarted in his efforts to relieve Russia by the Turkish defence of the Dardanelles; a defeat whose significance was magnified every time Churchill retold it in print. During the present conflict, Turkey had again thwarted his efforts to link up with the Russians in the Black Sea, contributing to his denunciation of Turkey during the winter of 1943–44. Throughout 1943, Churchill privately anticipated post-war Straits revision in favour of the Soviet Union. He travelled to Moscow in October 1944 no less convinced of this. His comments to Eden – ‘it is like breeding pestilence to try to keep a nation like Russia from free access to the broad waters’8 – were reminiscent of his sentiments 47 years earlier. When the two delegations met in Moscow, the Russians asserted that Montreux was obsolete; it was a League of Nations arrangement, including Japan among its signatories. Moreover, the control it afforded Turkey, to close the Straits in time of war, was unacceptable. Britain would not tolerate Spanish or Egyptian authority to close the Straits of Gibraltar or the Suez Canal.9 Churchill reiterated his Tehran position, declaring that ‘Britain had no objection’ to free Soviet passage through the Straits. Montreux ‘was inadmissible today and obsolete . . . Russia had a right and moral claim’.10 This promise ran counter to the policy of Sargent and the COS. Eden reminded Churchill of Britain’s interest in the future of the Straits,11 but

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Churchill believed that denying reasonable Soviet claims would only disrupt the Anglo-Soviet alliance. His reply also indicated the extent to which he continued to think of the Straits as a conduit for naval power. ‘(W)e have no need to fear the movement of a Russian Fleet through the Straits. Even if it were to join de Gaulle, a British Fleet and Air bases in the Mediterranean will be capable of dealing with either or both.’12 The Planners had recognised this in 1943, but had also warned of the greater danger of Soviet air power menacing Suez, North Africa and Britain’s other eastern Mediterranean bases, if the Soviet Union became established at the Straits. Eden came to realise Bulgaria’s importance, and had briefed Churchill on its implications for Britain’s position in the Mediterranean. Nonetheless, Churchill did not conceive of Bulgaria in the same terms as Stalin, Eden or the Joint Planners.13 Churchill sympathised with the Northern Department, which believed that the Chiefs’ position was untenable, and would antagonise the Soviet Union. If Eden was correct, and Britain had secured the best possible deal in Bulgaria, what quid pro quo could compensate for the antagonism caused by withholding recognition of Soviet rights at the Straits, analogous to those enjoyed by the British at Gibraltar and Suez, and the United States at Panama? The Post-Hostilities Planning Staff (PHPS) had recently observed that ‘the USSR’s attitude largely depends on the degree of confidence she has in British policy. Our attitude towards a revision of the Straits Convention might be taken as a test case.’14 The JIC believed that post-war Russia would endeavour to ‘preserve the Black Sea as a Russian lake and to control movement through the Straits,’ to protect the Ukraine and Soviet shipping. ‘Full control . . . could only be assured by occupation of a considerable stretch of territory on either side of [the Straits] and of bases dominating the sea routes through the Aegean.’ These were the bases which Molotov had sought in 1940, although the FO still ascribed those ambitions to German propaganda. The Joint Planners and PHPS had recommended that Britain oppose Soviet claims for bases, but the JIC doubted that it was ‘essential to Russia’s security to extend her territory so far; it would be sufficient . . . if she had air and naval air supremacy in the Black Sea and if Turkey was not closely associated with any other power or group of powers.’15 Although they recognised Stalin’s preoccupation with Soviet security, the JIC did not apprehend the depth of that obsession. If ‘full control of movement’ through the Straits could only be ‘assured’ by military bases on Turkish territory, then that must be the Soviet objective. In the autumn of 1940,

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Molotov had made clear to Hitler, and to Sir Stafford Cripps, that a paper agreement would not satisfy Stalin’s need for security in the Black Sea.16 The Northern Department again wondered ‘in present and future circumstances of naval and air warfare . . . what interest we have in having a row with the Russians on this question or where exactly our interests lie.’17 This question was referred to the Services Liaison Department, for whom Roger Allen agreed that ‘the Straits had to some extent lost their former importance, since the possession of airfields in, say, Bulgaria, the Aegean area, or Turkey, would enable the possessor to render the passage of the Straits very difficult for enemy shipping.’18 This, at last, was a clear statement of the situation in the eastern Mediterranean. British air and naval bases in the Aegean could restrict Soviet passage through the Straits, but Soviet bases in Bulgaria could similarly menace British shipping, regardless of the status of Turkey, while both sets of bases were vulnerable to attack from the other. This was the strategic dilemma emerging from the Soviet occupation of Bulgaria.

Yalta and after Despite the questionable merit of withholding recognition of Soviet rights at the Straits, Cadogan argued that Britain ought not to ‘rush at it without asking for any quid pro quo.’ He accepted that Soviet claims for revision were reasonable, but should not be satisfied without reciprocal concessions from Moscow over the future of Turkey and the Balkans.19 Churchill remained unconvinced. ‘I should not . . . be prepared to resist a Russian demand for the freedom of the Straits.’20 This had been his position at least since Casablanca. Eden discussed the Straits with the new US Secretary of State, Edward Stettinius, in Malta.21 The State Department shared the FO’s aversion to radical Straits revision. Montreux ‘has worked well,’ while major changes ‘would violate Turkish sovereignty and affect adversely the strategic and political balance in the Balkans and the Near East.’ The Americans were confident that Montreux ‘can be adapted to the Dumbarton Oaks pattern,’ and believed that internationalisation was ‘not a practical solution,’ since the Suez and Panama canals ‘logically should receive the same treatment.’22 The lack of an urgent American interest led the State Department to endorse the status quo as the ‘least worst’ option. They believed that Montreux was satisfactory to the Soviet Union, and underestimated the extent to which Soviet security in the Black Sea was predicated on Turkish benevolence.23

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Stalin raised the question of the Straits at the seventh plenary meeting of the Yalta conference. As at Moscow, he denounced a treaty ‘in which Turkey had a hand on Russia’s throat.’ Straits revision ‘should . . . not . . . harm the legitimate interests of Turkey,’ although it was unclear whether British, American or Turkish conceptions of Turkey’s ‘legitimate interests’ could be reconciled with a Soviet understanding of those interests. Churchill reminded Stalin that Britain was ‘in sympathy with the revision of the treaty,’ but had not heard firm Soviet proposals. He requested that Turkey be given ‘some assurance that their independence and integrity will be guaranteed,’ and Stalin agreed that ‘such assurance should be expressed.’24 This appeared to be the quid pro quo sought by Cadogan. It was crucial to the British understanding of the Soviet–Turkish relationship, and informed their frustration with Soviet tactics in the spring and early summer. However, Eden was alarmed at this latest articulation of Soviet interest in the eastern Mediterranean, which ran counter to his own understanding of the Moscow conference the previous autumn. He responded with alacrity to a telegram from Peterson in Ankara, in which the ambassador encouraged London ‘to pursue a friendly policy towards, and even to “cherish,” the Turks.’25 Eden ‘[agreed] with much that Sir Maurice Peterson writes . . . We shall certainly have need of Turkey after the war . . . We must do all we can to “cherish” her.’26 Meanwhile, the PHPS undertook a strategic review of the implications of Straits revision.27 Given Churchill’s statements at Tehran, Moscow and Yalta, such a review was no longer concerned with whether Britain should make concessions, but rather with their implications in the eastern Mediterranean.28 The Planners were formalising the policy which Churchill had pursued since 1943, and privately endorsed months or even years earlier. The PHPS continued to infer that the Soviet Union did not wish to occupy Turkish territory or bases. This was despite the continuing absence of precise Soviet desiderata, and it assumed that British and Soviet definitions of Turkey’s ‘legitimate interests’ were similar. Russia was ‘so strongly placed in relation to Turkey’ that, even with British military guarantees, Turkey could not prevent Soviet naval units passing through the Straits. ‘Such guarantees would certainly arouse Soviet hostility and it might, in the event, prove beyond our capacity to honour them.’ This was the frank admission of the limits of British power which the Northern Department had sought since 1943 (‘How are we going to stop her?’), and was endorsed by the Vice-Chiefs of Staff.29

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Straits revision would negatively affect British interests in the eastern Mediterranean and Middle East, for the reasons outlined in 1943; it would allow the development of surface naval and submarine threats, and weaken Turkey and Greece vis-à-vis Russia, although air and naval facilities in Cyprus, Crete and the Dodecanese would limit the Soviet naval threat.30 The implications of Soviet air bases in Bulgaria, reiterated by the Services Liaison Department,31 were again overlooked. The most important consideration remained the effect of Straits policy on Anglo-Soviet relations. Britain ‘should not oppose any reasonable demands of the USSR where these do not conflict with our vital strategic interests.’ While Straits revision would ‘adversely’ affect Britain’s local strategic interests, they would not be ‘vitally affected.’ Given the importance the Soviets attached to freedom of movement through the Straits, it was ‘preferable to concede this Soviet claim rather than endanger our future relations by endeavouring to maintain restrictions which we could not count on being enforced.’ Since the claim to free passage was ‘reasonable,’ and might ‘prove beyond our capacity’ to deny, Britain should support it, ‘both to remove a grievance and promote confidence in our friendship.’32 If they had not embraced a ‘pro-Russian’ policy, the British had finally settled on a position that was not ‘antiRussian.’ Within weeks, however, the limits of a policy which sought to meet ‘reasonable’ Russian requirements by negotiated agreement were demonstrated by Molotov’s demand that Turkey cede bases on the Straits to the Soviet Union; the very ambition the British had ruled out during the preceding 6 months.

Soviet–Turkish relations, 1944–45 Intercepts had indicated the continuing deterioration of Soviet–Turkish relations since Tehran. In February 1944, Menemencio˘ glu declared that Turkey and the other Balkan nations had ‘everything to lose by an alliance with Russia and nothing to gain,’ and spoke of a British– American–German alliance against the Soviet Union.33 Cevat Açıkalın shared Menemencio˘ glu’s concern for the ‘Russian peril.’34 Accusations of Turkish collaboration in German espionage in the Soviet Union provoked a furious reaction,35 while a Foreign Ministry circular demonstrated the failure of Menemencio˘ glu and Açıkalın’s attempt to improve bilateral relations in the summer of 1944.36 Mutual recriminations about past policy soured relations. Vinogradov reiterated Soviet displeasure with Turkish trade and treaty relations with Germany, the Franz von Papen bomb trial, and alleged pan-Turanism

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in the Caucasus. Açıkalın’s reply, a critique of Soviet policy during the Nazi–Soviet pact, drew a vaguely menacing reply. ‘My dear fellow, these things are past. Things were like that then. We are at war with them now. Those who want to be friends of ours must assist us.’37 In December, Vinogradov urged Turkey to ‘do something positive’ and ‘give another direction’ to Soviet–Turkish relations, prompting the Foreign Ministry to point out that they had attempted to do so after Adana, and again earlier in 1944. Both efforts had foundered because the Russians ‘expressed neither implicitly nor explicitly what their own wishes were.’38 They may also have foundered because senior Turkish diplomats were speaking to neutral and Axis diplomats of the ‘Russian peril’ and the dangers of alliance with the Soviet Union; sentiments which were broadcast around Europe by insecure ciphers. Concern over Soviet activities on Turkey’s eastern frontier was exacerbated by Russian victories which freed troops to reinforce the occupation of northern Iran.39 ‘All the Armenians’ in Tehran were understood to be collaborating with the Russians, while ‘(t)he Kurds, too, are receiving consideration . . . an army is being organised in the Caucasus . . . known among the people as the “Turkish Front Army.” ’40 Rumours of Kurdish satisfaction, that ‘(t)he Russians will take our revenge on the Turks,’ and of Soviet support for an independent Kurdistan, may have been encouraged as another aspect of the ‘war of nerves’ against Turkey.41 The most urgent concern remained the Straits. By the autumn of 1944, there were rumours of Soviet demands for a military base ‘in Gallipoli.’42 Similar reports emerged from Berlin in February 1945,43 although the Turks were confident that concern for their own position in the Mediterranean would prevent the British from acquiescing in such extreme demands.44 During the spring of 1945, neutral and Allied diplomats reported an alarming tendency in Ankara to assume that Britain would treat Soviet demands for Straits revision with ‘intransigence,’ and ‘forward Turkish interests’ at the United Nations conference in San Francisco.45 Menemencio˘ glu reported in January that General de Gaulle’s recent meetings with Stalin had revealed that the Soviets ‘would not remain indifferent to the eastern Mediterranean . . . they . . . would demand the possession of a base in the eastern Mediterranean on its eastern or western shores.’46 The ambassador in Moscow, Selim Sarper, agreed with Menemencio˘ glu’s analysis and apprehended Soviet ambitions to create a Mediterranean fleet.47 This was the ambition subsequently endorsed by Maxim Litvinov in his June 1945 paper for Molotov. The JIC and PHPS

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nonetheless assumed that the Soviet Union would not seek bases at the Straits, based on their limited cognition of the Stalinist obsession with security, and their dogmatic interpretation of Stalin’s pledge to respect Turkey’s ‘independence and integrity.’ The Soviet Union denounced its treaty of friendship and nonaggression with Turkey on 20 March. Such a move had been expected in London and Ankara: the treaty dated from 1925, and was frankly obsolete.48 More alarming was the anti-Turkish propaganda which accompanied this move, and the negative effect it would have on attempts to secure multilateral Straits revision.49 Sarper returned to Ankara for instructions, and subsequent Turkish intercepts shed no light on Russian intentions. The Turks had finally learned, via a source in Stockholm, of the extreme insecurity of their telegraphic communications.50 The British continued to read Turkish ciphers, but the Turks decided not to send reports of negotiations in Ankara, between Sarper and Vinogradov, to missions overseas. For the British, there was little to be done until Soviet intentions became clearer. A meeting at San Francisco, between Molotov and Turkish Foreign Minister Hasan Saka, indicated no further deterioration in relations, and suggested, Saka believed, that the Soviets had no firm proposals for a new Soviet–Turkish treaty or Straits convention.51 Intercepts demonstrated continuing concern about Iran, however, and confirmed the deleterious impact of the ‘war of nerves’ on Turkey.52 Açıkalın was encouraged by the international role being played by the USA following Roosevelt’s replacement by President Truman. In contrast to Turkish alarm at the American attitude during 1944, Açıkalın believed that the United States ‘has taken over the leadership of “resistance.” ’ Suspicions of British self-interest remained, but Açıkalın anticipated that Britain, too, would maintain an ‘uncompromising attitude’ on certain questions, and was confident that ‘they regard Turkey as a vital link among the States forming a chain of security in [the Mediterranean].’53 These decrypts further demonstrated Turkish confidence in Anglo-American support, and contributed to the cautious British reaction when Soviet claims on Turkey were advanced in June 1945.

Soviet demands on Turkey, June 1945 Throughout the spring of 1945, Sarper was engaged in negotiations with Vinogradov, aimed at achieving common ground for a new Soviet– Turkish treaty. Soviet documentary releases indicate that, on 8 May, Vinogradov reported Sarper’s proposal for a new, bilateral friendship

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treaty; a move which Russian historians describe as ‘a clear signal to Moscow that [Turkey] was seeking special relations with the Soviet Union, even at the risk of causing the displeasure of . . . Great Britain.’54 Turkish memoirs and published sources suggest that Sarper was the ˙ principal advocate of this approach. Inönü and Saraco˘ glu had reservations, but were under pressure from ‘the pro-Soviet element’ in Turkey to resolve the Soviet–Turkish relationship.55 Sarper’s presence in Ankara meant that the British knew nothing of these negotiations from decrypts, and – unlike in 1944 – they heard nothing from their Soviet ally. A Spanish intercept reported a Soviet approach to the Turks, but asserted that ‘(d)irect understanding between Russia and Turkey has . . . been ruled out and tension between them is growing.’56 Following ‘several promising private conversations’ with Vinogradov, Sarper returned to Moscow ‘with a proposal for a Treaty of Alliance, implying that, if it became necessary . . . we would go to war by the side of the Soviet Union.’57 A subsequent intercept from the Foreign Ministry suggests that Turkey sincerely sought to improve relations with Moscow, but, in contrast to the Soviet interpretation, sought to do so within the framework of their alliance with Britain. Since the impression you got from your private contacts with Vinogradov seemed definite and since Russia is the ally of England and England is the ally of Turkey, you were given authority to discuss in Moscow the basis of a future treaty which would please both Russia and England and which could go as far even as an alliance.58 Stalin seized on the Turkish demarche as an opportunity to advance his ‘maximum’ or ‘ideal’ terms for a Soviet–Turkish treaty, revisiting ambitions which had lain dormant since 1941. When Molotov met Sarper on 8 June, he bluntly stated the Soviet terms: Straits revision in favour of the Soviet Union, and Soviet military bases in the region of the Straits to enforce the new regime. This had been Molotov’s demand of Hitler and Ribbentrop in November 1940, the revival of which had been suspected by the Turks since the autumn of 1944. The British had consistently attributed this to ‘Nazi propaganda,’ and had ruled out demands for bases as recently as March 1945.59 Molotov also sought the return of Kars and Ardahan, ceded to the Ottoman Empire under the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk, and retained by Turkey following protracted negotiations in 1921. As we saw in Chapter 1, Britons, Germans and Turks had suspected Soviet demands for these territories in the summer of 1940. The JIC contemplated their

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revival in December 1944, but the Southern Department asserted that their retrocession to the Soviet Union was ‘never taken too seriously’ in Turkey.60 Although alarmed by the Soviet terms, Sarper was not despondent. He doubted the Soviets would press the claim to Kars and Ardahan, and believed that Molotov had not argued the point with conviction. This was possibly because Molotov questioned the wisdom of these claims, subsequently asserting that they had been encouraged by Georgians with influence over their compatriot Stalin.61 Nikita Khrushchev, also writing in retirement, denounced the malign influence of Lavrenti Beria, who encouraged Stalin to reassert the Soviet claim on these territories.62 Sergo Beria confirms his father’s interest in the Kurds as ‘a dagger ready to be pointed at Turkey,’ and recent research reveals that, following the Yalta conference, plans were formulated for the reorganisation of the Armenian SSR to incorporate the areas ‘liberated’ from Turkey.63 Sarper nonetheless believed that territorial demands were a bargaining counter for the real negotiations on the Straits, an ambition which could be ostentatiously renounced to demonstrate Soviet ‘good faith.’ He also appears to have suggested that the Soviets might be permitted to use bases in the region of the Straits during wartime. Certainly, Sarper declared, ‘Nothing has arisen as yet to cause pessimism.’64 Despite this upbeat account, the Foreign Ministry in Ankara reacted hotly to the Soviet terms, declaring that ‘(c)onversations which aim at the modification of Montreux do not promise practical results.’65 The Acting Foreign Minister, Nurullah Sumer, reported the Soviet terms to Peterson. Sumer was the most senior official available, as Hasan Saka and Feridun Cemal Erkin were in the United States, and Cevat Açıkalın was en route from a commercial mission in London. Turkish historian Süleyman Seydi suggests that ‘things had gone wrong’ in Ankara in the absence of Saka and Erkin, ‘who had instructed Sarper on more than one occasion not to make any proposal to the Soviets.’66 One might add that the insecurity of Turkish ciphers meant that they were unable to keep senior officials abreast of the Sarper–Vinogradov negotiations while they were abroad. Peterson was given a dramatic account of the Molotov–Sarper conversation, and was informed for the first time of the Sarper–Vinogradov talks. Although unhappy that he had not been informed of these earlier, Peterson telegraphed London requesting that the Soviets be challenged about their demands at the forthcoming Big Three conference.67 Given the basis on which the Turks conceived of the approach to Moscow, as an adjunct to their alliance with Britain, it is surprising that

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they kept the British in the dark about the negotiations in Ankara. This ˙ perhaps reflected the misgivings of Inönü and Saraco˘ glu, and may have been intended to secure a fall-back position if the Soviet negotiations miscarried. In fact, it had the opposite effect, as the British resented being kept in the dark, and were not anxious to rescue the Turks from the mess in which Sarper’s maladroit diplomacy had left them. The Southern Department nonetheless described the Soviet terms as ‘a rude shock,’ and recommended an approach to Moscow in ‘fairly blunt terms.’68 The FO was also depleted: Eden had retired to Sussex with a duodenal ulcer and Cadogan was in San Francisco, leaving Churchill in control, assisted by the Parliamentary Under-Secretary, Richard Law, and Sargent. Law recommended approaching the United States about a joint rebuke to Moscow, and instructions to Lord Halifax emphasised the agreement which the British believed they had reached with Stalin at Yalta, the spirit of which was challenged by Molotov’s abrupt demands.69 The Americans perceived themselves as an arbiter in the Anglo-Soviet rivalry at the Straits, and questioned the British interpretation of the Yalta conclusions, doubting that Stalin took, ‘a position so definite as that indicated by the British Government.’70 Although their new ambassador in Ankara, Edwin Wilson, reacted belligerently to Soviet diplomacy, the State Department suggested withholding any rebuke until after the conclusion of the San Francisco conference.71 The United States was not ‘weak,’ as Sargent had it,72 but unsure of its own policy, which was also in flux after a long period of inertia. The Americans believed that the Turkish regime might whip up an international crisis to deflect attention from its domestic unpopularity.73 They realised that their earlier ignorance of Soviet security concerns risked antagonising Moscow, which might withhold collaboration in the war against Japan.74 On bases, the State Department was alert to Soviet allegations of hypocrisy, if the United States vetoed Soviet claims outright, given America’s bilateral negotiations for bases with Brazil, Ecuador and Portugal. If Russia and Turkey reached an ‘amicable agreement,’ the United States would ‘interpose no objection.’ They were ‘confident that no such amicable agreement can be reached, but it would be awkward for us to attempt to prevent Russia from negotiating directly with Turkey.’75 The British had, meanwhile, received several reports which caused them to pause for thought. On 17 June, Sarper’s optimistic account of the meeting with Molotov, and the belligerent Foreign Ministry reply, became readable in London. On 21 June, the British received two

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further telegrams from Peterson. One detailed the disturbing impact of the Soviet ‘war of nerves’ on leading Turks, suggesting an explanation for the alarmist reaction to Sarper’s telegram in Ankara.76 The other reported a second meeting between Sarper and Molotov, about which the acting Foreign Minister Sumer seemed more optimistic. Molotov had been more conciliatory, and apparently clarified his demands for bases, seeking them in time of war alone; the concession which intercepts suggested Sarper may have made at his first meeting with Molotov. The Southern Department felt that the situation ‘is now considerably less alarming.’ Although the manner of Molotov’s approach had been disagreeable, Sumer and the Foreign Ministry had overreacted. The qualified claim for bases was an improvement, and there was ‘no particular objection to the Soviet proposal for an eventual alliance with Turkey, particularly as the Turks rather seem to favour the idea, provided of course that it is in no way exclusive as regards the Anglo-Turkish Alliance.’77 Given apparent Turkish panic after the initial Sarper–Molotov meeting, the Southern Department was anxious ‘that we are not led into making representations to the Russians as a result of Turkish exaggeration of Moscow’s demands.’78 The next round of decrypts, available on 24 June, suggested that optimism was unfounded. The intercepted version of Sarper’s second meeting with Molotov bore little relation to the one offered by Sumer in Ankara. Molotov’s tone was harsh, and he reiterated Soviet demands. Molotov was insistent on Kars and Ardahan, the result perhaps of intervention by Stalin, or apprehension from decrypts that Sarper had doubted his sincerity. Sarper was now pessimistic about future negotiations.79 It remains unclear why Sumer gave Peterson an alarmist report of the first meeting, yet an upbeat version of the second, when decrypts indicated that the opposite was true. The British had no answer. ‘Whereas Turkish Acting MFA seems to have given . . . an exaggeratedly gloomy account of the first conversation, his account of the second appears to have been unjustifiably encouraging.’80 The need to reconcile contradictory accounts contributed to a stuttering FO response, exacerbated by a 3-day delay between receipt of the ‘official’ Turkish view from HM Embassy in Ankara, and the availability of the unvarnished version from decrypts. Clark Kerr also reported Sarper’s own fluctuating views and maladroit handling of Molotov.81 The confusion engendered by apparent Turkish incompetence or deception – plus the absence of American support – encouraged the Southern Department to tread carefully.82 They proposed waiting until Potsdam

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to raise an objection with the Soviets, working in the interim to achieve closer collaboration with the United States.83 Law and Churchill did not demur. Equivocation only ended following the intervention of the convalescing Eden. As we have seen, Eden had been concerned about a Soviet challenge to British hegemony in the Mediterranean since the spring of 1944.84 In contrast to Churchill, who took a somewhat genial view of Russian ambitions for an exit into the eastern Mediterranean, Eden was extremely sensitive to perceived Soviet threats there. This sensitivity had been exacerbated by the unravelling of his perceived Moscow agreement with the Soviets, which Eden believed had surrendered the ‘Mediterranean basin’ to the British sphere of interest. Soviet interest in the former Italian colonies in North Africa and Tangier in the western Mediterranean, on the eve of the Potsdam conference, fuelled his alarm at the Soviet incursion into the ‘British’ sphere. Eden insisted on a firm response to aggressive Soviet diplomacy and successfully argued his case with a sceptical Churchill, demanding that Britain ‘enter a caveat now.’85 Instructions were despatched to Clark Kerr and Halifax, along with a further most secret telegram explaining the influence on British policy of the Turkish decrypts.86 The instructions to Clark Kerr were followed up by a telegram from Sargent, which emphasised that ‘the Secretary of State feels strongly that these instructions are on the right lines and that action on them should be taken as soon as possible.’87 Throughout this period, the Southern Department received comprehensive Turkish decrypts, albeit with a delay of several days. The intercepted versions of the first Sarper–Molotov conversation, and the Turkish response, demonstrated that the account given to Peterson by the Turkish Foreign Ministry was exaggerated and over-dramatised. The decrypt of the second conversation, showing a more menacing Soviet attitude, was again dramatically different to the account given by Turkish diplomats through official channels. This inconsistency, confirmed by Clark Kerr’s reports on Sarper, led the Southern Department to endorse a cautious response to the Soviet demands; a caution exacerbated by earlier decrypts indicating Turkish over-confidence in British support against Russia. Whether or not Eden saw the decrypts available to the FO is uncertain. It is possible that private secretaries were permitted to remove decrypts from Whitehall in order to show them to the Foreign Secretary, but there is no archival record to support this; indeed Eden’s own testimony, and that of his subordinates in the Southern Department, suggest not.88 The same almost certainly applies for the period during which Eden

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attended the United Nations conference in San Francisco, immediately before his incapacitating illness. It seems reasonable to conclude that any access Eden had to the intelligence emerging from decrypts was partial or relayed to him in summary form. As such it compounded his own, existing concern for British interests in the eastern Mediterranean, rather than the perception of a neurotic and maladroit Turkey that characterised the response of officials in the Southern Department of the Foreign Office. At no stage did Eden or his officials recognise any continuity between alleged Soviet ambitions in 1945 and identical claims made in 1940, during the period of the Nazi–Soviet Pact.89

Potsdam Eden was nonetheless anxious, when he returned from Sussex, to curb the belligerency shown by certain Turks, reminding Hasan Saka that Britain supported ‘reasonable’ Soviet proposals for Straits revision.90 The Southern Department resented the Turks’ clandestine negotiations with Vinogradov, and Sarper’s maladroit diplomacy which had enabled Molotov to make his move.91 As the great war ‘for democracy’ drew to a close, there was also the ‘delicate question’ of Turkey’s internal politics. It will clearly be a matter of the utmost delicacy to give advice on this point, but . . . it should . . . be made clear to the Turkish Government that sympathy for Turkey in this country, and hence our ability to support Turkey, would be greatly strengthened if a more democratic system could be set up.92 A more thoughtful analysis of the relationship between support for Turkey and the nature of the Turkish government soon fell by the wayside, however, as concerns about the regime were subordinated to the short-term need to bolster Turkey against Russia. On 11 July, the Joint Planning Staff (JPS) produced another report on the Straits and the Baltic, ‘the two main ocean gateways’ for the Soviet Union. Although it remained in ‘our wider interests’ to support free passage through the Straits, ‘Russian demands for bases should be resisted,’ both at the Straits and in the Baltic. As in 1940 and 1943, British conservatism was clear. ‘It is in our interests . . . to retain the status quo in both these areas. It is also important that we should retain our present control of the Straits of Gibraltar [in which Russia was showing an interest] and Suez Canal.’93

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Should this prove unsatisfactory to the Soviets, alternatives were control of bases at the Straits (and the Baltic) by two or more Great Powers, or control by a single Great Power. Joint control would make it difficult to contain Soviet influence, and might encourage similar arrangements at Suez and Gibraltar. Russian claims to sole control of the Baltic and Dardanelles would be ‘disadvantageous,’ but would allow Britain to remain in sole control at Suez and Gibraltar. Although willing to concede a quid pro quo with Moscow, the Planners, supported by the COS, still believed that Soviet bases at the Straits were ‘not really necessary,’ since the only threat to the Soviet Union through the Black Sea could come from Britain. The Soviets had no legitimate grounds for demanding bases, ‘unless they fear British aggression.’ As had become clear during the Nazi–Soviet pact, the Soviets – above all Stalin – did fear such aggression, perhaps in collusion with Turkey, and did not trust British protestations to the contrary. The British failed to reconcile themselves to the long-standing suspicion of Britain which informed Soviet policy in 1939–41, and which did much to undermine Stalin’s ambitions for a post-war Great Power concert.94 The US State Department, and some within the FO,95 admitted the inconsistencies of a policy which sought to maintain the status quo at Gibraltar and Suez, yet was unprepared to grant the Soviet Union similar privileges at the Straits (or in the Baltic). As the Allied delegations arrived in Potsdam, however, Eden remained uncompromising, challenging Soviet interest ‘in such matters as Tangier and the Levant.’ Like Sargent, Eden asserted Britain’s right to be treated as a ‘Great Power with interests everywhere,’ yet was unwilling to concede the same right to the Soviet Union. Eden admitted that ‘there is no reason why Russia should not be allowed free access to the Mediterranean,’ but did not wish to concede this point freely, despite Churchill’s statements at Tehran and Moscow. He wrote forcefully to the Prime Minister in mid-July. (W)hile we agree that the Russians should be free to enter the Mediterranean, they have not yet freedom to get out of it . . . Russia’s next request may be for a position at Tangier where they may give us much more trouble. And is their interest in the Lebanon a first stage to an interest in Egypt, which is quite the last place we want them . . .?96 Eden’s sensitivity to challenges in the Mediterranean was reflected in the rhetorical escalation of each perceived threat; concessions at the Straits

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would see the Soviet Union established at Tangier, Soviet participation in the Levant settlement would expose Egypt. As Lawrence Pratt made clear in his study of Britain’s pre-war Mediterranean crisis, Eden’s opposition to Italian imperialism during the 1930s was driven not by the question ‘democracy or fascism?’ but ‘who rules the Mediterranean?’97 If some, such as Peterson, were already making comparisons between Stalin’s treatment of Turkey and Hitler’s methods in pre-war Europe,98 Eden was perhaps thinking of Mussolini. Having failed to see off one set of ‘have not’ imperialists in the Mediterranean, Eden was anxious to thwart another. Churchill ignored Eden’s pleas, emphasising his ‘settled policy of welcoming Russia’s appearance on the oceans’.99 He did so, not simply because he was ‘under Stalin’s spell,’ as Eden believed,100 but because, in Churchill’s pungent phrase, it would have been ‘like breeding pestilence’ to deny the principle to another Great Power in such outspoken terms. Indeed, Geoffrey Roberts suggests that the Anglo-American challenge to Soviet prestige and patriotic identity as a ‘Great Power’ contributed significantly to tensions in the eastern Mediterranean (and elsewhere), and to the deterioration of the Grand Alliance.101 The limits of Churchill’s verbal agreements with Stalin were finally reached when the Straits were discussed at Potsdam.102 Churchill reiterated his support for Straits revision in favour of Russia, but expressed concern at the manner in which Molotov had dealt with Selim Sarper, which had alarmed the Turks and would make it difficult to persuade them to accept a new Straits convention.103 Molotov replied that Turkey had requested a treaty of alliance, and he had presented the terms. He described Turkish possession of Kars and Ardahan as ‘unjust,’ and circulated a paper articulating Soviet proposals for bases at the Straits, and a Soviet–Turkish condominium there, of the kind sought at Montreux in 1936, and in October 1939.104 Churchill described the question of bases as ‘entirely fresh,’ and ‘far beyond anything discussed between Premier Stalin and himself’ at their meetings in Tehran, Moscow and Yalta105 His astonishment indicates that the British had never accepted the German reports of Soviet claims for bases in 1940. None of the FO papers since Molotov presented the Soviet terms on 8 June had acknowledged these antecedents, nor had the reports prepared by the COS apparatus: initial reports of Soviet demands in June 1945 had come as a ‘rude shock’ to the Southern Department. Not until late August was any connection made between declared Soviet ambitions and ‘the German propaganda which accompanied the attack on Russia,’ alleging Soviet demands for military bases

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at the Straits in 1940.106 Clear British recognition of the continuity in Soviet ambitions did not occur until the testimony of interrogated German prisoners, and research into captured German archives, was assimilated during the second half of 1945 and early 1946.107 This myopia was despite the availability in 1940 of intelligence that suggested Soviet ambitions in Turkey, and the periodic articulation of these allegations, since 1941, in diplomatic SIGINT with no propaganda function. Stalin asserted the sincerity of his concern for Kars and Ardahan, declaring that ‘Kars was part of Armenia, and Ardahan was part of Georgia.’ He reiterated Soviet objections to Montreux, which allowed ‘a small State (Turkey), supported by Great Britain, [to hold] a great State (Russia) by the throat,’ and again played his trump card. ‘Imagine what a commotion would be raised in Great Britain if a similar regime existed at Gibraltar or the Suez canal, and in the United States in the case of the Panama Canal!’ Soviet rights of passage ‘must be guaranteed by force,’ as at Panama and Suez.108 Fortunately for the British, the conference was diverted by consideration of President Truman’s paper on ‘Free & Unrestricted Navigation of Inland Waterways.’ Although not directly applicable to the Straits, which was not an ‘inland waterway,’ the Truman paper introduced the principle of internationalisation, on which Churchill seized as an alternative to military bases at the Straits.109 The FO agreed that Truman’s proposals offered ‘another way of meeting Russia’s legitimate aspirations for freedom of the Straits,’ although they doubted that the Soviets would accept another ‘paper agreement.’ The British attitude to Suez was similar; the Canal was technically free to all ships in peace and war, ‘but . . . we have so little confidence in it that we keep troops there. This is all [Stalin] wishes to do in the Straits.’110

Attlee and the post-war transition There was a further period of inertia in the coming weeks, as attention switched to the war in the Pacific, and the US State Department waited in vain for President Truman to expand further on his proposals for internationalisation.111 In the short term, British diplomacy was in stasis while they awaited an American initiative,112 although, as we shall see, this did not prevent a thoroughgoing – and robust – discussion of the principles of British policy towards Turkey and the Soviet Union. Despite the reduced status of the British Empire, when set against the emerging superpowers of the United States and the Soviet Union, Turkey

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continued to cling to the British alliance as the only tangible guarantee, however tenuous, of military assistance in the event of a Soviet invasion.113 Recent archival research concludes ‘that Ankara seems to have been unaware of the British intention, which planned to send “next to nothing” in the way of help to Turkey in the initial phases of a major war,’114 and British representatives in Turkey in the post-war period ‘felt embarrassed by the general belief . . . that large British and American forces would be fighting alongside the Turks almost immediately after they were attacked.’115 The reasons for such a disingenuous British policy towards Turkey were articulated by Attlee, the FO and the COS during the spring and summer of 1945. Initially concerned that British support would be less forthcoming if Labour won the General Election, the Turks rapidly realised that the new government would not undertake a radical revision of British foreign policy.116 Nonetheless, the advent of the new Prime Minister, Clement Attlee, was significant for British policy towards Turkey. While still Deputy Prime Minister, Attlee had been concerned about Eden’s intransigent attitude towards Soviet intervention in the Mediterranean, and the Chiefs’ ambitions to preserve the status quo at Gibraltar, Suez and the Straits. The Chiefs’ attachment to Gibraltar and Suez, and their conception of a Soviet threat from the Baltic and the Black Sea, were ‘unrealistic in view of air warfare and . . . based on a obsolete conception of imperial defence derived from the naval era.’ As well as challenging the Soviet Union’s status as a ‘Great Power,’ the perpetuation of Britain’s ‘special interest’ in key strategic points required the assumption of responsibilities ‘which we shall be a little [sic] fitted to undertake in the economic conditions of the post-war period.’117 Eden’s response reflected his preoccupation with Mediterranean affairs. He challenged Attlee’s assertion that the defence expenditure required to maintain a ‘special interest’ at Gibraltar and Suez would be ‘intolerable,’ and declared that the war had shown these areas to be ‘vital to our national existence.’118 Yet the war had also shown how delicate the British hold over these areas was. Spanish belligerency on the German side, or a German occupation of Spain, would have imperilled Gibraltar. So, too, would an Axis occupation of Malta, the intended objective before Rommel diverted his resources towards Suez in the summer of 1942; an assault which the British resisted with substantial American material assistance.119 The Axis had mined the Canal, which was closed to Allied shipping from February 1941, necessitating a lengthy diversion via the Cape and the Indian Ocean.120 Eden recognised Britain’s diminished post-war strength, but was torn between

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recognition of this unpalatable truth and his desire ‘to make the best of a bad job and stick to the foreign policy objectives which he had held throughout.’121 Eden was not alone in experiencing this tension. Britain’s post-war leaders were committed to an enduring ‘world role,’ even if they disagreed over the direction it should take; Attlee’s internationalism also translated into a desire to see Britain play a strong role on the world stage.122 Withdrawal from the eastern Mediterranean and Middle East was incompatible with the collective worldview of the British leadership. They were convinced that these areas were essential to their continued standing as a world power, and that prestige must be maintained there until British strength reasserted itself after a period of post-war crisis.123 Attlee differed from Eden and many of his contemporaries in his appreciation of how British ‘special interests’ in the Mediterranean must appear from Moscow. His position was closer to that articulated by Sir Stafford Cripps in 1940. ‘(W)e hold Gibraltar and have taken part in the international control of Tangier. We, with the French as junior partner, have had in our hands the Suez Canal. Egypt from the Russian point of view is a British satellite.’ He believed that Soviet demands on Turkey, their interest in Tangier, the Levant and Libya ‘are all expressions of the determination of Russia to assert an equal right to have free access to the oceans and to be in a strategic position to enforce this right if necessary. This is not unnatural in the second greatest power in the world.’124 Attlee reiterated that, whether or not the Soviet Union obtained a military base at the Straits, Turkey ‘is at the mercy of Russia as indeed without the support of other powers she has been for decades.’ The unspoken conclusion to this statement was ‘. . . and post-war Britain will be in no state to offer that support,’ an unpalatable reality first addressed by the Northern Department of the Foreign Office in 1943. ‘(I)f Russia wants to control the Dardanelles, how are we going to stop her?’ Attlee’s election as Prime Minister compelled the FO to consider the implications of this correspondence, and the American proposals for internationalisation of the Straits, for British policy towards Turkey. The head of the Reconstruction Department, Gladwyn Jebb, prepared an important paper which closed the wartime phase of Britain’s Turkey policy, and sketched out the issues which would dominate the post-war period. Jebb admitted the acuity of Attlee’s analysis of the situation in the Mediterranean. Exclusive British control of Suez, while refusing to yield control of the Straits to the Soviet Union, ‘is clearly illogical,’ and

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could only be maintained by frank admission ‘that neither we nor the Americans wish them to have such bases, and are, if necessary, prepared to oppose any such claim . . . by force.’ The alternative was to regularise the position, conceding bases at the Straits or Soviet participation in control of Suez. Jebb insisted that this remained a vital issue, despite Attlee’s dismissal of ‘obsolete’ occupation of strategic points. Future developments in warfare, such as the replacement of conventional air power with rockets or long-range missiles, might require land and sea bases for the establishment of launch sites and anti-aircraft or anti-rocket batteries.125 Attlee was nonetheless correct to assert that ‘we are not in a position to resist a Russian claim physically to dominate the Straits.’ The Chiefs had accepted this in April 1945.126 As had been apparent to far-sighted observers since 1943, Turkish control of the Straits was no longer a vital strategic concern, since that control could be menaced by Soviet bases in Bulgaria. These bases could also replicate the wider threat to British interests posed by Soviet control of the Straits. Britain must instead neutralise these threats – in Bulgaria, and/or at the Straits – by the retention of bases elsewhere in the eastern Mediterranean. More important was the struggle for ‘political control’ of Turkey, the very articulation of which indicated the extent to which perceptions of Turkey had altered since 1939. Previously seen as a strong and independent small power, even a recent ‘ex-Great Power,’ Turkey was now a pawn in the rivalry between Britain and the Soviet Union. Despite Britain’s desire to see Turkey remain ‘fully independent and sovereign,’ the British sought to tie Turkey to the bloc of ‘our’ countries in the Mediterranean, including Greece and Italy, which must be built up in response to the Soviet bloc in Bulgaria, Romania and Yugoslavia. Attlee, Jebb and Roger Allen all recognised this impulse, the latter observing that the Soviets had an advantage over Britain as a result of their more extreme political control over ‘their’ countries.127 The Soviet Union must be denied political influence in Turkey because of Turkey’s strategic importance as the anti-Soviet bulwark in the Middle East. This would be lost if Turkey followed Romania and Bulgaria, and ‘[drifted] into the position of a Soviet satellite,’ a development which Jebb anticipated if Turkish sovereignty was undermined at the Straits, again reflecting concerns first expressed in 1943. ‘The Russians . . . have as their immediate objectives the physical control of the Straits and the political control of Turkey . . . The achievement of either objective would be almost certain to involve the achievement of the other.’128

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As Attlee apprehended, and the FO and COS had come to realise during 1944–45, ‘the situation in Bulgaria and Rumania is such that, in the event of war, Russia would have little difficulty in attacking Turkish Thrace, and in eventually gaining control of the Straits.’ Under existing circumstances, however, ‘(s)uch an action . . . would probably be resisted by Turkey, who might at least delay the advance of the USSR, thus allowing us additional time to build up and develop our defences in the Aegean.’129 Peterson agreed that the Soviets were concerned ‘that such service as Turkey rendered to the Allies during the war [as] a buffer State between the Axis in the Balkans and the area of the Middle East is today capable of being transformed into a similar check on Soviet ambitions.’130 In late March the PHPS had revisited Turkey’s role on the Northern Front, vital to the security of the Middle East in 1941–42. Warning of a possible Russian land advance through Turkey and/or Iran, the Planners recalled that ‘Turkish neutrality has served in the present war as a valuable bastion to our Middle East defences,’ but regretted that it would be impossible to pursue a post-war military alliance ‘without arousing Soviet suspicions.’ Britain’s limited material resources ‘would severely restrict the assistance we could provide [in return for Turkish co-operation in resisting the Soviet Union]. Land forces are not likely to be available to go to her aid.’ Turkey would instead be supported by naval and air forces, which would ‘add depth to our defences and be in a position to take offensive action against Soviet airfields, and shipping in the Black Sea and Dardanelles.’ As in 1942, when Germany appeared likely to reach the Turkish frontier and launch an assault on the Northern Front, ‘we should discourage . . . the development of any communications which would serve the purpose of a Soviet advance on Syria or Iraq.’131 Britain could offer little assistance in the event of a Soviet attack, but Turkey must be encouraged to resist, to ‘add depth’ to British defences which would again be concentrated further south. Hence it remained essential to maintain Turkish morale, and hide the true nature of British defence plans.132 As in 1941–42, Turkey was essential as a self-sacrificing bulwark, resisting a military threat to the British Empire. Political subordination to the Soviet Union would undermine that bulwark, in the Mediterranean and on the Northern Front. This was the logic behind British support for Turkey at the Straits in the summer of 1945, despite the serious questions raised by Attlee. Turkey must not be allowed to fall under Soviet control – the anticipated concomitant of regime change at the Straits – since such a development would remove the cloak of credibility, which,

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while Turkey remained independent, masked the extreme weakness in the Middle East that had characterised the British position since 1941. British support for Turkey was conditional, and attitudes towards the alliance remained equivocal. Turkey’s Balkan role had been reduced to the rump Greek–Turkish axis in the eastern Mediterranean, and it had become a potential point of conflict with the Soviet Union, rather than a ‘bridge’ between east and west. Concerns also remained about Turkey’s internal situation – particularly its political system – which further constrained an alliance restricted by the paucity of British material support ever since its conception in 1939. Nonetheless, the extent to which the Anglo-Turkish connection remained intact seems remarkable, compared to the state of the relationship 18 months earlier, when Eden and the FO had anticipated the termination of the Kemalist republic at the hands of a vengeful Soviet Union, and Churchill had announced ‘the end of the alliance between Britain and Turkey.’133

Conclusion

Britain’s relationship with Turkey had, by the summer of 1945, moved through five years of disappointments and disagreements to assume a very different character to that which had existed in June 1940. The prevailing pre-war image of Turkey – as a robust, dynamic, modernising state, the ‘natural leader’ of the Balkan nations, and a ‘bridge’ between the Soviet Union and the western democracies – had been comprehensively dismantled. In 1939, perceptions of Turkey as a friend and partner of the Soviet Union had been challenged by the Nazi–Soviet pact and aggressive Soviet diplomacy which sought to disrupt the Anglo-Turkish alliance. Chapter 1 established that the British were cognisant of Soviet ambitions for territorial revision in the Caucasus, but did not understand the extent of their demands for military bases at the Straits, as revealed to the Germans in November 1940. The British attitude towards Soviet– Turkish relations during this period was schizophrenic: they recognised the deterioration in that relationship since 1939, yet hoped that a Soviet–Turkish rapprochement could be facilitated, thus creating a credible ‘anti-Hitler’ front in eastern Europe. Yet there was also anxiety that Soviet–Turkish collaboration, if it was possible, might instead be directed against the British Empire in the eastern Mediterranean or the Middle East. Chapter 2 demonstrated the distorting effect on British strategy and diplomacy of the prevailing pre-war image of Turkey as the ‘leading’ Balkan nation. Throughout the winter of 1940–41 the British persevered with efforts to align Turkey to a ‘stalemate front’ in the Balkans, despite gathering evidence which indicated Turkey’s disengagement from Balkan affairs, and Allied failure to convince the Axis that a Balkan Front was a credible military proposition. In the wake of Germany’s 189

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subjugation of the Balkans in the spring of 1941, there was a wave of anti-Turkish vitriol in London, but its immediate consequences were limited by the increasingly urgent threat to the British Empire in the Middle East. The Axis takeover of the Balkans, the antipathy of the Greek and Yugoslav governments in exile, and notional plans for a comprehensive, post-war Balkan confederation created a climate in which Turkey’s Balkan credentials were understood to be increasingly equivocal. The summer of 1941 saw the British paying closer attention to Turkey’s Middle Eastern credentials than at any point since the establishment of the republic. Faced with successive crises in Iraq and Syria, Churchill sought Turkish collaboration in eliminating pro-Axis regimes in both countries, but Eden recognised that the Turks saw both episodes as acid tests of British strength in the Middle East, and would not intervene on the Allied side until that strength had been demonstrated – against the Germans in North Africa, rather than the Italians or Vichy French. Anglo-Turkish antagonism over the occupation of Iran, in August 1941, reflected Turkish anxiety about collaboration between Britain and the Soviet Union, and was seen in Ankara as an ominous portent for recalcitrant neutrals in the region. Ultimately, however, the British (and the Russians) were in no position to undertake a similar operation in Turkey: in fact, the British relied on Turkish resistance to protect the Northern Front of the Middle Eastern theatre, in the event of a Soviet collapse in the Caucasus. This bogey haunted senior British officials – including Eden and Sir Alan Brooke – throughout 1941 and 1942, and was taken altogether more seriously that Churchill’s war memoirs allow. Chapter 4 covered the period during the winter of 1942–43, when Winston Churchill exercised a decisive influence on British policy towards Turkey, albeit with the crucial support of the CIGS, Brooke. Churchill’s ambitions for Turkish belligerency were informed by his personal strategic concept, dating back to at least the First World War, but also reflected the improving war situation, as seen through British eyes, in the autumn of 1942. Churchill invoked the qualified approval of Roosevelt and Stalin in support of his Turkish gambit, but equally significant was the impact of his own considerable personal authority in achieving the acquiescence, if not active support, of the FO and HM Embassy in Ankara. Churchill’s mercurial performance at the Anglo-Turkish conference at Adana led to almost completely divergent interpretations of the conference in London and Ankara: the Turks assumed Prime Ministerial support for their continuing neutrality,

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and British support against Soviet imperialism, whereas the British anticipated an imminent Turkish declaration of war on the Axis. This optimism endured for several weeks, despite contemporaneous evidence of bad Turkish behaviour, and poor relations between Turkey and Britain’s other Balkan allies. Once again, realisation of their own errors caused the British to react with vitriol to the latest example of Turkish ‘twisting.’ Contemporaneous internal problems in Turkey – in stark contrast to pre-war propaganda hailing the success of Turkish ‘modernisation’ – led to drastic assertions about the revival of ‘oriental’ Turkey and the ‘Sick Man of Europe.’ Chapter 5 explored Turkish reactions to the Anglo-Soviet alliance against Hitler, from the winter of 1941–42 to the summer of 1943. Turkish anxiety at the possibility of a post-war Anglo-Soviet condominium in Europe – and specifically of a British ‘sell-out’ of Turkey to the Soviet Union – was clearly expressed in intercepted SIGINT, and the British were increasingly convinced that Soviet–Turkish antagonism was ‘axiomatic’ or ‘atavistic.’ While the Soviets’ robust diplomacy was often difficult to take, the British believed that Soviet foreign policy had been revolutionised by the experience of war against Hitler, and chastised the Turks for accepting German ‘propaganda’ and clinging to outdated perceptions of the ‘bad old’ Soviet Union. Chapter 6 explored an abortive review of policy towards Turkey, triggered by the FO, which raised for the first time the key issues that dominated relations between Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union during 1943–45. FO hopes for a virtual end to the wartime alliance between Britain and Turkey were vetoed by the Chiefs of Staff (COS). The Chiefs did not wish to forfeit the possibility of future Turkish belligerency, although they conceded that this was unlikely before 1944 at the earliest – a consequence of increasing American influence in Allied strategy, which was now directed to an invasion of north-western Europe, at the expense of the Mediterranean theatre. The Chiefs also sought to defend Turkey’s traditional role as the guardian of the Straits, denying a Soviet naval presence in the Mediterranean. This was despite the warning of Britain’s post-war planners that Soviet air power could menace British interests in the Mediterranean from bases in the Balkans, regardless of the status of the Straits. The Planners emphasised that Britain’s Middle Eastern oil interests were now so great that the Straits ought to be sacrificed if by doing so the Soviet Union could be diverted from the Persian Gulf, while those responsible for Soviet policy in the FO wondered precisely how Britain might resist a strong Soviet Union at the Straits or in the Middle East, in the event that a confrontation developed there.

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

The Italian armistice brought Churchill back into the fray, throwing policy into a state of flux with his ambitions for an Anglo-Turkish campaign in the Aegean. The miscarriage of this gambit – launched without Turkish assistance in the autumn of 1943 – had a significant influence on Churchill’s personal attitude towards Turkey during 1944. Chapter 7 continued the story in the context of the Allied conferences that took place in the autumn of 1943. British policy towards Turkey was increasingly constrained by the ambivalent attitude of the United States: a fact that was exploited by the Soviet Union to pursue its own objective of estranging Turkey from the British alliance. Churchill’s enduring ambition for a campaign in the eastern Mediterranean, and an Anglo-Soviet ‘junction’ via the Black Sea, was integral to increasingly desultory British efforts to bring Turkey into the war. The final abortion of these hopes by the end of 1943 – and the rough treatment dished out to Eden during Anglo-Turkish conversations in Cairo – ushered in a period of private vitriol and public ‘aloofness’ towards Turkey which endured until the success of Operation ‘Overlord’ in the west, and the great Soviet offensive (‘Bagration’) in the east in the summer of 1944. These combined to produce a change in Turkish foreign policy – including the cessation of all relations with Germany – sufficient to achieve a significant improvement in Anglo-Turkish relations. The phenomenal success of ‘Bagration’ – and the penetration of Soviet influence deep into south-eastern Europe – also triggered a change of heart at the FO, where Eden was now eager to ‘keep close to Turkey.’ Crucially, however, Churchill was not aware of this rapid volte-face. Eden and the FO responded to ‘Bagration’ by attempting to resurrect Turkey as a Balkan power, this time as a conduit for British influence against a rival Great Power (the USSR), rather than as the pre-war guarantor of Balkan neutrality. However, Turkey’s presence in the Balkans was now divisive: Turkey was seen as anti-Russian and anti-Slav, while even Greece was ambivalent about Turkey’s Balkan credentials. The Yugoslav government in exile was increasingly eager to bolster non-communist forces in the region, but Tito certainly was not, to say nothing of Stalin and the Russians. By the spring of 1945, British ambitions to project their influence into the Balkans via Turkey had been reduced to a rump Greek–Turkish axis in the eastern Mediterranean. Events in the summer of 1944 awakened Eden to the strategic consequences for the eastern Mediterranean of Soviet hegemony in the Balkans, although he believed that he had secured a quid pro quo at the October 1944 Anglo-Soviet conference in Moscow, confirming the Mediterranean as a British sphere of influence. A growing realisation

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that he was mistaken informed Eden’s anxiety and alarm at Russian diplomacy in the spring and summer of 1945, although the official British response to Soviet claims on Turkey – in the Caucasus and at the Straits – was complicated by the reading of diplomatic SIGINT. This indicated that the Turkish government had mishandled relations with the Soviet Union in the preceding weeks, had undertaken clandestine negotiations for a new Soviet–Turkish alliance (albeit parallel to, rather than, as the Soviets insisted, instead of, the British alliance), and had misled the British ambassador in Ankara about the tone and content of the demands made by the Soviet government. Contemporaneous debates on future strategy in the eastern Mediterranean wrestled with the strategic implications of Soviet hegemony in the Balkans, but failed to articulate a credible British response to possible Soviet ambitions in the Mediterranean. This reflected both the absolute limits on British military capabilities, and also the contradictory diplomatic position adopted by Eden but challenged by Attlee: as a Great Power, Britain had the right to exert its influence everywhere (including the Balkans and eastern Europe) but the Soviet Union must be denied similar rights in the ‘British sphere’ in the Mediterranean. Churchill and Eden had been at loggerheads during the winter of 1944–45, with the Prime Minister sympathetic to Soviet demands for Straits revision, but even Churchill was shaken by the extent of Russian demands in the summer of 1945, repeated at Potsdam. Churchill and Eden left office abruptly in the summer of 1945, but British support for Turkey endured. Although the opportunities for activism were limited by US inertia, the principles of British policy were there: a politically independent Turkey was necessary to resist an attack on the Middle East, either from the Balkans or the Caucasus, as during 1941–42. This was despite British impotence to assist Turkey, again as in 1941–42: at the last resort, Turkey must continue to ‘defend us’ in the eastern Mediterranean and Middle East.

Diplomatic SIGINT How are we to assess the role of diplomatic SIGINT in this story? The British possessed comprehensive Turkish intercepts (or intercepts from neutral, Allied and Axis diplomats in Turkey) which threw light on otherwise obscure aspects of Turkish foreign policy. On several occasions such decrypts proved invaluable. They demonstrated the deterioration of Soviet–Turkish relations, particularly after 1941, and the depth of Turkish anxiety about Anglo-Soviet collaboration against Hitler. Decrypts during 1943–44 showed that Turkish and Soviet ambitions in

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

the Balkans were increasingly irreconcilable. They compelled the FO to address the deterioration of Turkish–Greek relations, and documented the evolving Turkish attitude towards the United States as a counterpoint – and potential successor – to British power in Europe and the Middle East. Yet the British also possessed intelligence which called into question their entire Turkish policy, but was nonetheless insufficient, or insufficiently understood, to have a decisive influence on British strategy or diplomacy. A striking example was the Adana policy, the tenets of which had been established by Churchill and Sir Alan Brooke in the autumn of 1942. This policy was pursued until the late spring of 1943, despite decrypts which challenged the assumption that Turkish policy had been revolutionised by Allied successes in North Africa and the Caucasus, and demonstrated that Turkey’s understanding of the Adana conference was quite different to Britain’s. Decrypts during 1940 also indicated the deterioration of the Balkan entente, to which the British were not reconciled until the spring of 1941. Perhaps most significantly, the impact of diplomatic SIGINT on British policy when Soviet demands against Turkey were stated in 1945 was in contrast to the limited impact made by earlier decrypts indicating similar Soviet ambitions during the period of the Nazi–Soviet Pact. The requirement – observed by all but Churchill – that decrypts sent to Whitehall ministries be destroyed after use perhaps made it difficult to apprehend gradually developing patterns, but this is not sufficient explanation for the failure of key decrypts to make a more immediate impact on British policy. As I have suggested elsewhere, we also need to consider the institutional and organisational limitations of wartime Whitehall – and particularly of the FO, the principal customer of intercepted diplomatic SIGINT – which marginalised challenging intelligence, however impeccable the source, and clung instead to that which supported and reinforced existing foreign policy axioms.1

Churchill and Eden Churchill’s involvement in Anglo-Turkish relations was important but episodic. His reading of ‘Ultra’ intelligence indicated a German build-up in the Balkans in the winter of 1940–41, directed against Britain rather than the Soviet Union. This coalesced with existing conceptions of Turkey’s regional role to encourage the establishment of a ‘Balkan Front,’ despite the Chiefs’ earlier recommendation that Turkey was of greater value as an anti-Nazi bulwark in the Middle East. Churchill sought

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Turkish belligerency in the autumn of 1942 – as a means of joining hands with the Soviet Union in the Black Sea and the Crimea, and precipitating the German retreat from the Balkans which he believed had contributed to victory in 1918. These ambitions were decisive in pursuing the Adana policy during 1943, although he also benefited from the support of Brooke and (initially) Eden, and the rhetorical backing of President Roosevelt. Churchill’s forthright views on Russian interests at the Straits – even before his disillusion with Turkey became apparent in late 1943 – cut a swathe through the Chiefs’ efforts to deny the Soviet Union passage from the Black Sea into the Mediterranean. Yet Churchill took little interest in Turkish affairs in the year following the invasion of the Soviet Union, despite Turkey’s importance for the defence of the ‘Northern Front.’ He contributed little to the policy review in the summer and autumn of 1943, save muddying the waters with contradictory instructions to divert Turkish supplies to the campaign in Italy, while urging Turkey to enter the war to liberate the Aegean and ‘give the hand’ to the Soviet Union via the Straits. He failed to grasp the strategic implications of Soviet hegemony in the Balkans for British interests in the Mediterranean after 1944, although he was quicker than Eden to recognise Britain’s poor bargaining position in south-eastern Europe. Eden emerges as a significant influence on Anglo-Turkish relations; as an advocate of the Balkan Front in the spring of 1941; as Churchill’s ally in the autumn of 1942 and remarkably quiescent opponent in the spring of 1943; as chief protagonist, if not instigator, of the policy of ‘aloofness’ in the first half of 1944; and, conversely, as the proponent of a renewed Anglo–Turkish–Greek alliance in the Mediterranean from the summer of 1944.

Images of Turkey Neither Churchill nor Eden was responsible for the broader cultural background which informed Anglo-Turkish relations before and during the Second World War, although Churchill contributed to its dissemination in his journalism, historical writing and radio broadcasts. Nor had they been responsible for the misconceived, or ‘insufficiently conceived,’2 British attitude to the alliance during the Phoney War, which resulted in its rapid miscarriage as a military instrument in the summer of 1940. The images of Turkey which dominated British thinking in 1939–40 were the product of an uncritical, exaggerated reading of the achievements of the Kemalist republic since 1923, and an over-optimistic, or

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Britain, Turkey and the Soviet Union, 1940–45

over-ambitious, conception of the role which Turkey could play – in the Balkans and the Mediterranean, and perhaps vis-à-vis the Soviet Union – in support of British diplomacy. One might call this ‘the search for a suitable Turkey’ with which Britain could work.3 Britons overestimated the extent to which the Kemalist programme of industrialisation, modernisation and ‘westernisation’ remained an ambitious wish list, rather than a completed project. Turkey’s international ambitions – to avoid another European war, prevent the Balkans from becoming the Great Powers’ ‘playground,’ and contain the Italian threat in the Mediterranean – resonated with Britain’s, while apparent amity between Turkey and the Soviet Union offered a possible route towards Soviet participation in an anti-Hitler front at the decade’s end. The errors and misperceptions in the British image of Turkey remained latent during the Phoney War, and were masked by Turkey’s apparent willingness to bind itself to the Allied cause in October 1939. The destruction of the European balance of power in 1940, the re-emergence of a Soviet threat to Turkish sovereignty, and the failure of the Balkan Front exposed the latent weaknesses in Turkey’s international position, and relegated Turkey to the canon of ‘small powers’ compelled to reach a quid pro quo with Hitler. It took time for the British to become cognisant of these developments. They hoped for more from Turkey than the retreat before overwhelming superior force chosen in 1941; a schizophrenic analysis which expected a strong and independent Turkey to take a stand against Germany, yet fall in line with a British imperial strategy in which smaller nations must commit ‘premature and possibly unnecessary immolation’ for the ‘common cause.’ The ‘Kemalist’ image of Turkey suffered badly during the Second World War. Some of the wartime ‘developments’ identified by the British – the introduction of the Varlık and corresponding anti-Semitic and anti-minority statements in the Turkish press, and the high incidence of profiteering, corruption and graft – were genuine. Others – such as realisation of the extreme limits of industrialisation and electrification outside the major cities – instead demonstrated that pre-war Britons had misperceived the pace and scale of the changes undertaken in the first two decades of the republic. Collectively, they were taken as disturbing evidence of a ‘return to Oriental ways’ in Turkey following the death of Kemal Atatürk. Having earlier applauded the firm entrenchment of the republic, the British now questioned the viability of Kemalist Turkey, and revisited prejudices which had lain dormant for 20 years, even speculating on the revival of imperial ambitions in the Middle East and the Caucasus.

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Although British strategic interests revived the Anglo-Turkish alliance in 1944–45, the terms on which it was conceived were now quite different. All that remained of the pre-war Balkan entente was the beleaguered Turkish–Greek connection, increasingly perceived as an anti-Slav, antiSoviet instrument. Turkey was relegated to the status of a pawn in the ‘diplomatic’ trial of strength between Britain and the Soviet Union. Turkey must not be allowed to fall under Moscow’s ‘political control,’ since it was an essential bulwark to the Soviet Union in the Mediterranean and on the ‘Northern Front,’ albeit one which might also be sacrificed – politically or militarily – in defence of British interests in the Mediterranean and Middle East. The Second World War saw a comprehensive reorientation of British perceptions of Turkey, and of Turkey’s place on the ‘mental map’ of British policymakers. While they lasted, the prevailing images or perceptions of Turkey during the 1930s and early 1940s exercised a remarkable influence on British policy, hence the qualified impact of intercepted SIGINT that challenged these images. Yet these idées fixes were not fixed at all, and gave way to new – and often very different – ideas which in their turn exercised a similar, if similarly brief, hold on the official mind. During the 1930s British statesmen had come to see Turkey as an important member, and loyal guarantor, of the post-First World War European order, albeit within the context of a Balkan sphere whose ‘European’ credentials were – to the British and other western nations – questionable. Frozen out of the Balkans by the Soviet Union, postSecond World War Turkey received Marshall Aid under the European Recovery Programme, but was excluded from the inaugural Council of Europe, and from the Brussels Pact and Western Union. The Cold War division of Europe and the strictly northern and western European responses to the Soviet bloc in the east marginalised Turkey as a ‘European’ nation in a manner which would have been unfamiliar to Britons in the 1930s. Britain opposed Turkish membership of the North Atlantic Treaty, and attempted to subordinate Turkey to a British Middle Eastern Command.4 Recent research into this period has emphasised British conceptions of Turkey as an adjunct to British diplomacy in Palestine/Israel and the Arab world, as well as an integral part of defence planning in the Middle East.5 It would require the intervention, in the late 1940s, of the United States – a largely peripheral player during the Second World War – to reassert the case for Turkey’s ‘European,’ or ‘Atlantic,’ role.6

Notes Introduction 1. AJP Taylor, English History, 1914–1945 (Oxford: OUP, 1965), p. 522. 2. For sentiments similar to Taylor’s, expressed in the memoirs of several protagonists and makers of British foreign policy during the Second World War, see Major General Sir Francis de Guingand, Operation Victory (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1947), p. 49; Bernard Fergusson, The Trumpet in the Hall, 1930–1958 (London: Collins, 1970), pp. 81–5; Lord Ismay, The Memoirs of General the Lord Ismay (London: Heinemann, 1960), pp. 322, 330–1; Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen, Diplomat in Peace & War (London: John Murray, 1949), pp. 203–4; Arthur S Gould Lee, Special Duties – Reminiscences of a Royal Air Force Staff Officer in the Balkans, Turkey and the Middle East (London: S Low, Marston & Co, 1946), p. 28; Sir John Lomax, Diplomatic Smuggler (London: A Barker, 1965), pp. 245–6; Geoffrey Thompson, Front-Line Diplomat (London: Hutchinson, 1959), p. 167. 3. For a concise account of the nature of this material, and the means by which it was gathered, see Robin Denniston, ‘Diplomatic Eavesdropping, 1922–44: A New Source Discovered,’ Intelligence & National Security 10:3 (1995), 423–48. 4. Robin Denniston, Churchill’s Secret War: Diplomatic Decrypts, the Foreign Office and Turkey, 1942–44 (Stroud: Sutton, 1997). 5. There is a complete run of diplomatic intercepts dating back to the early 1920s, although the period June–December 1938 is missing. 6. John Robertson, Turkey & Allied Strategy, 1941–45 (New York: Garland, 1986). 7. Gabriel Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion – Stalin & the German Invasion of Russia (London: Yale University Press, 1999). See also Geoffrey Roberts, Stalin’s Wars: From World War to Cold War, 1939–1953 (London: Yale University Press, 2006). 8. Vladimir O Pechatnov, ‘The Big Three After World War II: New Documents on Soviet Thinking about Post-War Relations with the United States and Great Britain,’ Cold War International History Project Working Paper 13 (1994/5). Artiom A Ulunian, ‘Soviet Cold War Perceptions of Turkey & Greece, 1945–48,’ Cold War History 3:2 (2003), 35–52. Sergei Mazov, ‘The USSR and the Former Italian Colonies, 1945–50,’ Cold War History 3:3 (2003), 49–78. See also El’vis Beytullayev, ‘Soviet Policy Towards Turkey, 1944–46’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Cambridge, 2005). 9. Sergo Beria, Beria, My Father – Inside Stalin’s Kremlin, Françoise Thom, ed. (London: Duckworth, 2001). 10. Selim Deringil, Turkish Foreign Policy During the Second World War: An ‘active’ Neutrality (Cambridge: CUP, 1989). 11. Ibid., pp. 3–4. Deringil acknowledges the influence of Metin Tamkoç, The Warrior Diplomats – Guardian of the National Security & Modernisation of Turkey (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1976). Tamkoç comprehensively 198

Notes

12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20. 21. 22.

23.

24. 25.

26.

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articulates the values and convictions which drove the Turkish oligarchy during the early republican period and the Second World War. Tamkoç, The Warrior Diplomats, pp. 300–1. Deringil, Turkish Foreign Policy, p. 58. Erik J Zürcher, Turkey – A Modern History, revised edition (London: IB Tauris, 1997). Dilek Barlas, Etatism & Diplomacy in Turkey – Economic & Foreign Policy Strategies in an Uncertain World, 1929–39 (Leiden: Brill, 1998). William Hale, Turkish Foreign Policy, 1774–2000 (London: Frank Cass, 2000). Cemil Koçak, ‘Some Views on the Turkish Single-Party Regime During the I˙ nönü Period’ in Touraj Atabaki and Erik J Zürcher, eds. Men of Order – Authoritarian Modernisation under Atatürk & Reza Shah (London: IB Tauris, 2004), pp. 113–29. Dilek Barlas, ‘Turkish Diplomacy in the Balkans and the Mediterranean – Opportunities and Limits for Middle-Power Activism in the 1930s,’ Journal of Contemporary History 40:3 (2005), 441–64. Brock Millman, The Ill-Made Alliance: Anglo-Turkish Relations, 1934–40 (London: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1998). Mustafa Bilgin, Britain and Turkey in the Middle East: Politics and Influence in the Early Cold War Era (London: IB Tauris, 2007). See, for example, RT Shannon, Gladstone and the Bulgarian Agitation 1876, 2nd edition (Hassocks, Sussex: Harvester Press, 1975). Keith Neilson, Britain and the Last Tsar: British Policy and Russia, 1894–1917 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1995). Joseph Heller, British Policy Towards the Ottoman Empire 1908–1914 (London: Frank Cass, 1983). Edward Weisband defines Pan-Turanism as ‘seeking unity among Turkish, Mongol, and Finnish-Ugrian peoples,’ and Pan-Turkism as ‘seeking unity of Turkish peoples.’ Edward Weisband, Turkish Foreign Policy, 1943–45: Small State Diplomacy & Great Power Politics (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton UP, 1973), p. 237. During the Second World War, the British used these terms interchangeably. Hew Strachan, The First World War, vol. 1 (Oxford: OUP, 2001). David Lloyd George, quoted in Akaby Nassibian, Britain & the Armenian Question, 1915–23 (London: Croom Helm, 1984), p. 53. Mark Mazower gives a figure of between 800,000 and 1.3 million dead. Mark Mazower, Dark Continent – Europe’s Twentieth Century (London: Allen Lane, 1998), p. 61. On the performance of the Ottoman army during the First World War, see Edward J Erickson, Ottoman Army Effectiveness in World War I (Abingdon, Oxfordshire: Routledge, 2007). George Rendel, The Sword & the Olive (London: John Murray, 1957), pp. 16–17. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 2/39/93-100, Churchill to Sir Edward Grey, 22 September 1909. Winston S Churchill, The World Crisis – The Aftermath (London: T Butterworth, 1929), pp. 355–6. Martin Gilbert, Winston S Churchill, vol. III, 1914–16 (London: Heinemann, 1971), pp. 188–9. Cabinet notes, 16 September 1914; Martin Gilbert, ed. Winston S Churchill, vol. III – Companion, Part 1 (London: Heinemann, 1972), pp. 119–20 [emphasis in original].

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Notes

27. Churchill memorandum, 23 November 1920, cited in Martin Gilbert, Winston S Churchill, vol. IV, 1916–22 (London: Heinemann, 1975), pp. 497–8. 28. Bülent Gökay, A Clash of Empires – Turkey between Russian Bolshevism and British Imperialism, 1918–23 (London: Tauris Academic Studies, 1997), pp. 57, 86. 29. Ivar Spector, The Soviet Union & the Muslim World, 1917–58 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1967 reprint), p. 73. 30. Harish Kapur, Soviet Russia & Asia, 1917–27 (London: Joseph, 1966), pp. 101–3, 106. Gökay, Clash of Empires, p. 150. 31. Stephen F Evans, The Slow Rapprochement – Britain & Turkey in the Age of Kemal Atatürk, 1919–1938 (Beverley, North Humberside: Eothen Press, 1982), pp. 45–6. 32. David Walder, The Chanak Affair (London: Hutchinson, 1969). 33. Gökay, Clash of Empires, p. 154. 34. Arnold Toynbee, Acquaintances (London: OUP, 1967), pp. 248–9. 35. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 22/146, Sir Ronald Lindsay to Sir Austen Chamberlain, 21 July 1926. 36. Barlas, Etatism & Diplomacy, pp. 96–7, 111. 37. Evans, Slow Rapprochement, pp. 95, 97. 38. Maxim Litvinov, Notes for a Journal (London: A Deutsch, 1955), pp. 106–7. Even during the armistice and early republican periods, the Bolshevik government had permitted the Comintern to continue its attacks on Kemal’s anti-communism, and publish articles reiterating Soviet interest in the Straits. ‘(T)here was an alternative policy which the Soviet Government could pursue if Turkey went too far in compromising with the West.’ Kapur, Soviet Russia and Asia, pp. 120–3. 39. Churchill, Aftermath, pp. 360–1, 368, 455. 40. Harold Temperley, cited in Nassibian, Britain & the Armenian Question, p. 257. 41. Philip Graves, Briton & Turk (London: Hutchinson, 1941), p. 187. Philip Paneth, Turkey – Decadence & Rebirth (London: Alliance Press, 1943), pp. 86–8. 42. Sir Percy Loraine to Sir John Simon, no. 335, 7 July 1934; British Documents on Foreign Affairs [hereafter BDFA], Part II, Series B, vol. 33; Bülent Gökay, ed. (Bethesda, Maryland: University Publications of America, 1997), p. 134. 43. Rendel, The Sword & the Olive, pp. 67–8. 44. James Morgan to Simon, no. 400, 28 October 1933; BDFA, Part II, Series B, vol. 33, p. 42. 45. Loraine to Simon, no. 60, 31 January 1935 (annual report for 1934); BDFA, Part II, Series B, vol. 33, p. 168. On the Balkan Pact, see Mustafa Türke¸s, ‘The Balkan Pact and Its Immediate Implications for the Balkan States, 1930–34,’ Middle Eastern Studies 30:1 (1994), 123–44. 46. On Balkanism, see Maria Todorova, Imagining the Balkans (Oxford: OUP, 1997) and ‘Afterthoughts on Imagining the Balkans,’ Harvard Middle Eastern & Islamic Review 5 (1999–2000), 125–48. Also Vesna Goldsworthy, Inventing Ruritania – The Imperialism of the Imagination (London: Yale UP, 1998). On the British Foreign Office and Balkanism during the 1920s, see Patrick Finney, ‘Raising Frankenstein: Great Britain, “Balkanism” and the Search for a Balkan Locarno in the 1920s,’ European History Quarterly 33:3 (2003), 317–42.

Notes

201

47. Loraine to Anthony Eden, no. 60, 28 January 1937 (annual report for 1936); BDFA, Part II, Series B, vol. 34; Bülent Gökay, ed. (Bethesda, Maryland: University Publications of America, 1997), p. 131. Barlas, ‘Turkish Diplomacy in the Balkans and the Mediterranean,’ 446. 48. Tamkoç, Warrior Diplomats, pp. 182–4. 49. Ferenc A Vali, Bridge Across the Bosporus – The Foreign Policy of Turkey (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1971), pp. 274–6. 50. Ibid., pp. 276–7. 51. Sir George Clerk to Simon, no. 250, 21 July 1932; BDFA, Part II, Series B, vol. 32; Bülent Gökay, ed. (Bethesda, Maryland: University Publications of America, 1997), p. 299. 52. Zürcher, Turkey, p. 194. 53. Andrew Mango, Atatürk (London: John Murray, 1999), pp. 479–80. Andrew Mango, The Turks Today (London: John Murray, 2004), p. 25. 54. Erik J Zürcher, ‘Institution Building in the Kemalist Republic: The Role of the People’s Party’ in Atabaki and Zürcher, eds. Men of Order, p. 106. 55. Loraine to Eden, no. 60, 28 January 1937 (annual report for 1936); BDFA, Part II, Series B, vol. 34, p. 131. 56. Barlas, Etatism & Diplomacy in Turkey, p. 129. 57. Anthony R Deluca, Great Power Rivalry at the Turkish Straits – The Montreux Conference & the Convention of 1936 (Boulder, Colorado: East European Quarterly, 1981), p. 125. Lawrence R Pratt, East of Malta, West of Suez – Britain’s Mediterranean Crisis, 1936–1939 (Cambridge: CUP, 1975), pp. 143–4. The Soviet delegation also emphasised the extent to which the Straits not only linked the Soviet Union to the outside world, but also linked the disparate parts of the USSR itself. Deluca, Great Power Rivalry, p. 53. 58. Ibid., pp. 124, 132. Morgan to Simon, no. 400, 28 October 1933; BDFA, Part II, Series B, vol. 33, p. 42. 59. James T Shotwell and Francis Deak, Turkey at the Straits – A Short History (New York: Macmillan, 1940), pp. 126–7. 60. Philip Paneth, Turkey at the Crossroads – A Pictorial Record (London: Alliance Press, 1943), pp. 38–9. 61. John Parker MP and Charles Smith, Modern Turkey (London: G Routledge & Sons, 1940), p. 60. 62. Millman, Ill-Made Alliance, p. 248. 63. David Dutton, Anthony Eden – A Life & Reputation (London: Arnold, 1997), pp. 46–7. 64. Anglo-French staff talks did not address the Mediterranean, and an April 1938 plan for war in Europe assumed Britain, France and Belgium engaged against Germany, with the rest of the world neutral. NH Gibbs, History of the Second World War – Grand Strategy, vol. I (London: HMSO, 1976), pp. 632–5. 65. For a comprehensive account of the British guarantee policy, and its subsequent failure, see DC Watt, How War Came (London: Heinemann, 1989). 66. Hale, Turkish Foreign Policy, pp. 64–5. 67. Brock Millman, ‘Turkish Foreign & Strategic Policy, 1934–42,’ Middle Eastern Studies 31:2 (1995), 488–92.

202

Notes

68. The full text of the treaty of alliance is reproduced in Millman, The Ill-Made Alliance. 69. Brock Millman, ‘Credit & Supply in Turkish Foreign Policy and the Tripartite Alliance of October 1939: A Note,’ International History Review 16:1 (1994), 71. 70. HW 12/246, 077474 Numan Menemencio˘ glu (London) to Ministry of Foreign Affairs [hereafter MFA] Ankara, sent 2 December 1939 (decrypted 9 December); 077611 Menemencio˘ glu to MFA Ankara, 9 December 1939 (15 December). 71. Deringil, Turkish Foreign Policy, pp. 27–8, 83. Watt, How War Came, p. 306. 72. See the comments of Winston Churchill, Lloyd George and Sir Archibald Sinclair on 19 May 1939. Parliamentary Debates, 5th series [Commons], vol. 347, columns 1814, 1873. 73. Millman, ‘Turkish Foreign & Strategic Policy,’ 488–92. 74. Roberts, Stalin’s Wars, pp. 45–6. 75. See the comments of Sir Archibald Sinclair on 26 October 1939; Parliamentary Debates, 5th series [Commons], vol. 352, column 162. 76. Manchester Guardian, ‘Turkey & Russia,’ 19 October 1939, p. 6; Spectator, ‘Turkey’s Courageous Diplomacy,’ 20 October 1939, p. 530; New Statesman & Nation, ‘Our Turkish Ally,’ 21 October 1939, p. 538. 77. Churchill BBC broadcasts, 1 October and 12 November 1939, and 20 January 1940; Churchill War Papers, vol. 1, At the Admiralty, September 1939–May 1940 Martin Gilbert, ed. (London: Heinemann, 1993), pp. 194, 361, 670. 78. FO 195/2462, Sir Orme Sargent to Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen, 15 February 1940; Hugessen to Sargent, 24 February 1940; Robert George (air attaché Ankara) to Hugessen, 1 March 1940. Beria, Beria – My Father, p. 77. 79. For a detailed study of these plans, and their implications for Anglo-Soviet relations throughout the Second World War, and the early Cold War, see Patrick R Osborn, Operation Pike – Britain versus the Soviet Union, 1939–41 (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 2000). Also the earlier article by Brock Millman, ‘Toward War with Russia: British Naval & Air Planning for Conflict in the Near East, 1939–40,’ Journal of Contemporary History 29:2 (1994), 261–83. 80. Hale, Turkish Foreign Policy, pp. 81–2. See also the comments of the Turkish ambassador in London, Rü¸stü Aras, in HW 12/252, 080516 Yugoslav minister London to Yugoslav Foreign Ministry Belgrade, 12 May 1940 (15 May). 81. Millman, Ill-Made Alliance, pp. 267–8. 82. Millman, ‘Credit & Supply in Turkish Foreign Policy,’ 70. 83. FO 371/25018, R6459/542/44, James Bowker, Philip Nichols and Sargent minutes, 11 June 1940. 84. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Alexander Cadogan papers, ACAD 1/9, Sir Alexander Cadogan diary, 14 June 1940. 85. FO 371/25018, R6459/542/44, Sargent minute, 17 June 1940. 86. CAB 80/13, COS (40) 469 (JP), ‘Military Implications of the Withdrawal of the Eastern Mediterranean Fleet,’ 17 June 1940. 87. FO 195/2462, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 541, 13 June 1940.

Notes

203

1 Turkey During the Period of Anglo-Russian Antagonism, June 1940 to June 1941 1. FO 195/2462, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 541, 13 June 1940. FO 371/25018, R6459/542/44, George Clutton minute, 16 June 1940. 2. Hugessen memorandum on forthcoming conversations in London regarding the Balkans, 1 April 1940; BDFA, Part III, Series F, vol. 20; Macgregor Knox, ed. (Bethesda, Maryland: University Publications of America, 1998), p. 436. 3. FO 371/25015, R7474/242/44, Hugessen to Nichols, 23 July 1940. 4. FO 418/86, Lord Halifax to Hugessen, no. 487, 22 June 1940; Hugessen to Halifax, no. 629, 24 June 1940. 5. FO 424/285, Sir Stafford Cripps to Halifax, no. 399 and 400, 1 July 1940. 6. Schulenburg to Foreign Ministry, 13 July 1940; Documents on German Foreign Policy, 1918–1945 [hereafter DGFP], Series D, vol. IX (London: HMSO, 1956), pp. 207–8. 7. WM (40), 192nd meeting, 3 July 1940, War Cabinet Minutes, 1939–45 (London: HMSO, 1989). 8. CAB 80/14, COS (40) 530, ‘Turkey – Future Policy,’ 1 July 1940. 9. Ibid. 10. FO 371/25012, R6670/203/44, Bowker minute, 2 July 1940; Nichols minute, 3 July 1940. CAB 66/9, WP (40) 254, ‘Comments on the Recent Conversations Between HM Ambassador at Moscow & M. Stalin,’ 9 July 1940. 11. FO 371/25016, R6763/316/44, Sargent minute, 10 July 1940. WM (40), 200th meeting, 11 July 1940, War Cabinet Minutes. 12. FO 424/285, Cripps to Halifax, no. 460, 13 July 1940. Hugessen agreed with Cripps that a ‘blank cheque’ to the Soviets must be avoided. FO 424/285, Hugessen to Halifax, no. 790, 15 July 1940. 13. FO 424/285, Halifax to Cripps, no. 273, 16 July 1940. 14. FO 424/285, Cripps to Halifax, no. 480, 18 July 1940. 15. Deluca, Great Power Rivalry, p. 125. 16. For the continuing pessimism of Southern Department officials, other than Sargent, see FO 371/25013, R7735/203/44, Bowker minute, 28 September 1940; R7967/203/44, Clutton and Bowker minutes, 19 October 1940. 17. FO 371/25015, R7474/242/44, Hugessen to Nichols, 23 July 1940. 18. HS 3/227, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1196, 16 September 1940. 19. New Statesman & Nation, ‘The War in the East,’ 6 July 1940, p. 1. 20. HW 12/254, 082006 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 9 July 1940 (15 July). 21. HW 12/254, 082009 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 11 July 1940 (15 July). 22. Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, p. 14. 23. Ibid., pp. 15, 17. 24. Ibid., p. 15. Churchill continued to contemplate an attack on the Russian oil industry, if the Soviet Union attacked Turkey from the Caucasus. PREM ˙ ˙ 3/445/6, Churchill to Ismet Inönü, 31 January 1941.

204

Notes

25. For details, see Gerhard Schreiber, Bernd Stegemann, and Detlef Vogel, Germany & the Second World War – Volume III: The Mediterranean, SouthEast Europe, and North Africa, 1939–41 (Oxford: OUP, 1995), pp. 160–1. Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, p. 62. 26. Memorandum by Director of Political Division VII, German Foreign Ministry, 23 July 1940; DGFP; Series D, vol. X (London: HMSO, 1957), pp. 280–1. 27. CAB 81/97, JIC (40) 179, ‘Soviet Foreign Policy – Report,’ 27 July 1940. On Stalin’s opposition to the cession of Kars and Ardahan, see Spector, The Soviet Union & the Muslim World, p. 77. 28. HW 12/259, 084757 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Moscow, 29 October 1940 (31 October). 29. FO 371/25013, R7196/203/44, Hugessen to Nichols, 13 July 1940. 30. FO 424/285, Hugessen to Halifax, no. 818, 19 July 1940. 31. CAB 80/16, COS (40) 602 (JP), ‘Turco-Soviet Relations – Draft Report,’ 3 August 1940. 32. FO 424/285, Cripps to Halifax, no. 602, 11 August 1940. 33. FO 371/24856, N5343/5343/38, Cripps to Foreign Office, no. 561, 2 August 1940. 34. FO 371/24856, N5343/5343/38, Fitzroy Maclean minute, 5 August 1940; Laurence Collier minute, 8 August 1940. HW 12/258, 085108 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 5 November 1940 (10 November). 35. FO 371/25012, R6830/203/44, Clutton minute, 1 August 1940; Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 697, 4 August 1940. FO 371/25013, R6897/203/44, Clutton and Bowker minutes, 13 August 1940. 36. FO 371/25012, R6830/203/44, Sargent minute, 11 August 1940. Cadogan concurred in this conclusion. Cadogan minute, 11 August 1940. 37. CAB 80/16, COS (40) 649 FINAL, ‘Turco-Soviet Relations,’ 25 August. 38. Rendel, The Sword & the Olive, p. 92. 39. CAB 66/9, WP (40) 254, ‘Comments on the Recent Conversations Between HM Ambassador at Moscow & M. Stalin,’ 9 July 1940. 40. FO 195/2464, Sargent memorandum, ‘Possibilities of Further Soviet-German Collaboration,’ 17 July 1940. 41. FO 371/25016, R7450/316/44, Pierson Dixon minute, 5 September 1940. 42. CAB 81/98, JIC (40) 282, ‘Turkish Attitude in the Event of an Axis Move to the South-East,’ 12 September 1940. This had been Russian policy in the years before the First World War. Shotwell and Deak, Turkey at the Straits, pp. 93–4. 43. CAB 81/98, JIC (40) 318, ‘Possibilities and Implications of an Advance by the Enemy Through the Balkans & Syria to the Middle East,’ 17 October 1940. 44. FO 424/285, Cripps to Halifax, no. 938, 30 October 1940. 45. FO 424/285, Halifax to Cripps, no. 735, 2 November 1940. 46. FO 195/2464, Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 1228, 13 November 1940. 47. See Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, pp. 67–75; Silvio Pons, Stalin & the Inevitable War, 1936–41 (London: Frank Cass, 2002), pp. 204–11. For the German transcripts, see conversations between Molotov, Ribbentrop, and Hitler, 12 and 13 November 1940; DGFP, Series D, vol. XI (London: HMSO, 1961), pp. 533–70. 48. Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, p. 82.

Notes

205

49. CAB 81/97, JIC (40) 179, ‘Soviet Foreign Policy – Report,’ 27 July 1940. CAB 81/98, JIC (40) 225, ‘Soviet-German Relations in Regard to Turkey and the Middle East,’ 5 August 1940. 50. HW 12/258, 085108 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 5 November 1940 (10 November). On the limited British knowledge of the substance of the Berlin conversations, see FH Hinsley, British Intelligence in the Second World War – Its Influence on Strategy and Operations, vol. 1 (London: HMSO, 1979), p. 442. 51. CAB 80/16, COS (40) 602 (JP), ‘Turco-Soviet Relations – Draft Report,’ 3 August 1940; COS (40) 649 FINAL, ‘Turco-Soviet Relations,’ 25 August 1940. FO 424/285, Hugessen to Halifax, no. 1179, 13 September 1940. 52. Record of conversation between Hitler and Turkish ambassador Husrev Gerede, in presence of Ribbentrop, 17 March 1941; DGFP, Series D, vol. XII (London: HMSO, 1962), pp. 308–12. 53. HW 12/262, 089137 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Washington, 22 March 1940 (27 March). 54. HW 12/260, 087019 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Moscow, 17 January 1941 (21 January). HW 12/244, 076749 MFA Ankara to All Posts, 26 October 1939 (31 October). 55. FO 371/24870, R8745/4/7, George Rendel (Sofia) to Foreign Office, no. 896, 2 December 1940. FO 371/24871, R8909/4/7, Rendel to Foreign Office, no. 930, 11 December 1940. 56. Georgi Dimitrov diary, 25 November 1940; Georgi Dimitrov, Tagebücher 1933–1943, vol. 1, Bernhard H Bayerlein, ed. (Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 2000), pp. 320–1. 57. See Chapter 6. 58. CAB 84/27, JP (41) 63 (S), ‘Strategy in the Balkans & Eastern Mediterranean,’ 24 January 1941. See also WM (41), 12th conclusions, 3 February 1941 (confidential annex); War Cabinet Minutes. ˙ ˙ 59. PREM 3/445/6, Churchill to Ismet Inönü, 31 January 1941. 60. Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, pp. 105, 114. 61. HW 12/261, 087928 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 14 February 1941 (20 February). 62. HW 12/262, 088246 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador London, 22 February 1941 (2 March). 63. FO 371/30067, R1456/112/44, Clutton minute, 22 February 1941. 64. FO 371/30067, R1897/112/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 436, 3 March 1941. Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, pp. 109–12. 65. WM (41), 28th conclusions, 13 March 1941, Confidential Annex – Minute 2; Cripps to Foreign Office, no. 204, 10 March 1941; War Cabinet Minutes. FO 371/30067, R2248/112/44, Sargent and Cadogan minutes, 11 March 1941. PREM 3/445/8, Cripps to Churchill, 12 March 1941; Churchill to Cadogan and Sargent, 14 March 1941. 66. Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, p. 94. 67. Hale, Turkish Foreign Policy, pp. 85–6. 68. HW 12/263, 089441 Turkish ambassador London to Turkish minister Berne (for Ankara), 20 March 1941 (4 April). 69. HW 12/263, 089439 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Washington, 27 March 1941 (4 April). For similar comments by the chief of the Turkish

206

70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76.

77. 78. 79. 80.

81. 82.

83. 84. 85.

2

Notes General Staff, Marshal Fevzi Çakmak, see PREM 3/294/1, ‘Report on the Mission of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to the Eastern Mediterranean, February–April 1941,’ 21 April 1941 – annex 5, ‘Anglo-Turkish Conversations,’ meeting held at Presidency of the Council, Ankara, 27 February 1941. HW 12/263, 090053 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 18 April 1941 (21 April); 090394 Moscow to Ankara, 26 April 1941 (30 April). HW 12/264, 091137 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 13 May 1941 (18 April). FO 371/30125, R4478/1934/44, Sargent memorandum, ‘Germany & the Straits,’ April 1941 Cadogan continued to entertain similar thoughts at the end of May. Cadogan diary, 30 May 1941; The Diaries of Sir Alexander Cadogan, 1938–1945, David Dilks, ed. (London: Cassell, 1971), pp. 381–2. FO 371/30125, R5368/1934/44, Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 1140, 20 May 1941. Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, p. 284. FO 371/30125, R5368/1934/44, Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 1140, 20 May 1941. For the progress of these negotiations, see the correspondence between Ribbentrop and Papen in DGFP, Series D, vol. XII passim. Ribbentrop’s contributions make clear Germany’s ultimately malign intentions towards Turkey. Ribbentrop to Papen, 4 June 1941, p. 954. FO 371/30125, R5456/1934/44, Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 1157, 22 May 1941. FO 371/30068, R5380/112/44, Sir Horace Seymour minute, 12 May 1941; Sargent minute, 13 May 1941. FO 371/30068, R6061/112/44, Clutton and Bowker minutes, 12 June 1941; Nichols minute 13 June 1941; Sargent minute 15 June 1941. FO 371/30127, R6472/1934/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1548, 23 June 1941; Clutton minute, 26 June 1941. See also R6882/1934/44, Foreign Office to Consul-General New York, 7 July 1941. Richard Aldrich, The Hidden Hand: Britain, America and Cold War Secret Intelligence (London: John Murray, 2001), p. 45. FO 371/30126, R6399/1934/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1545, 23 June 1941. Horst Boog, et al. Germany & the Second World War – vol. IV: The Attack on the Soviet Union (Oxford: OUP, 1998), p. 1043. Deringil, Turkish Foreign Policy, pp. 123–4. FO 371/30127, R6472/1934/44, Clutton minute, 26 June 1941. FO 371/30093, R7573/236/44, Sargent minute, 11 August 1941. FO 371/ 30069, R7980/112/44, Clutton minute, 27 August 1941. Times, ‘Divided Hopes in Turkey—Distrust of Soviet—Soil for German Intrigues,’ 9 July 1941, p. 3.

The Balkan Front, October 1940 to April 1941 1. Millman, Ill-Made Alliance, p. 186. 2. Irina Nikoli´c, ‘Anglo-Yugoslav Relations, 1938–41’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Cambridge, 2001), pp. 92–3.

Notes

207

3. Loraine to Halifax, no. 32, 11 February 1939; BDFA, Part II, Series F, vol. 15; Christopher Seton-Watson, ed. (Bethesda, Maryland: University Publications of America, 1993), p. 98. Watt, How War Came, pp. 283 (on Yugoslavia) and 292 (on Romania). 4. Ronald Ian Campbell (Belgrade) to Halifax, no. 43 Confidential, 5 February 1940; BDFA, Part III, Series F, vol. 20, p. 246. 5. HW 12/252, 080253 Greek minister London to Foreign Ministry Athens, 30 April 1940 (2 May). 6. CAB 80/14, COS (40) 525, ‘Balkan Policy After the French Collapse,’ 3 July 1940. 7. Times, ‘Turkey and the Balkans—the Failure of Co-operation—An Independent Policy,’ 5 August 1940, p. 4. See also Manchester Guardian, ‘Plan to Isolate Turkey—Rumanian Help,’ 3 August 1940, p. 7. 8. CAB 66/9, WP (40) 254, ‘Comments on the Recent Conversations Between HM Ambassador at Moscow and M. Stalin,’ 9 July 1940. FO 371/25018, R6821/542/44, ‘The Political Importance of Turkey,’ 24 July 1940. 9. Halifax to Hugessen, no. 753, 12 August 1940; BDFA, Part III, Series F, vol. 21; Macgregor Knox, ed. (Bethesda, Maryland: University Publications of America, 1998), p. 173. 10. Times, ‘Turkey Stands Firm—II Axis Manoeuvres in Greece & The Balkans— The Watch of the Straits,’ 4 October 1940, p. 5. ‘Axis Schemes in the Balkans—Pressure on Bulgaria & Greece—Indirect German Control in Sofia—Counter-Weight of Turkish Influence,’ 17 October 1940, p. 4. 11. CAB 80/16, COS (40) 656 (JP), ‘Italian Action Against Greece,’ 23 August 1940. CAB 80/18, COS (40) 739 (JP), ‘Assistance to Greece,’ 12 September 1940. 12. FO 371/24918, R7314/764/19, Nichols minute, 28 August 1940. 13. FO 371/24918, R7396/764/19, Nichols minute, 1 September 1940. 14. CAB 80/21, COS (40) 871, ‘An Advance by the Enemy through the Balkans and Syria to the Middle East,’ 1 November 1940. 15. WM (40), 268th meeting, 9 October 1940; War Cabinet Minutes. 16. Neil Balfour and Sally Mackay, Paul of Yugoslavia – Britain’s Maligned Friend (London: Hamilton, 1980), p. 220. 17. CAB 80/21, COS (40) 897, ‘Implications of Assistance to Greece,’ 3 November 1940. CAB 80/22, COS (40) 901 (JP), ‘Assistance to Greece,’ 4 November 1940. PREM 3/308, Churchill to Eden, 3 November 1940. 18. CAB 80/22, COS (40) 912, ‘The Attitude of Turkey,’ 8 November 1940. 19. HW 12/257, 084455 Greek minister Moscow to Foreign Ministry Athens, 18 October 1940 (22 October). There is evidence that the Yugoslav government indicated to Germany their willingness to join an attack on Greece in exchange for Salonika. See Gerhard Weinberg, A World at Arms – A Global History of World War Two (Cambridge: CUP, 1994), p. 216. 20. Campbell to Halifax, nos 750 and 761, 11 and 15 October 1940; Hugessen to Halifax, no. 1316, 12 October 1940; BDFA, Part III, Series F, vol. 21, pp. 316–19, 334. 21. FO 371/25017, R8441/316/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1508, 16 November 1940; Clutton minute, 18 November 1940; Brigadier Leslie Hollis to Nichols, 23 November 1940. 22. CAB 80/22, COS (40) 912, ‘The Attitude of Turkey,’ 8 November 1940.

208 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

43. 44. 45. 46.

47. 48.

Notes CAB 80/22, COS (40) 930 (JP), ‘The Attitude of Turkey,’ 11 November 1940. CAB 80/22, COS (40) 933 (JP), ‘The Attitude of Turkey,’ 13 November 1940. Ibid. Ibid. Hinsley, British Intelligence, p. 349. CAB 80/21, COS (40) 871, ‘An Advance by the Enemy through the Balkans and Syria to the Middle East,’ 1 November 1940. Ibid. CAB 80/22, COS (40) 947, ‘Turkish Neutrality,’ 17 November 1940. FO 371/25017, R8586/316/44, Nichols minute, 17 November 1940; Sargent minute, 19 November 1940. Christopher Andrew, Secret Service (London: Heinemann, 1985), p. 628. FO 371/25017, R8586/316/44, Cadogan minute, 21 November 1940. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Alexander Cadogan papers, ACAD 1/9, Cadogan diary, 22 November 1940. WM (40), 294th meeting, 22 November 1940; War Cabinet Minutes. Clement Attlee chaired this meeting of the War Cabinet. On German and Soviet pressure on Bulgaria, see Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, pp. 62–66, 77–83. Hugh Dalton diary, 17 December 1940; The Second World War Diary of Hugh Dalton, Ben Pimlott, ed. (London: Cape, 1986), pp. 123–4. At one stage, Churchill anticipated a German strike in the western Mediterranean. See Denis Smyth, Diplomacy & Strategy of Survival: British Policy and Franco’s Spain, 1940–41 (Cambridge: CUP, 1986), pp. 147–8. Sheila Lawlor, Churchill and the Politics of War, 1940–41 (Cambridge: CUP, 1994), p. 118. Hinsley, British Intelligence, p. 350. PREM 3/288/1, Churchill to Eden and Sir John Dill, 22 November 1941. PREM 3/309/1, Churchill to General Wavell, 22 November 1940. Wavell’s offensive in Libya began on 9 December. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 20/13, Churchill to Halifax, 24 November 1940. On Churchill’s agitation, see also John Colville diary, 25 November 1940; John Colville, The Fringes of Power – Downing Street Diaries, 1939–55, revised edition (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2004), p. 255. WM (40), 295th meeting, 25 November 1940; War Cabinet Minutes. FO 371/25017, R8586/316/44, Churchill to Halifax, 26 November 1940. FO 371/24918, R7487/764/19, Clutton minute, no date [early September 1940]. New Statesman & Nation, ‘The Riddle of Russia,’ 19 October 1940, pp. 367–8. ‘(W)hatever physical advantages Nature may have given (Turkey) at the Straits and in the Taurus mountains, can we, on a sober view, expect them to stand up to the attack of a German mechanised army, with its divebombers and tanks? If the Italians, with German storm-troops to aid them, were simultaneously attacking in Egypt, we could do little, save from the sea, to help the Turks.’ FO 371/25018, R8610/542/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1582, 23 November 1940. FO 371/25018, R8610/542/44, Clutton minute, 26 November 1940.

Notes

209

49. CAB 79/8, COS (40), 438th meeting, 21 November 1940. 50. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Thomas Elmhirst papers, ELMT 2/4, copy of instructions to British Liaison Staff, Turkey, 30 November 1940. 51. FO 195/2462, Rendel to Nichols, 25 November 1940. 52. Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, pp. 82–3, 97. 53. Ibid., p. 79. 54. Cadogan diary, 2 December 1940; Dilks, ed., p. 338. 55. Hinsley, British Intelligence, p. 351. 56. See Cadogan diary, 10, 12 and 18 January 1941; Dilks, ed., pp. 348–50. 57. When the War Cabinet met on 20 January 1941, Churchill reported that the Yugoslav regent, Prince Paul, had told the Greek government ‘that if they allowed any British land forces to enter Greece, the Yugoslav Government would allow the Germans to attack Greece through Yugoslavia.’ WM (41), 8th conclusions, 20 January 1941 (confidential annex); War Cabinet Minutes. See also Eden to Campbell, no. 8, 22 January 1941; BDFA, Part III, Series F, vol. 21, pp. 470–1. 58. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Thomas Elmhirst papers, ELMT 2/2, transcript of meeting between British Liaison Mission and Turkish General Staff, 17 January 1941 (afternoon meeting). 59. Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, p. 98. Eden to Hugessen, no. 9, 22 January 1941; BDFA, Part III, Series F, vol. 21, p. 152. Churchill College Archives ˙ Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 20/49, Churchill to Inönü, 31 January 1941. 60. Hinsley, British Intelligence, p. 354. 61. CAB 69/2, DO (41), 7th conclusions, 10 February 1941 [my emphasis]. 62. Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, p. 94. 63. CAB 69/2, DO (41), 7th conclusions, 10 February 1941 [my emphasis]. 64. Churchill used the precise phrase ‘stalemate front’ in a subsequent telegram to Eden (PREM 3/445/8, Churchill to Eden, 28 March 1941), but the principle was enshrined in his briefing for the War Cabinet on 9 October 1940. 65. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 20/36, Churchill note for Eden, 12 February 1941 [my emphasis]. 66. CAB 69/2, DO (41), 8th meeting, 11 February 1941; annex I, draft telegram from Churchill to Wavell. 67. Churchill broadcast, 9 February 1941; Churchill War Papers, vol. 3, The Ever-Widening War, 1941, Martin Gilbert, ed. (London: Heinemann, 2000), p. 196. CAB 69/2, DO (41), 8th meeting, 11 February 1941; annex I, draft telegram from Churchill to Wavell. The Chamberlain government had previously expressed scepticism when French plans for a Salonika front had posited an Allied Expeditionary Force lining up with ‘a projected 111 Balkan divisions.’ The British ‘doubted whether such an imposing supranational army was more than a pipe dream.’ Louise Atherton, ‘Lord Lloyd at the British Council and the Balkan Front, 1937–40,’ International History Review 16:1 (1994), p. 43. 68. PREM 3/294/1, ‘Report on the Mission of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to the Eastern Mediterranean, February–April 1941,’ 21 April 1941 – annex 5, ‘Anglo-Turkish Conversations,’ meeting held at Presidency of the Council, Ankara, 27 February 1941, pp. 32–3. A subsequent

210

69. 70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76.

77.

78. 79. 80. 81.

82. 83. 84. 85.

86.

Notes intercepted telegram from the Turkish ambassador in Moscow, Haydar Aktay, reported a conversation with Sir Stafford Cripps. Aktay declared that the hedging of the Yugoslav government revealed to the British ‘the Prince [Paul] in his true colours which we have known for some time past.’ HW 12/262, 088587 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 8 March 1941 (11 March). FO 195/2468, General Allan Arnold to Hugessen, 19 September 1940. See also Nikoli´c, ‘Anglo-Yugoslav relations,’ pp. 259–60. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Thomas Elmhirst papers, ELMT 2/4, General Marshall-Cornwall to Wavell, 19 February 1941. Ibid. HW 12/262, 088257 Italian minister Sofia to Foreign Ministry Rome, 28 February 1941 (2 March); 088298 Japanese ambassador Ankara to Foreign Ministry Tokyo, 26 February 1941 (3 March). See also record of conversation between Hitler, Ribbentrop, Mussolini and Ciano, 19 January 1941; Ciano’s Diplomatic Papers, Malcolm Muggeridge, ed. (London: Odhams Press, 1948), p. 420. FO 954/11, War Office paper, ‘Decision to send British forces to Greece,’ 21 April 1941 (folio 53). The Business of War – The War Narrative of Major-General Sir John Kennedy, Bernard Fergusson, ed. (London: Hutchinson, 1957), p. 73. Earl of Avon, Reckoning (London: Cassell, 1965), pp. 189–90 [my emphasis]. PREM 3/294/1, ‘Report on the Mission of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to the Eastern Mediterranean, February–April 1941,’ 21 April 1941 – annex 1, ‘Assistance for Greece,’ meeting held at HM Embassy Cairo, 20 February 1941, p. 16. PREM 3/294/1, ‘Report on the Mission of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to the Eastern Mediterranean, February–April 1941,’ 21 April 1941 – annex 5, ‘Anglo-Turkish Conversations,’ meeting held at Presidency of the Council, Ankara, 27 February 1941, pp. 32–3. Ibid., p. 36. Ibid., p. 37. Ibid., p. 38. PREM 3/294/1, ‘Report on the Mission of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to the Eastern Mediterranean, February–April 1941,’ 21 April 1941 – ˙ annex 7, meeting between Inönü, Eden and Dill (Saraco˘ glu also present), 27 February 1941, pp. 44, 46. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 20/49, Churchill to Eden, 1 March 1941. Lawlor, Churchill and the Politics of War, pp. 250–1. CAB 69/2, DO (41), 9th conclusions, 5 March 1941; annex I, Churchill to Eden, 5 March 1941. PREM 3/294/1, ‘Report on the Mission of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to the Eastern Mediterranean, February–April 1941,’ 21 April 1941 – annex 12, ‘Assistance to Greece,’ meeting held at GHQ Middle East, 6 March 1941, pp. 74–6. For a comprehensive analysis of the decision to aid Greece, see Lawlor, Churchill and the Politics of War, Part 3. Eden to Hugessen, no. 453, 6 March 1941; annexed to WM (41), 26th conclusions, 7 March 1941 (confidential annex); War Cabinet Minutes.

Notes

211

87. Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 520, 12 March 1941; annexed to WM (41), 28th conclusions, 13 March 1941 (confidential annex); War Cabinet Minutes. 88. PREM 3/294/1, ‘Report on the Mission of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to the Eastern Mediterranean, February–April 1941,’ 21 April 1941 – annex 14, ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ discussion at Cairo, 15 March 1941, p. 82. 89. Ibid. 90. PREM 3/294/1, ‘Report on the Mission of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to the Eastern Mediterranean, February–April 1941,’ 21 April 1941 – annex 15, records of meetings held at Nicosia, Cyprus, 18 March 1941, pp. 84–90. 91. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 20/49, Churchill to Eden, 20 March 1941. 92. Nikoli´c, ‘Anglo-Yugoslav Relations,’ pp. 310–11, 329–31. 93. Cadogan diary, 24 March 1941; Dilks, ed., p. 365 [emphasis in original]. 94. Nikoli´c, ‘Anglo-Yugoslav Relations,’ pp. 333, 352–3. 95. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR ˙ 20/49, Churchill to Inönü, 27 March 1941. PREM 3/445/8, Churchill to Eden, 28 March 1941. 96. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 20/49, Churchill to Eden, 30 March 1941. Hinsley, British Intelligence, p. 452. 97. FO 371/30124, R3660/1934/44, Nichols minute, 8 April 1941. 98. Balfour and Mackay, Paul of Yugoslavia, p. 220. 99. Ibid., pp. 227–8. 100. PREM 3/294/1, ‘Report on the Mission of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to the Eastern Mediterranean, February–April 1941,’ 21 April 1941 – annex 9, record of meeting held at the British Legation, Athens, 3 March 1941, pp. 59–60. 101. Deringil, Turkish Foreign Policy, p. 40. 102. FO 371/25017, R8697/316/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1655, 3 December 1940. 103. FO 371/25017, R8697/316/44, Clutton minute, 9 December 1940. 104. Watt, How War Came, p. 623. 105. See, for example, Colville diary, 24 November 1940; Colville, The Fringes of Power, pp. 254–5. 106. Balfour and Mackay, Paul of Yugoslavia, p. 239. 107. FO 371/30124, R3678/1934/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 791, 8 April 1941. 108. FO 371/30124, R3983/1934/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 854, 15 April 1941; Bowker minute, 16 April 1941. 109. Gorodetsky, Grand Delusion, p. 79. Record of conversation between Hitler, Ribbentrop, Mussolini and Ciano, 19 January 1941; Ciano’s Diplomatic Papers, p. 418. Ribbentrop to Papen, 4 June 1941; DGFP, Series D, vol. XII, p. 954. 110. The German military had prepared plans for the attack on the Middle East through Turkey, anticipated by the British in 1940, in the event that Hitler postponed the invasion of the Soviet Union. Halder diary, 26 October

212

111.

112. 113.

114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119.

120. 121.

Notes 1940, 2 November 1940, 10 February 1941. The Halder War Diary, 1939–42, Charles Burdick and Hans-Adolf Jacobsen, eds (London: Greenhill, 1988), pp. 270, 276, 317. Manchester Guardian, ‘The Turkish Sentinel,’ 22 October 1940, p. 4. See also Times, ‘Turkey Stands Firm—I A Friendship Which Has Survived Disaster,’ 3 October 1940, p. 5. ‘The Anatolian Bastion—Turkish Resolution,’ 11 October 1940, p. 4. ‘Turkey Stands By Her Friends—Greek Cause Popular,’ 4 November 1940, p. 4. ‘Turkish Service To Greece—Bulgarian Flank Covered—A Strong Front,’ 27 November 1940, p. 4. Graves, Briton & Turk, p. 253. CAB 69/2, DO (41), 8th meeting, 11 February 1941; annex I, draft telegram from Churchill to Wavell. FO 371/30029, R8421/10/44, ‘Appreciation of present Turkish position,’ 20 September 1941; enclosure in Hugessen to Oliver Lyttelton (Cairo), 24 September 1941. FO 371/30124, R3678/1934/44, Sargent minute, 9 April 1941. HW 12/262, 088719 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Washington, 8 March 1941 (15 March). Barlas, ‘Turkish Diplomacy in the Balkans and the Mediterranean,’ 446. Points made acidly by Molotov in December 1940. FO 371/24871, R8930/4/7, Cripps to Foreign Office, no. 1112, 16 December 1940. HW 12/263, 089819 Greek Foreign Ministry Athens to Greek legation London, 10 April 1941 (15 April). John Macmurray to Cordell Hull, 11 April 1941; Foreign Relations of the United States [hereafter FRUS] 1941, vol. III (Washington DC: Department of State, 1959), pp. 844–5. Macmurray to Hull, 19 May 1941; FRUS 1941, vol. III, pp. 851–2. FO 371/30124, R3678/1934/44, Eden minute, 12 April 1941.

3 Turkey and Britain’s War in the Middle East, May 1941 to November 1942 1. PREM 3/445/8, War Office report, ‘German attack through Caucasus on Persia or on Syria through an acquiescent Turkey,’ 25 September 1941. 2. CAB 66/15, WP (41) 77, ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 26 April 1941. 3. WM (41) 44th conclusions, 28 April 1941; War Cabinet Minutes. 4. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series [Commons], vol. 371, 6 May 1941, column 736. 5. AB Gaunson, The Anglo-French Clash in Lebanon & Syria, 1940–45 (London: Macmillan, 1987), p. 32. 6. Ibid., pp. 32–3. 7. Daniel Silverfarb, Britain’s Informal Empire in the Middle East – A Case Study of Iraq, 1929–41 (Oxford: OUP, 1986), p. 125. HW 12/263, 089643 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 4 April 1941 (10 April). The Turks also had an interest in the fate of the Turkic population in northern Iraq, notably around Kirkuk. Eden to Hugessen, no. 66, 16 May 1941; BDFA, Part III, series B, vol. 1; Malcolm Yapp, ed. (Bethesda, Maryland: University Publications of America, 1997), p. 228.

Notes

213

8. HW 12/264, 090782 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador, Tehran, 6 May 1941 (10 May). 9. PREM 3/238/7, Hugessen to Foreign Office, 2 May 1941; Chiefs of Staff to Wavell, 4 May 1941. HW 12/264, 090744 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 6 May 1941 (9 May). 10. PREM 3/238/7, Foreign Office to Hugessen (draft), May 1941; Chiefs of Staff to Wavell, 4 May 1941. 11. PREM 3/238/7, military attaché Ankara to Wavell, cc War Office, 5 May 1941. 12. HW 12/264, 091179 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 16 May 1941 (19 May); 091360 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Moscow, 21 May 1941 (23 May). The Germans in fact regretted the timing of the Iraqi rebellion, since they had prepared no effective support for the antiBritish regime. The Turks were nonetheless aware that Germany might be obliged to intervene to preserve their own prestige. PREM 3/238/7, military attaché Ankara to Wavell, cc War Office, 5 May 1941. 13. PREM 3/422/6, Churchill to Wavell, 22 May 1941; Chiefs of Staff to Commanders-in-Chief, Middle East, May 1941. 14. PREM 3/445/8, Eden to Churchill, 19 May 1941. 15. CAB 80/13, COS (40) 512 (JP), ‘Military Policy in Egypt & the Middle East,’ 2 July 1940; COS (40) 549 (JP), ‘Syria & the Lebanon – Draft Report by the Joint Planning Sub-committee,’ 14 July 1940; COS (40) 561 (Revise), ‘Syria & the Lebanon,’ 22 July 1940. FO 371/25014, R8112/232/44, Mr Baxter memorandum, ‘The Problem of Syria,’ 22 October 1940. 16. On the erosion of Vichy’s neutrality, and the evolution of the British position from opposition to support of an occupation of Syria, see Gaunson, The Anglo-French Clash in Lebanon & Syria, pp. 28–31. 17. FO 371/24556, E2063/220/93, Sir Basil Newton (Baghdad) to Foreign Office, no. 224, 5 June 1940. 18. CAB 66/9, WP (40) 231, ‘Situation in Syria,’ 28 June 1940. Rü¸stü Aras had written to Ankara the previous week to express concern about the possibility of a ‘Syrian incident’ if Vichy ceded the administration of Syria to the Axis, and suggested that ‘the Syrian question should be studied in all its aspects.’ HW 12/253, 081539 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 18 June 1940 (22 June). 19. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Thomas Elmhirst papers, ELMT 2/2, ‘Conversations at Ankara, January-March 1941,’ transcript of staff conference, 15 January 1941 (A.M.); aide memoire by General Sir James Marshall-Cornwall, ‘Summary of Conversations held at Ankara, 15–22 January 1941.’ 20. PREM 3/422/2, Churchill memorandum, ‘Syrian Policy,’ 19 May 1941. Churchill had earlier suggested ‘(raising) a Turkish issue in Syria’ to exert pressure on Vichy, in November 1940. PREM 3/422/14, Churchill to Halifax, 12 November 1940. 21. CAB 66/16, WP (41) 116, ‘Our Arab Policy’, 27 May 1941. On the Eastern Department’s concerns, see Y Olmert, ‘Britain, Turkey & the Levant Question during the Second World War,’ Middle Eastern Studies 23:4 (1987), pp. 444–6. The Colonial Office also noted the likelihood of a negative Arab

214

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31.

32. 33. 34.

35.

36.

37.

38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

43.

Notes reaction, but conceded that the Turks must be asked to take action if it was the only way to keep the Germans out of Syria. HW 12/265, 092213 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 12 June 1941 (16 June). Gaunson, The Anglo-French Clash in Lebanon & Syria, pp. 44–5. FO 371/30092, R6584/236/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1580, 27 June 1941. FO 371/30127, R6881/1934/44, Sargent minute, 2 July 1941. FO 371/30127, R7030/1934/44, Sir Miles Lampson (Cairo) to Hugessen, 12 July 1941. FO 371/30125, R5692/1934/44, Bowker minute, 30 May 1941. FO 371/30126, R6156/1934/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1451, 14 June 1941 [emphasis in original]. For similar press reactions, see Times, ‘Turkish Treaty with Berlin—German Pressure—Present Commitments Unaffected,’ 19 June 1941, p. 4. Daily Telegraph, ‘Turkey Signs a Pact with Germany—Limited Scope: Treaty with Britain Not Affected,’ 19 June 1941, p. 1. Manchester Guardian, ‘The Turkish Pact,’ 20 June 1941, p. 4. FO 371/30126, R6170/1934/44, Sargent minutes, 16 and 17 June 1941. WM (41), 60th conclusions, 16 June 1941, War Cabinet Minutes. WM (41), 63rd conclusions, 26 June 1941, War Cabinet Minutes. CAB 66/17, WP (41) 138, ‘Supplies to Turkey – Report by the Committee for the Co-ordination of Allied Supplies,’ 20 June 1941, and WP (41) 141, Eden paper, ‘Supplies to Turkey,’ 25 June 1941. FO 371/30126, R6363/1934/44, Bowker minute, 24 June 1941. FO 371/30126, R6399/1934/44, Bowker minute, 25 June 1941. FO 371/30127, R6881/1934/44, Nichols minute, 27 June 1941; CavendishBentinck minute, 30 June 1941; Sargent minute, 2 July 1941. WO 201/1062, ‘Defensive Position in Turkey,’ no date [July 1941]. This paper assumed a Soviet defeat by 1 August 1941. Gabriel Gorodetsky, Stafford Cripps’ Mission to Moscow, 1940–42 (Cambridge: CUP, 1984), pp. 209–15, 231–2 (‘Russia figured only insofar as she fitted into the Middle East strategy’). HW 12/263, 089887 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Tehran, 12 April 1941 (16 April). HW 12/264, 090434 Turkish ambassador Tehran to MFA Ankara, 28 April 1941 (1 May). HW 12/267, 094544 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 15 August 1941 (18 August). Richard A Stewart, Sunrise at Abadan – the British and Soviet Invasion of Iran, 1941 (New York: Praeger, 1988), p. 65. CAB 84/33, JP (41) 559, ‘Operations in Iran (Persia),’ 17 July 1941. HW 12/261, 094861, Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 23 August 1941 (26 August). HW 12/268, 095065 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 26 August 1941 (1 September). HW 12/267, 094544 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 15 August 1941 (18 August). HW 12/267, 094311 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Tehran, 7 August 1941 (11 August); 094858 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador London, 23 August 1941 (26 August). FO 371/30137, R8063/4125/44, Bowker minute, 26 August 1941.

Notes

215

44. FO 371/30137, R6723/4125/44, Lampson to Foreign Office, no. 2006, 27 June 1941; R7210/4125/44, Sir Kinahan Cornwallis (Baghdad) to Foreign Office, no. 808, 21 July 1941. 45. FO 930/42, Mrs Talbot Rice paper, ‘Propaganda in Turkey,’ August 1941. FO 195/2471, Ankara embassy minute, unknown author, 30 August 1941. 46. FO 371/30069, R9737/112/44, Clutton minute, 11 November 1941. See also R10256/112/44, Warner minute, 15 December 1941. 47. FO 371/30031, R10373/15/44, Clutton minute, 8 December 1941. FO 371/30069, R10317/112/44, Clutton minute, 6 December 1941. 48. FO 371/30031, R10032/15/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 2745, 21 November 1941; Clutton minute, 24 November 1941. 49. FO 371/30031, R10373/15/44, Dixon minute, 8 December 1941. 50. The material on the following pages originally appeared as Nicholas Tamkin, ‘Britain, the Middle East and the “Northern Front,” 1941–42,’ War in History 15:3 (London: Sage, 2008), pp. 314–36. 51. Ernest Phillips, Hitler’s Last Hope (London: Hurricane, 1942), p. 42. 52. FO 371/29590, N3295/3295/38, Northern Department minute, 19 June 1941. Osborn, Operation Pike, pp. 230–2. 53. FO 195/2462, Sargent to Hugessen, 15 February 1940; Hugessen to Sargent, 24 February 1940; air attaché Ankara to Hugessen, 1 March 1940. 54. CAB 79/12, COS (41) 233rd meeting, 3 July 1941; discussion of JP (41) 508, 1 July 1941 (annex). 55. Ibid. 56. FO 371/29594, handwritten marginal comment on N3454/3343/38, Commander-in-Chief Middle East to War Office, 26 June 1941; N3850/3343/38, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1756, 16 July 1941. FO 371/29596, N4706/3343/38, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 2027, 20 August 1941. 57. FO 371/29596, N4773/3343/38, Cripps to Foreign Office, no. 1021, 21 August 1941. 58. John Connell, Wavell – Supreme Commander, 1941-43 (London: Collins, 1969), pp. 33–6. 59. PREM 3/395/3, Churchill to Ismay, for Chiefs of Staff, 5 November 1941. 60. David Reynolds, In Command of History: Churchill Fighting and Writing the Second World War (London: Allen Lane, 2004), pp. 254–5. 61. WO 106/3129, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1800, 23 July 1941. PREM 3/445/2, GHQ Middle East to Chiefs of Staff, copied to Commander-inChief India and military attaché Ankara, 2 August 1941. Previous AngloTurkish staff talks, in January 1941, had been vague on the level of British support to Turkey; Britain’s Middle Eastern reserves at that time were small, and were earmarked to support the fighting Greeks. In the event of a German attack from the Balkans, the British notionally undertook to send one armoured and two infantry divisions, a handful of artillery regiments and anti-aircraft batteries, and a ‘composite air striking force.’ In the event of a Soviet attack from the Caucasus, the British had pledged the assistance of an Indian army corps from Iraq, and unspecified naval and air assistance. Churchill College Archives Centre; Sir Thomas Elmhirst papers, ELMT 2/2, Final Agreed Summary of Staff Conversations held at Ankara, January 1941’ and ‘Summary of Conversations held at Ankara, 15–22 January 1941’.

216

Notes

62. PREM 3/445/2, Chiefs of Staff to GHQ Middle East, 2 October 1941. 63. ISO Playfair, History of the Second World War: The Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. II (London: HMSO, 1956), p. 290; vol. III (London: HMSO, 1960), p. 412. 64. PREM 3/445/2, Chiefs of Staff to GHQ Middle East, 6 August 1941. 65. PREM 3/445/2, GHQ Middle East to Chiefs of Staff, 29 September 1941. 66. Winston S Churchill, The Second World War, vol. 3 (London: Cassell, 1950), p. 358. Reynolds, In Command of History, p. 256. 67. WM (41), 96th conclusions, 24 September 1941, confidential annex; War Cabinet Minutes. 68. WM (41), 106th conclusions, 27 October 1941, confidential annex; War Cabinet Minutes. PREM 3/395/6, Foreign Office (from Churchill) to Cripps, 28 October 1941. PREM 3/395/3, Churchill to General Ismay, for Chiefs of Staff, 5 November 1941. 69. CAB 79/86, Confidential Annex to COS (41), 43rd meeting (O), 4 December 1941. 70. WO 106/3134, War Office to Commander-in-Chief Middle East, cc Commander-in-Chief India, 6 December 1941. 71. HW 12/271, 098409 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 27 November 1941 (1 December). 72. FO 371/30029, R10655/10/44, Hugessen to Oliver Lyttelton (Minister of State, Cairo), 3 December 1941. 73. Churchill College Archives Centre; Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 20/69B/91-2, Middle East Defence Committee to Churchill and Chiefs of Staff, 30 January 1942. De Guingand, Operation Victory, pp. 100–1. 74. FO 371/30029, R10655/10/44, Clutton minute, 20 December 1941. 75. Ibid. 76. FO 371/30094, R10509/236/44, Admiral Sir Howard Kelly (British naval representative, Ankara) to Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham, copied to Admiralty, Hugessen, 16 December 1941. 77. FO 371/33368, R1355/486/44, Anthony Eden minute, 22 February 1942. 78. Basil Liddell Hart Centre, King’s College London; Kennedy papers, KENNEDY, JN: 4/2/4, Kennedy diary, 20 February 1942. See also Kennedy, Business of War, p. 194. 79. Basil Liddell Hart Centre, King’s College London; Kennedy papers, KENNEDY, JN: 4/2/4, Field-Marshal Dill to Chiefs of Staff, 5 March 1942. 80. Times, ‘Turkey & the War—Shadow of Japanese Imperialism—The German Menace,’ 26 February 1942, p. 3. 81. Phillips, Hitler’s Last Hope, p. 48. 82. Daily Telegraph, ‘Battle for Oilfields in 1942—Gen. Wavell,’ 21 November 1941, p. 5. 83. Weinberg, A World at Arms, pp. 327–8. 84. HW 12/279, 107583 Turkish ambassador Rome to MFA Ankara, 1 August 1942 (5 August). 85. Times, ‘Sevastopol,’ 3 July 1942, p. 5; ‘Mediterranean Issues,’ 8 July 1942, p. 5. 86. Horst Boog, et al., Germany & the Second World War, vol. VI: The Global War (Oxford: OUP, 2001), pp. 123–6, 132, 181, 983–4.

Notes

217

87. HW 1/858, 108588 Foreign Ministry Tokyo to Japanese ambassador Berlin, 26 August 1942 (2 September). 88. Weinberg, A World at Arms, pp. 324–5. 89. Robert O’Neill, ‘Churchill, Japan and British Security in the Pacific, 1904-42,’ in Robert Blake and William Roger Louis, eds. Churchill (Oxford: OUP, 1993), p. 289. 90. Playfair, The Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. III (London: HMSO, 1960), pp. 122–8. 91. CAB 84/42, General Claude Auchinleck to War Office, 20 February 1942, annexed to JP (42) 218 (S) and (E), ‘Assistance to Turkey,’ 2 March 1942. 92. Basil Liddell Hart Centre, King’s College London; Kennedy papers, KENNEDY, JN: 4/2/4, Kennedy diary, 23 February 1942. 93. PREM 3/499/2, DO (42) 6, note by the Prime Minister and Minister of Defence on the future conduct of the war, 22 January 1942 – annex II. 94. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers; CHAR 20/69B/91-2, Middle East Defence Committee to Churchill and Chiefs of Staff, 30 January 1942. 95. WO 201/1094, ‘Draft Directive for defence of Persia, Iraq and Syria and conduct of operations in Turkey,’ January 1942. 96. Playfair, The Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. III, pp. 412–13. There were two complete armoured divisions in the Middle East Command in October 1941, rising to three by May 1942. 97. WO 201/1094, ‘Draft Directive for defence of Persia, Iraq and Syria and conduct of operations in Turkey,’ January 1942. 98. WO 201/1099, ‘Defence of Turkey,’ March 1942. 99. WO 201/1236, ‘Plans for assistance if Turkey resists the Axis,’ c. March 1942 [emphasis in original]. 100. CAB 80/35, COS (42) 188, ‘Arada-Diarbekir [sic] Railway,’ memorandum by the CIGS, 25 March 1942 [emphasis in original]. 101. Ibid. 102. FO 371/33314, R2111/28/44, Douglas Howard minute, 5 April 1942 [emphasis in original]. Negotiations on a road construction project in southern Turkey continued with a similar lack of urgency, ‘for the same reasons as apply to the railway, i.e. in our present state of weakness it might be of more use to the enemy than ourselves.’ FO 371/33314, R2537/28/44, Commander-in-Chief Middle East to War Office, cc military attaché Ankara, 14 April 1942; Clutton minute, 20 April 1942. 103. WO 201/1037, ‘Plan if Turkey submits to the Axis,’ c. March 1942. 104. CAB 79/19, COS (42), 71st meeting, 4 March 1942. 105. WO 106/2154, War Office to Commanders-in-Chief Middle East, 8 May 1941. 106. WO 106/2154, military attaché Ankara to General Wavell, cc War Office, 13 May 1941. 107. PREM 3/445/8, Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 1101, 15 May 1941. 108. FO 371/30097, R8584/240/44, Clutton minute, 23 September 1941. Further information on collaboration between the Turkish General Staff and British demolition teams under GHQ Middle East is limited, perhaps as a result of the destruction of many of GHQ Middle East’s files when a German occupation of Egypt appeared likely in the summer of 1942. The archives of

218

109. 110. 111.

112. 113. 114. 115.

116. 117. 118. 119.

120. 121. 122. 123. 124.

125. 126. 127.

128. 129. 130.

Notes SOE Cairo are similarly affected. See Duncan Stuart, ‘“Of Historical Interest Only”: the origins & vicissitudes of the SOE archive,’ Intelligence & National Security 20:1 (2005), pp. 14–26. HS 3/222, Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 1639, 22 July 1941. FO 371/30096, R7688/240/44, Bowker minute, 5 August 1941; Sargent minute, 5 August 1941; Eden minute, 6 August 1941. CAB 84/34, JP (41) 694 (S), ‘Activities in Turkey,’ 25 August 1941; Chiefs of Staff to Commander-in-Chief Middle East, copied to Commander-in-Chief India, 15 August 1941, and Commander-in-Chief Middle East to Chiefs of Staff, copied to Commander-in-Chief India, 17 August 1941 (annexes). CAB 84/34, JP (41) 704, ‘Activities in Turkey,’ 30 August 1941. HS 3/238, Gladwyn Jebb to Sargent, 4 September 1941. FO 371/30096, R7743/240/44; Bowker, Clutton and Dixon minutes, all 18 August 1941; Bowker minute, 27 August 1941. WO 201/2636, Commanders-in-Chief Middle East to Chiefs of Staff, 7 September 1941; Cs-in-C Middle East to Chiefs of Staff, 20 October 1941. HS 3/219, Jebb to Sargent, 20 March 1942. HS 3/222, SOE sub-committee of the Middle East Defence Committee paper, SO (42) 13, ‘SOE Activities in Turkey,’ March 1942. HS 3/222, unknown author to CD (Sir Frank Nelson), 21 January 1942. CAB 79/19, COS (42), 100th meeting, 30 March 1942; JP (42) 321, ‘SOE Activities in Turkey,’ 26 March 1942 (annex). HS 3/238, Auchinleck to War Office, for Chiefs of Staff Committee, 4 April 1942. CAB 79/20, COS (42), 111th meeting, 8 April 1942. CAB 80/62, COS (42) 139 (O), ‘SOE Activity in Turkey,’ 17 May 1942; annex I, Commanders-in-Chief Middle East to Air Ministry, for Chiefs of Staff, 16 April 1942. The Chiefs of Staff acquiesced in the theatre Commanders’ conclusions. CAB 80/62, COS (42) 139 (O), ‘SOE Activity in Turkey,’ 17 May 1942; annex II, Air Ministry to Commanders-in-Chief Middle East, from Chiefs of Staff, 18 April 1942. HS 3/225, Sargent (for Sir Alexander Cadogan) to Ismay, 13 May 1942. See Note 75 above. CAB 79/18, COS (42), 45th meeting, 10 February 1942. CAB 80/36, COS (42), 209, ‘Assistance to Turkey,’ 8 April 1942. CAB 79/19, COS (42), 90th meeting, 20 March 1942. Hitler would in fact make significant diversions from the Caucasian front, to both Leningrad and North Africa, in the autumn of 1942. The Joint Planners perhaps overestimated the coherence of Hitler’s strategy as the war in the East turned against him during 1942. HS 3/219, ‘SOE Activities in Turkey,’ 13 January 1942. CAB 79/20, COS (42), 135th meeting, 30 April 1942; JIC (42) 151 (O) (Final), ‘Enemy Intentions – Turkey, 26 April 1942. FO 371/33368, R1355/486/44, Sargent memorandum, 19 February 1942, commenting on JIC (42) 40, 13 February 1942. For similar Turkish concerns, see PREM 3/445/8, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 403, 27 February 1942. FO 371/33368, R1355/486/44, Cadogan minute, 21 February 1942. PREM 3/445/8, Eden to Churchill, 2 March 1942. Basil Liddell Hart Centre, King’s College London; Kennedy papers, KENNEDY, JN: 4/3, General Smith to Kennedy, 6 February 1942.

Notes

219

131. Alanbrooke diary, 15 April 1942; Field Marshal Lord Alanbrooke, War Diaries, 1939-45, Alex Danchev and Daniel Todman, eds (London, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2001), p. 249. 132. See also Brooke’s survey of 1942 in Alanbrooke diary, 1 January 1943; Op. cit., p. 355. De Guingand’s memoirs for this period – during which he was Director of Military Intelligence in Cairo – indicate that he also took the threat from the Balkans and eastern Mediterranean seriously. De Guingand, Operation Victory, pp. 109–11. 133. FH Hinsley, British Intelligence in the Second World War, vol. II (London: HMSO, 1981), p. 92. Their US counterparts believed that the British JIC exaggerated the Germans’ need for Caucasian oil (p. 96). 134. WO 208/1980, MI3b report, ‘Possibility of an enemy attack on the Black Sea Coast,’ 15 May 1942. 135. Reynolds, In Command of History, p. 304. 136. CAB 79/20, COS (42) 150th conclusions, 14 May 1942. CAB 79/21, COS (42) 164th conclusions, 29 May 1942; COS (42) 168th conclusions, 3 June 1942; COS (42) 178th conclusions, 13 June 1942. CAB 80/37, COS (42) 302, ‘The Levant-Caspian Front – Co-operation with the Russians,’ memorandum by the CIGS, 11 June 1942; Auchinleck to Brooke, 6 June 1942, annexed to COS (42) 305, 13 June 1942. Alanbrooke diary, ‘notes for my memoirs’ and 15 August 1942; Alanbrooke, War Diaries, pp. 304–5. 137. See especially Brooke’s lengthy entries on the state of the Soviets’ Caucasian defences as viewed during his flight to and from Moscow. Alanbrooke diary, ‘notes for my memoirs’ and 17 August 1942; Alanbrooke, War Diaries, pp. 300, 308. 138. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill Papers; CHAR 20/67/6, Churchill to Ismay, for Chiefs of Staff, 23 July 1942. 139. FO 195/2743, Arnold to Hugessen, 16 July 1942. Several members of the Vichy French mission in Turkey were understood to be pro-Allied. A number of them resigned from the Ankara embassy and joined the Free French during 1942. FO 371/33394, R2799/2536/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 858, 27 April 1942. 140. FO 195/2743, Hugessen minute, 18 July 1942. 141. FO 195/2743, John Sterndale-Bennett minute, 25 July 1942. Haydar Aktay had been recalled to Ankara in the summer of 1942, and died shortly after. FO 371/33366, R4280/480/44, Clutton minute, 29 June 1942; R5359/480/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1496, 12 August 1942. 142. Eden to Hugessen, no. 174, 25 August 1942; BDFA, Part III, series B, vol. 1, 344. 143. FO 371/33375, R1541/810/44, report on Turkish public opinion by Michael Grant (British Council, Ankara), January 1942. 144. HS 3/227, ‘Pan-Turanianism (sic) in Turkey,’ 12 May 1942; ‘Turkey – A Political Survey,’ 4 June 1942. 145. FO 371/33312, R3159/24/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 967, 13 May 1942. ‘The desire of the Turkish government was to keep the Pan-Turanian movement, which had sympathisers in the government itself, under close observation and control. The main idea was to provide a contingency plan

220

146. 147. 148. 149. 150.

151.

152. 153. 154. 155.

156. 157.

158. 159.

160. 161.

162. 163. 164. 165. 166. 167.

Notes in the event of clear German victory. This is not out of keeping with Turkish foreign policy, which typically sought to cover all options.’ Deringil, Turkish Foreign Policy, pp. 129–33. FO 195/2743, Hugessen minute, 27 July 1942. HW 12/280, 108599 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador London, 2 September 1942 (29 August). Dimitrov diary, 29 July 1942; Dimitrov, Tagebücher, p. 562. Dimitrov diary, 6 July 1942; Ibid, pp. 548–9. Churchill to Franklin Roosevelt, 15 August 1942; Churchill & Roosevelt – The Complete Correspondence, vol. 1 Alliance Emerging Oct 1933–Nov 1942, Warren F Kimball, ed. (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton UP, 1984), pp. 565– 6. Ulunian, ‘Soviet Cold War Perceptions of Turkey & Greece,’ 37. The Russians also apprehended a Turkish interest in the future of the Turkic minority in Iran, and assumed concomitant Turkish territorial ambitions there. FAG Cook (Tabriz) to Sir Reader Bullard (Tehran), no. 47, 9 November 1941, BDFA, Part III, series B, vol. 3; Malcolm Yapp, ed. (Bethesda, Maryland: University Publications of America, 1997), pp. 447–8. Times, ‘Sevastopol,’ 3 July 1942, p. 5; ‘Mediterranean Issues,’ 8 July 1942, p. 5. New Statesman & Nation, ‘Facing the Spectre,’ 4 July 1942, p. 1. Alanbrooke diary, ‘notes for my memoirs’; Alanbrooke, War Diaries, p. 296. Alanbrooke diary, 18 and 21 August 1942; Op. cit., pp. 308, 310–11. See also Times, ‘Persia-Iraq Command—Tenth Army’s New Importance—The Caucasus Threat,’ 25 August 1942, p. 4. Winston S Churchill, The Second World War vol. 4 (London: Cassell, 1951), p. 421. Reynolds, In Command of History, p. 307. CAB 79/22, COS (42), 223rd meeting, 31 July 1942. Brooke made a similar request regarding the JIC assessment of the threat to Iran and Iraq, in light of rapid German advances in the Caucasus during August. COS (42), 249th meeting, 28 August 1942. FO 800/279, Hugessen to Sargent, 10 September 1942. WO 201/1120, ‘Plans for delaying the advance of the enemy through Turkey,’ June 1942. FO 371/33369, R432/486/44, Sargent minute, 25 June 1942; Cadogan and Eden minutes, 26 and 27 June 1942. FO 371/33369, R6094/486/44, Dixon minute, 8 October 1942. CAB 81/111, JIC (42) 450, ‘Capacity of Soviet Forces to Defend Southern Caucasia,’ 18 November 1942. CAB 79/22, COS (42) 327th meeting, 25 November 1942, and passim. Osborn, Operation Pike, pp. 253–4. WO 106/3139, ‘The Northern Front,’ 2 January 1943. Ibid. Ernst Jäckh, The Rising Crescent – Turkey Yesterday, Today & Tomorrow (New York: Farrar & Rinehart, 1944), pp. 7–8. Chester Tobin, Turkey – Key to the East (New York: GP Putnam’s Sons, 1944), pp. 153–5. See Note 104 above. Schreiber et al., Germany & the Second World War, vol. III, pp. 706–7.

Notes

4

221

The Churchill Factor: November 1942 to April 1943

1. HW 1/886, 108887 Japanese ambassador Istanbul to Foreign Ministry Tokyo, 4 September 1942 (10 September). 2. HW 1/877, 108810 Turkish ambassador Vichy to MFA Ankara, 4 September 1942 (8 September). HW 1/948, 109705 Turkish ambassador Vichy to MFA Ankara, 1 October 1942 (3 October). 3. HW 1/950, 109703 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 30 September 1942 (3 October). 4. HW 12/282, 110738 Turkish military attaché London to General Staff Ankara, 3 November 1942 (6 November). 5. FO 371/33369, R7608/486/44, Clutton minute, 8 November 1942. 6. FO 371/33313, R7702/24/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 2084, 14 November 1942. 7. FO 371/33313, R7702/24/44, Clutton minute, 17 November 1942. 8. FO 371/33313, R7702/24/44, Dixon minute, 17 November 1942. 9. FO 371/33313, R8021/24/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 2149, 24 November 1942. 10. FO 371/33313, R8021/24/44, Cavendish-Bentinck minute, 28 November 1942. The JIC continued to advise the Foreign Office that Germany could not mount a credible threat to Turkey while the Red Army remained undefeated in the Caucasus. FO 371/33313, R7978/24/44, Sargent minute, 7 December 1942. 11. HW 12/281, 110049 Greek ambassador Ankara to Greek government London, 12 October 1942 (15 October). 12. HW 1/972. 13. PREM 3/446/9, Eden to Churchill, 15 November 1942. 14. Basil Liddell Hart Centre, KENNEDY, JN: 4/2/4, Noble Kennedy diary, 18 November and 20 December 1942. 15. National Maritime Museum, Admiral Howard Kelly papers, KEL/42, Kelly to Cunningham, 29 December 1942. 16. When this paper was sent to Field Marshal Dill in Washington, he reminded the Prime Minister that spare forces may become available in Egypt, but there was no spare equipment – above all tanks – for diversion to Turkey. PREM 3/499/5, Dill to Chiefs of Staff, 19 November 1942. 17. PREM 3/499/5, COS (42) 181st and 182nd meetings (O), both 15 November 1942. Churchill had his paper reprinted for the War Cabinet, and telegraphed to President Roosevelt. PREM 3/446/9, ‘Plans & Operations in the Mediterranean, Middle East & Near East,’ note by the Minister of Defence to Chiefs of Staff, reprinted for War Cabinet, 25 November 1942. 18. PREM 3/499/6, COS (42) 345 (O) (Final), ‘American-British Strategy,’ 30 October 1942; ‘Notes by the Prime Minister on COS (42) 345 (O) (Final).’ Eden, too, was ‘horrified’ by the Chiefs’ recommendations. Oliver Harvey diary, 10 November 1942; Oliver Harvey, The War Diaries of Oliver Harvey, John Harvey ed. (London: Collins, 1978), pp. 180–1. 19. PREM 3/446/9, Roosevelt to Churchill, 12 November 1942; Churchill to Roosevelt, 13 November 1942.

222

Notes

20. ‘I endorse the above conception by the President . . . A supreme and prolonged effort must be made to bring Turkey into the war in the Spring.’ PREM 3/446/9, ‘Plans & Operations in the Mediterranean, Middle East & Near East,’ note by the Minister of Defence to Chiefs of Staff, reprinted for War Cabinet, 25 November 1942. 21. Weinberg, World at Arms, pp. 434–6. 22. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 20/83/109, Churchill to Stalin, 24 November 1942. 23. Churchill College, Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 20/84/10-11, Stalin to Churchill, 27 November 1942. 24. Boog et al., Germany and the Second World War, vol. VI, p. 103. 25. Osborn, Operation Pike, p. 254. 26. HW 12/282, 111713 Japanese ambassador Ankara to Foreign Ministry Tokyo, 25 November 1942 (30 November). Seen by Churchill as part of HW 1/1178. 27. WO 106/3139, Churchill to Brooke, 1 December 1942. 28. Basil Liddell Hart Centre, KENNEDY, JN: 4/2/4, Kennedy diary, 18 November 1942. 29. PREM 3/446/9, ‘Plans & Operations in the Mediterranean, Middle East & Near East,’ note by the Minister of Defence to Chiefs of Staff, reprinted for War Cabinet, 25 November 1942. Kennedy was perhaps more aware than the Prime Minister of the difficulties of supplying Turkey by land and rail from Syria. 30. PREM 3/499/5, COS (42) 181st meeting (O), 15 November 1942. Brooke agreed that ‘(t)he importance of Turkey could not be over-emphasised and the possibility of building up a force in Syria to back up the Turks was now being studied.’ 31. Basil Liddell Hart Centre, KENNEDY, JN: 4/2/4, Kennedy diary, 8 December 1942. 32. Alanbrooke diary, 11 December 1942; War Diaries, pp. 347–8. TORCH had already succeeded in drawing substantial German forces away from the Russian front, albeit with negative implications for the Allied campaign in Tunisia. Weinberg, World at Arms, p. 435. 33. FO 371/33313, R7978/24/44, Knox Helm to Hugessen, 5 November 1942. 34. FO 371/33313, R7978/24/44, Sargent minute, 7 December 1942. Hugessen had reported that junior army officers were keen to join the war in order to attack Bulgaria, and achieve frontier revision in Thrace, but insisted that ‘more responsible elements . . . still talked of neutrality.’ CAB 81/90, JIC (42) 59th meeting, 8 December 1942. For Southern Department minutes adopting a similar tone to Sargent, see FO 371/33313, R7978/24/44, Clutton minute, 1 December 1942; Dixon minute, 3 December 1942. 35. CAB 79/24, COS (42) 335th meeting, 4 December 1942. CAB 81/90, JIC (42) 59th meeting, 8 December 1942. 36. CAB 79/24, COS (42) 335th meeting, 4 December 1942. 37. FO 371/33313, R7978/24/44, Cadogan minute, 8 December 1942 [emphasis in original]. 38. HW 3/162, ‘D & R (Distribution & Reference Section), Berkeley St,’ c. December 1945.

Notes

223

39. The exceptions were one or two extremely restricted items, passed directly by Menzies to Churchill, and perhaps seen additionally by Eden or Sir Edward Bridges, the War Cabinet secretary. 40. Churchill had little confidence in Hugessen, and frequently upbraided Eden about the standard of Hugessen’s correspondence from Ankara. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 20/36, Churchill to Eden, 2 July 1941. PREM 3/445/8, Churchill to Hugessen, 9 December 1941; Churchill to Eden, 5 November 1942. 41. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 20/67/8, Churchill to Eden, 21 October 1942. 42. Winston Churchill, ‘The War at Land & Sea,’ Part II, London Magazine, November 1916; Michael Wolff, ed. The Collected Essays of Sir Winston Churchill, vol. I – Churchill & War (London: Library of Imperial History, 1976), pp. 127–8. 43. Winston Churchill, ‘Prize of Constantinople—Speedy Surrender if Allied Fleet Had Forced Dardanelles—Turkey’s “Greatest Bluff in History,”’ Daily Telegraph, 1 July 1930; Wolff, ed. vol. I, pp. 282–7. Winston Churchill, ‘Ships Could Have Forced the Dardanelles,’ Daily Mail, 2 October 1934; Wolff, ed. vol. I, pp. 334–6. 44. Reynolds, In Command of History, pp. 174, 375. 45. For Brooke’s assessment of Churchill’s flawed strategic vision, see Alanbrooke diary, 30 August 1943; Alanbrooke, War Diaries, p. 451. 46. Weinberg, World at Arms, p. 356. 47. PREM 3/420/3, Churchill to Eden & Clement Attlee, STRATEGEM no. 102, 20 January 1943. 48. PREM 3/420/3, Eden & Attlee to Churchill, TELESCOPE no. 182, 20 January 1943. 49. WM (43), 13th and 14th conclusions (Confidential Annex), 24 January 1943; War Cabinet Minutes. 50. PREM 3/446/18. These telegrams from Hugessen were forwarded to Churchill by Eden on 26 January. Churchill’s belief in their importance is expressed in Churchill to Roosevelt, 29 January 1943. 51. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Ian Jacob papers, JACB 1/21, Brigadier Ian Jacob diary, 23 January 1943. 52. FO 371/37466, R1443/55/G44, Hugessen to Sargent, 21 January 1943. 53. PREM 3/446/18, Eden & Attlee to Churchill, TELESCOPE no. 274, 24 January 1943, and no. 278, 25 January 1943. 54. WM (43), 18th conclusions (Confidential Annex), 27 January 1943; War Cabinet Minutes. 55. AP 20/1/23, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Eden diary, 24 January 1943. Cadogan diary, 20 January 1943; Dilks, ed. p. 505. 56. Harvey diary, 25 January 1943; Harvey, War Diaries, p. 213. 57. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Ian Jacob papers, JACB 1/21, Jacob diary, 23 January 1943. 58. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Ian Jacob papers, JACB 1/19, Jacob diary, 27 January 1943.

224

Notes

59. PREM 3/446/3, WP (43) 64, ‘The Adana Conference,’ 13 February 1943; transcripts of proceedings of the 2nd meeting of the Adana conference, 30 January 1943, p. 3. 60. CAB 84/52, JP (43) 8 (O) Revised Draft, ‘Allied Plans Relating to Turkey,’ 8 January 1943. 61. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Ian Jacob papers, JACB 1/21, Jacob diary, 23 January 1943. 62. PREM 3/446/18, Eden to Churchill (Washington), no. 253, 16 May 1943. 63. PREM 3/446/12, ‘Morning Thoughts – Note on Post-war Security,’ enclosed in Churchill to Attlee, 1 February 1943. 64. PREM 3/446/3, WP (43) 64, ‘The Adana Conference,’ 13 February 1943; transcripts of proceedings of the 2nd meeting of the Adana conference, 30 January 1943, ibid., p. 4. 65. HW 12/245, 076772 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 1 November 1939 (26 October). Colville diary, 13 December 1940; Colville, The Fringes of Power, pp. 288–9. 66. On Roosevelt’s ambitions for post-war China (and Churchill’s own quite different views), see Keith Sainsbury, Churchill and Roosevelt at War (Basingstoke, Hampshire: Macmillan, 1996 reprint), pp. 163–5. 67. PREM 3/446/3, WP (43) 64, ‘The Adana Conference,’ 13 February 1943; transcripts of proceedings of the 2nd meeting of the Adana conference, 30 January 1943, pp. 2–3. 68. FO 800/403, Cadogan to Eden, 2 February 1943. 69. PREM 3/446/18, Adana press communiqué, 2 February 1943. 70. PREM 3/446/3, WP (43) 64, ‘The Adana Conference,’ 13 February 1943; Annex 3. 71. PREM 3/446/2, Churchill to General Ismay, 28 February 1943; Churchill to Eden, 14 April 1943; Jacob to Churchill, 19 April 1943. 72. Churchill College, Archives Centre, Sir Ian Jacob papers, JACB 1/19, Jacob diary, 30 January 1943. 73. PREM 3/446/3, WP (43) 64, ‘The Adana Conference,’ 13 February 1943; transcripts of proceedings of the 2nd meeting of the Adana conference, 30 January 1943, pp. 2–4. 74. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen papers, KNAT 1/14, Hugessen manuscript diary, 2 February 1943. 75. Alanbrooke diary, 1 February 1943; Alanbrooke, War Diaries, p. 376. 76. PREM 3/446/14, Foreign Office to Clark Kerr, no. 54, 2 February 1943, encloses text of message to Stalin. See also PREM 3/446/11, Churchill to private secretary, 1 February 1943, enclosing text of message to President Roosevelt. 77. Pathé newsreel, ‘Winston Churchill Tour,’ 11 February 1943, Film ID 1075.25. Newsreel available to view at http://www.britishpathe.com/ 78. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Ian Jacob papers, JACB 1/19, Jacob diary, 30 January. 79. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Alexander Cadogan papers, ACAD 7/2, ‘Ramshackle Conference.’ 80. Ibid. 81. Alanbrooke diary, 1 March 1943; Alanbrooke, War Diaries, p. 386. 82. FO 371/37516, R1102/1016/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 256, 7 February 1943.

Notes

225

83. PREM 3/446/18, Hugessen to Foreign Office, nos 123 and 134, c. 20 January 1943 [two of four telegrams forwarded to Churchill at Casablanca, 26 January 1943]. 84. FO 371/37516, R1102/1016/44, Clutton minute, 9 February 1943. 85. FO 371/37471, R7114/55/G44, Eden minute, 6 August 1943; Howard minute, 11 August 1943. 86. HW 12/285, 113894 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador London, 2 February 1943 (5 February). 87. Cover sheet to HW 1/1348. 88. HW 1/1359, 114128 Japanese ambassador Ankara to Foreign Ministry Tokyo, 5 February 1943 (12 February). This decrypt had the same restricted circulation as the circular from Menemencio˘ glu – Menzies, Loxley, Bridges, MI5, but the documentary record suggests that it was seen by Churchill. 89. FO 371/37516, R2503/1016/44, MEIC paper, ‘Adana Conference,’ 24 February 1943 (forwarded to Foreign Office by Minister of State’s office, 26 February 1943). 90. PREM 3/446/18, Sterndale-Bennett to Foreign Office, no. 550, 17 March 1943. Times, ‘Anglo-Turkish Friendship—“Outstretched Hand Grasped,”’ 18 March 1943, p. 3. 91. PREM 3/446/18, Sterndale-Bennett to Foreign Office, no. 551, 17 March 1943. 92. FO 371/37473, R9297/55/G44, Sterndale-Bennett minute of meeting with Cevat Açıkalın, 6 September 1943. 93. FO 371/33134, R3793/43/67, Sargent paper, ‘Suggested confederation of the States lying between Germany & Italy, on the one side, and Russia and Turkey on the other,’ 1 June 1942. 94. Ibid. 95. FO 371/33134, R8380/43/67, Clutton minute, 5 December 1942. See also FO 371/37465, R139/139/G44, Clutton minute, 7 January 1943, and FO 371/37516, R1069/1016/44, Howard minute, 5 February 1943. 96. FO 371/37465, R139/139/G44, Howard minute, 8 January 1943. FO 371/37179, R2303/55/G67, ‘Turkey and the Balkans,’ 8 March 1943. 97. FO 371/33134, R8417/43/67, Hugessen to Sargent, 10 November 1942. 98. FO 371/33134, R8380/43/67, Clutton minute, 5 December 1942. 99. FO 371/37173, R344/214/G67, Howard minute, 19 January 1943; Sargent minute, 20 January 1943. 100. PREM 3/446/18, Churchill to Roosevelt, 29 January 1943. 101. PREM 3/446/12, ‘Morning Thoughts – Note on Post-war Security,’ enclosed in Churchill to Attlee, 1 February 1943. 102. Colville diary, 13 December 1940; Colville, Fringes of Power, pp. 288–9. 103. PREM 3/446/18, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 144, January 1943. The series of telegrams from Ankara on this subject was collected and sent to Churchill in Casablanca on 26 January 1943; the individual dates of these telegrams are not given. 104. PREM 3/446/18, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 118, 18 January 1943. Although they discouraged Turkish intervention in the Balkans, some within the Foreign Office admitted that such an intervention, ‘forestalling the Russians’ there, ‘may in fact be a happy consequence.’ FO 371/37466, R1444/55/G44, Clutton minute, 23 February 1943.

226

Notes

105. HW 1/1551, 115927 Italian minister Budapest to Foreign Ministry Rome, 16 March 1943 (2 April). 106. HW 12/286, 115788 Japanese minister Sofia to Foreign Ministry Tokyo, 22 March 1943 (29 March). 107. HW 1/1462, 115249 Portuguese minister Bucharest to Foreign Ministry Lisbon, 10 March 1943 (14 March). 108. PREM 3/446/18, Foreign Office to Ankara, no. 409, 20 March 1943; Foreign Office to Ankara, no. 481, 2 April 1943; Sterndale-Bennett to Foreign Office, no. 646, 2 April 1943; Foreign Office to Ankara, no. 497, 6 April 1943. For continued apprehension of Turkish contacts with the minor members of the Axis, see PREM 3/446/18, Foreign Office to Ankara, 3 August 1943, annex to COS (Q) 5, ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 7 August 1943; Clark Kerr to Eden, no. 725, 5 August 1943. 109. For Soviet concerns about these contacts, see FO 371/37179, R5640/55/G67, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 67 SAVING, 20 June 1943. 110. HW 12/288, 117830 Greek government in exile London to Greek legation Cairo, 19 May 1943 (22 May). 111. HW 12/285, 113987 Spanish ambassador London to Foreign Ministry Madrid, 5 February (8 February). Orbay remained an enthusiast for Greek– Turkish collaboration, however. HW 12/287, Greek government in exile London to Greek legation Cairo, 24 April 1943 (27 April). 112. FO 371/37383, R5482/537/37, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 239, 14 June 1943. 113. FO 371/37179, R1551/55/G67, Sir Michael Palairet (ambassador to Greek government) to Sargent, 19 February 1943; Clutton minute, 23 February 1943. 114. FO 371/37179, R1551/55/G67, Howard minute, 25 February 1943. 115. Erik-Jan Zürcher gives the figure as 55 per cent; Dilek Barlas suggests 65 per cent. Zürcher, Turkey, p. 208. Barlas, Etatism & Diplomacy in Turkey, p. 199. 116. The most recent survey of Turkish policy during the Second World War refers unequivocally to ‘concentration camps.’ Bülent Gökay, Soviet Eastern Policy & Turkey, 1920–1991: Soviet Foreign Policy, Turkey and Communism (Abingdon, Oxfordshire: Routledge, 2006), p. 57. 117. HW 12/284, 113275 Greek government London to Greek ambassador Ankara, 16 January 1943 (20 January); 113435 Greek ambassador Ankara, to Greek government London, 20 January 1943 (24 January). 118. FO 371/37512, R796/735/G44 and R1124/735/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 175 and 259, 27 January and 7 February 1943; R1124/735/G44, Sargent & Cadogan minutes, 10 February 1943; Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 232, 12 February 1943. 119. Barlas, Etatism & Diplomacy in Turkey, p. 198. Zürcher, Turkey, pp. 207–8. Gökay, Soviet Eastern Policy, p. 57. 120. FO 371/33376, R8084/810/44, Denis Wright (HM consul Trebizond) to HM ˙ embassy Ankara, 3 November 1942. EC Hole (HM consul-general Izmir) to Hugessen, no. 111, 17 November 1942; BDFA, Part III, series B, vol. 1, pp. 370–1. 121. FO 371/33368, R3887/486/44, Dixon minute, 13 June 1942; Eden minute, 14 June 1942.

Notes

227

122. FO 371/37466, R1443/55/G44, Hugessen to Sargent, 21 January 1943; R1446/55/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 58, 5 February 1943. 123. PREM 3/445/8, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 2374, 7 October 1941. 124. FO 371/37489, R3421/95/44, Clutton, 16 April 1943. On Britain’s limited ability to provide Turkey with further economic assistance during 1943, see FO 371/37465, R55/55/G44, Lord Drogheda minute, 26 December 1942. 125. Hugessen to Eden, no. 250, 20 June 1943; BDFA, Part III, series B, vol. 2; Malcolm Yapp, ed. (Bethesda, Maryland: University Publications of America, 1997), pp. 25–6. 126. Gökay, Soviet Eastern Policy, p. 54. 127. PREM 3/446/8, Churchill to Eden, 8 October 1942. 128. PREM 3/446/8, Foreign Office to Hugessen, nos 1491 and 1493, 28 September 1943; Hugessen to Foreign Office, nos 1783 and 1784, 30 September 1943; Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1797, 1 October 1943. 129. Zürcher, Turkey, pp. 215–16. 130. Ibid, pp. 216–17. Barlas, Etatism & Diplomacy in Turkey, pp. 198–9. ˙ 131. Saydam was understood by the British to be a cipher for Inönü rather than a major figure in his own right, with little say over a foreign policy enacted by Saraco˘ glu and Menemencio˘ glu and overseen ultimately by the President. FO 371/33375, Sargent minute, R4480/810/44, 8 July 1942. 132. Hugessen to Eden, no. 207, 15 July 1942; BDFA, Part III, series B, vol. 1, pp. 334–5. FO 1011/199, Hugessen to Loraine, 21 September 1942. 133. FO 371/33375, R4626/810/44, Dixon minute, 14 July 1942. 134. Pathé newsreel, ‘With Churchill in Egypt,’ 20 December 1943, Film ID ˙ 1097.24. This and other British newsreels featured Inönü in conference with Churchill and Roosevelt, an authoritative yet benevolent figure, smiling broadly, or on his public duties in Turkey, kindly and avuncular, mixing freely with the civilian population. See also ‘Winston Churchill Tour,’ 11 February 1943, Film ID 1075.25; untitled, Film ID 1657.21, c. 1941. Newsreels available to view at http://www.britishpathe.com/ 135. Frank Clune, Tobruk to Turkey – With the Army of the Nile (London: Angus & Robertson, 1943), pp. 188–9. Tobin, Turkey – Key to the East, p. 135. ˙ 136. Paneth, Turkey – Decadence & Rebirth, pp. 145–9. Inönü’s regime in fact remained as autocratic as Atatürk’s. Cemil Koçak, ‘Some Views on the ˙ Turkish single-party regime during the Inönü period’ in Atabaki Zürcher, eds. Men of Order, pp. 119, 126–7. 137. FO 371/33375, R4626/810/44, Dixon minute, 14 July 1942. 138. HS 3/241, Foreign Research & Press Service paper on Saraco˘ glu, 12 June 1942. 139. Gökay, Soviet Eastern Policy, pp. 56–7. 140. HS 3/227, Dixon to Glenconner, 27 May 1942. 141. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Alexander Cadogan papers, ACAD 1/10, Cadogan manuscript diary, 19 June 1941. FO 371/33375, R4626/810/44, Cadogan & Eden minutes, 15 July 1942. Cadogan’s unpublished memoir was more gracious towards Menemencio˘ glu, whom he had first met at Lausanne. ‘I found him very agreeable personally but a very tough negotiator.’ ACAD 7/2, ‘Ramshackle Conference.’ 142. FO 1011/199, Hugessen to Loraine, 21 September 1942. Hugessen’s immediate subordinates in Ankara, Knox Helm and John Sterndale-Bennett,

228

143. 144. 145.

146.

147. 148. 149. 150. 151. 152.

153. 154. 155. 156. 157. 158. 159.

160.

161.

Notes concurred with their ambassador. FO 195/2743, Helm and SterndaleBennett minutes, 31 July 1942. Hugessen to Eden, no. 207, 15 July 1942; BDFA, Part III, series B, vol. 1, p. 335. Knox Helm, ‘Turkey – Twelve Years After,’ 11 August 1942; BDFA, Part III, series B, vol. 1, pp. 341–2. Times, ‘Political Changes in Turkey—Progress Towards a Popular Vote,’ 10 March 1943, p. 3. For a concise description of the diplomatic façade in Kemalist Turkey, see Zürcher, Turkey, p. 185. Barbara Ward, Turkey (Oxford: OUP, 1942), pp. 56–7. Ernst Jäckh, The Rising Crescent – Turkey Yesterday, Today & Tomorrow (New York: Farrar & Rinehart, 1944), p. 184. Eric Tomlin, Turkey: The Modern Miracle (London: Watts & Co., 1940), p. 42. Lord Lloyd, The British Case (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1939), p. 37. Lloyd, The British Case, pp. 37, 41. FO 371/33375, R2467/810/44, Arnold to War Office, 12 March 1942. For a characteristic example, see Paneth, Turkey at the Crossroads. St Anthony’s College Oxford, GB 165-0316 Sir Denis Wright papers, Wright diary, 9 March 1941 and 13 February 1942. See, for example, Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 22/245/5-12, WJ Childs to Winston Churchill, 21 March 1929. ‘The pre-war reformers asked for fifty years to do what, with the rough aid of war, has already been done in ten. Taking a broad view of the changes made since the Treaty of Lausanne the progress appears headlong, even compared with the classic example of Japan.’ Zürcher, Turkey – A Modern History, p. 215. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Ian Jacob papers, JACB 1/19, Jacob diary, 30 January 1943. FO 371/33375, R3067/810/44, Sargent to Hugessen, 9 May 1942. FO 371/33376, R7762/810/44, Sargent minute, 21 November 1942. See also Dixon minute, 20 November 1942. FO 371/33375, R3067/810/44, Sargent to Hugessen, 9 May 1942. FO 371/31358, E6539/6539/65 and E7021/6539/65, Mr Crosthwaite (Eastern Department) minutes, 11 and 29 November 1942. HW 12/281, 110101 Turkish minister Cairo to MFA Ankara, 10 October 1942 (16 October). The minister reported a conversation on the Caliphate with James Morgan, previously British minister in Ankara. FO 371/33375, R3929/810/44, Hugessen to Sargent, 29 May 1942. Hugessen’s conclusions were shared by Knox Helm. Knox Helm, ‘Turkey – Twelve Years After,’ 11 August 1942; BDFA, Part III, series B, vol. 1, pp. 340–1. Hugessen to Eden, no. 2094, 16 November 1942; BDFA, Part III, series B, vol. 1, p. 366. See also FO 371/33376, R8000/810/44, Clutton minute, 28 November 1942. ‘(A)lthough Turkey has seams of western civilisation in her makeup, she is fundamentally oriental, and the situation is not likely to develop as if Turkey were a proper occidental country.’ The Foreign Secretary questioned Clutton’s conclusions, however. ‘(I)n my experiences, “proper” occidental countries are rare!’ Eden minute, 3 December 1942.

Notes

229

162. FO 371/33376, R8573/810/44, Sterndale-Bennett to Foreign Office, no. 2254, 12 December 1942. See also FO 371/37401, R1212/7/44, Hugessen to Eden, no. 50, 29 January 1943. 163. Review of the Foreign Press Series B – Allied Governments, European Neutrals, Smaller European Enemies, South-East Europe and the Near East, #176, 5 March 1943, and #179, 26 March 1943. 164. FO 371/37403, R4768/7/44, Postal and Telegraph Censorship to Foreign Office, May 1943. See also FO 371/37399, R270/7/44, British Women of Istanbul to Sterndale-Bennett, 23 December 1942. 165. PREM 4/20/2, British Community Council in Istanbul to Churchill (via Consul-General, Istanbul), 3 February 1943. 166. PREM 4/20/2, Archbishop of Canterbury to Eden, 18 January 1943. FO 371/37400, R935/7/44, Archbishop of Canterbury to Eden, 28 January 1943. 167. National Maritime Museum, Sir Howard Kelly papers, KEL/42, Kelly to Cunningham, 29 December 1942. FO 371/37401, R1110/7/44, Dixon minute, 22 February 1943. 168. St Anthony’s College Oxford, GB 165-0316, Sir Denis Wright papers, diary entry, 4 February 1943. 169. FO 371/37404, R5055/7/44, Clutton minute, 17 June 1943. FO 371/37406, R8039/7/44, Clutton minute, 10 August 1943. 170. Times, ‘Turkish Tax on Wealth—“A Revolutionary Step,”’ 1 January 1943, p. 3; ‘Building the New Turkey—Wish to Be Left in Peace—Talk with Prime Minister,’ 16 January 1943, p. 4. None of the books published in English during the Second World War, consulted during the research for this book, discuss the Varlık. 171. Cyrus Sulzberger, A Long Row of Candles: Memoirs and Diaries, 1934–54 (London: Macdonald & Co., 1969), pp. 215–16. 172. Cordell Hull to Laurence Steinhardt (Ankara), 13 January 1943; FRUS 1943, vol. IV (Washington DC: Department of State, 1964), pp. 1078–9. Roger R Trask, The United States Response to Turkish Nationalism & Reform, 1914– 1939 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1971), pp. 37–8, 82–4. 173. HW 12/293, 123506 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 29 September 1943 (8 October). The Varlık was finally withdrawn in March 1944. 174. FO 371/37466, R2958/55/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 634, 1 April 1943. 175. FO 371/37466, R2958/55/G44, Clutton minute, 2 April 1943. 176. FO 371/37467, R3389/55/G44, Cadogan minute, 15 April 1943. 177. HW 12/285, 114359 Turkish consul Moscow to MFA Ankara, 15 February 1943 (18 February). 178. HW 1/1384, 19 February 1943. 179. PREM 3/446/5, Eden to Churchill, 6 May 1943. Churchill subsequently expressed his distress ‘that Turkish policy and utterances seemed to be increasingly less favourable to the Allies and had dealt with ever-growing emphasis on the desire of Turkey to maintain the strictest neutrality and keep out of the war.’ PREM 3/446/18, Churchill to Eden, 12 June 1943.

230

Notes

180. FO 371/37501, R1263/207/44, Cavendish-Bentinck minute, 13 February 1943; Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 242, 14 February 1943. 181. FO 371/37505, R338/337/G44, Colonel Blunt (assistant military attaché Ankara) paper, 23 November 1942. 182. FO 371/37510, R7707/650/G44, Cavendish-Bentinck minute, 20 August 1943. 183. Ibid. 184. FO 371/37489, R3421/95/44, undated Eden minute [April 1943]. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Alexander Cadogan papers, ACAD 1/12, Cadogan diary, 5 May 1943.

5 Turkey and the Anglo-Soviet Alliance, June 1941 to September 1943 1. FO 371/30091, R6388/236/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1540, 22 June 1941. 2. FO 371/30091, R6532/236/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1558, 25 June 1941. 3. Churchill to Eden, 2 July 1941, Churchill War Papers, vol. 3, pp. 889–90. FO 371/30091, R6532/236/44, Nichols minute, 28 June 1941. Christopher Warner, representing the Northern Department of the Foreign Office, could not foresee the circumstances in which Britain should want to make an arrangement with Russia at the expense of Turkish sovereignty, but admitted that it might be possible to keep resistance to Germany alive in Georgia and ‘Soviet Armenia’ by such means. Christopher Warner minute, 28 June 1941. 4. Eden to Cripps, no. 132, 19 July 1941; BDFA, Part III, Series B, vol. 1, p. 232. 5. Cripps to Eden, no. 78, 6 August 1941; BDFA, Part III, Series B, vol. 1, p. 245. 6. Hugessen to Eden, no. 1942, 10 August 1941; Ibid., pp. 247–8. For the text of the British and Russian declarations, see Eden to Halifax, no. 607, 11 August 1941; BDFA, Part III, Series B, vol. 1, pp. 233–4. 7. FO 371/30093, R7782/236/44, Clutton minute, 12 August 1941. 8. HW 12/268, 095367 Turkish military attaché Moscow to Turkish General Staff, 5 September 1941 (9 September). 9. FO 371/30076, R7558/139/44, Cripps to Foreign Office, no. 947, 9 August 1941. 10. FO 371/29541, N1222/1222/38, Foreign Office to Cripps, no. 236, 22 March 1941. 11. FO 371/30076, R7558/139/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1907, 6 August 1941; Cripps to Foreign Office, no. 947, 9 August 1941. FO 371/30092, R7782/236/44, Clutton minute, 12 August 1941; Foreign Office to Cripps, no. 1052, 16 August 1941. 12. HW 12/271, 099067 Turkish ambassador Kuibyshev to MFA Ankara, 12 December 1941 (18 December). 13. HW 12/271, 099241 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Tehran, 20 December 1941 (23 December); 099537 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 25 and 26 December 1941 (30 December). 14. CAB 66/20, WP (42) 8, ‘Mr Eden’s Visit to Moscow,’ 5 January 1942; record of interview, 16 December 1941.

Notes

231

15. Vojtech Mastny, Russia’s Road to the Cold War (New York: Columbia UP, 1979), p. 42. HW 12/272, 099679 Turkish ambassador Kuibyshev to MFA Ankara, 1 January 1942 (3 January); 099722 Turkish ambassador Kuibyshev to MFA Ankara, 1 January 1941 (4 January); 099746 Turkish ambassador Tehran to MFA Ankara, 2 January 1941 (5 January); 100631 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassadors Washington and Kuibyshev, 22 January 1941 (28 January). 16. FO 371/31388, E261/21/34, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 69, 10 January 1942 and E377/21/34, no. 105, 15 January 1942. HW 12/272 100028 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Tehran, 10 January 1942 (13 January); 100355 Turkish ambassador Tehran to MFA Ankara, 18 January 1942 (21 January). HW 12/273 101158 Turkish ambassador Tehran to MFA Ankara, 8 February 1942 (11 February). 17. FO 371/33375, R2375/810/44, Hugessen to Sargent, 18 March 1942. 18. HW 12/273, 102799 Turkish ambassador Kuibyshev to MFA Ankara, 24 March 1942 (30 March) and MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Kuibyshev, 26 March 1942 (30 March). 19. FO 371/33382, R2318/1266/44, Sir Archibald Clark Kerr to Foreign Office, no. 448, 7 April 1942. 20. FO 371/33382, R2279/1266/4, Dixon minute, 8 April 1942. 21. HW 12/275, 103156 Turkish ambassador Kuibyshev to MFA Ankara, 8 April 1942 (11 April). 22. FO 371/33383, R2517/1266/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 793, 17 April 1942. A subsequent Turkish intercept – given restricted distribution within Whitehall – reported that Hugessen had told Saraco˘ glu that the Turkish government was ‘completely in the right,’ and that ‘(i)n disputes of this kind, if we take either side it will certainly be the Turkish.’ HW 12/276, 104240 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador London, 6 May 1942 (10 May). 23. FO 371/33383, R2517/1266/44, Foreign Office to Clark Kerr, no. 538, 18 April 1942. 24. FO 371/33383, R2517/1266/44, Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 677, 18 April 1942. 25. FO 371/33383, R2547/1266/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 806, 18 April 1942. 26. FO 371/33383, R2551/1266/44, Clark Kerr to Foreign Office, no. 514, 19 April 1942; Howard minute, 20 April 1942. 27. FO 371/33383, R2551/1266/44, Sargent minute, 20 April 1942. 28. FO 371/33383, R4005/1266/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1201, 17 June 1942. 29. FO 371/33384, R4531/1266/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1302, 7 July 1942; Dixon minute, 16 July 1942. 30. FO 371/33384, R7055/1266/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1918, 21 October 1942; Dixon minute, 27 October 1942. 31. FO 371/33384, R4187/1266/44, Clutton and Dixon minutes, 1 and 2 December 1942. 32. FO 371/33382, R2394/1266/44, Warner minute, 11 April 1942. 33. HW 12/274, 102104 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 28 February 1942 (8 March).

232

Notes

34. Minutes by Armine Dew, Sir William Strang and Sargent, 9–14 May 1942; Graham Ross, ed. The Foreign Office & the Kremlin – British Documents on AngloSoviet Relations, 1941–45 (Cambridge: CUP, 1984), pp. 106–7. Cadogan diary, 31 March 1942; Dilks, ed., p. 444. 35. HW 12/274, 102225 Turkish chargé d’affaires London to MFA Ankara, 8 March 1942 (14 March); 102350 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Kuibyshev 14 March 1942 (17 March). 36. HW 12/274, 102800 Turkish ambassador Kuibyshev to MFA Ankara, 24 March 1942 (30 March). 37. HW 12/276, 104369 Turkish chargé d’affaires Kuibyshev to MFA Ankara, 11 May 1942 (13 May). The day after this telegram was decrypted, Eden wrote to Hugessen making it clear that he was willing to approach the Russians directly to secure such a clause, if it would indeed lead to a relaxation of Turkish suspicions. FO 371/33312, R3079/24/44, Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 810, 14 May 1942. 38. Phillips, Hitler’s Last Hope, p. 61. 39. Ward, Turkey, p. 8. 40. HW 12/276, 104840 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 23 May 1942 (25 May). WM (42), 67th conclusions, 26 May 1942 (Secretary’s Standard File – Confidential Annex); War Cabinet Minutes. 41. HW 12/276, 104945 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 25 May 1942 (28 May). 42. HW 12/276, 105007 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 27 May 1942 (30 May). For a British account of another interview at which Orbay expressed similar concerns, see Eden to Hugessen, no. 110, 4 June 1942; BDFA, Part III, Series B, vol. 1, pp. 318–19. 43. HW 12/280, 108659 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 31 August 1942 (4 September). 44. HW 12/276, 105042 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 26 May 1942 (31 May). 45. FO 371/33312, R4040/24/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1199, 17 June 1942. 46. HW 1/622, 105159 Turkish ambassador Berlin to MFA Ankara, 31 May 1942 (3 June), with comments by Churchill, Sir Stewart Menzies, Eden and Cadogan. FO 371/33368, R3729/486/44, Dixon minute, ‘German Influence in Turkey,’ 2 June 1942. 47. FO 371/33369, R4322/486/44, Clutton minute, 29 June 1942. 48. FO 371/33313, R7978/24/44, Knox Helm to Hugessen, 5 November 1942. 49. FO 371/33369, R8723/486/44, Sterndale-Bennett to Sargent, undated (December 1942). 50. FO 371/33369, R8723/486/44, Helm memorandum, 29 November 1942. 51. FO 371/33369, R8723/486/44, Clutton minute, 23 December 1942. 52. FO 371/33369, R8723/486/44, Sargent minute, 28 December 1942. 53. FO 195/2476, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 83, 14 January 1943. 54. PREM 3/446/3, WP (43) 64, ‘The Adana Conference,’ 13 February 1943; transcripts of proceedings of the 2nd meeting of the Adana conference, 30 January 1943, p. 6. 55. Coincidentally, a recent Turkish intercept reported a conversation between Hitler and the Romanian prime minister, during which Hitler declared

Notes

56.

57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

64.

65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70.

71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76.

233

that ‘(a)fter 1939 the Russians often discussed the question of Istanbul and the Straits with us. In their minds Istanbul is something to which they have an absolute historical and geographical right.’ HW 1/1341, MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Washington, 25 January 1943 (28 January). PREM 3/446/3, WP (43) 64, ‘The Adana Conference,’ 13 February 1943; transcripts of proceedings of the 2nd meeting of the Adana conference, 30 January 1943, p. 6. PREM 3/446/2, Stalin to Churchill, 6 February 1943. PREM 3/446/14, Churchill to I˙ nönü, 9 February 1943. FO 371/37509, R1393/650/G44, Clutton minute, 18 February 1943. Ibid. PREM 3/446/2, Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 292, 25 February 1943; Foreign Office summary on Soviet-Turkish relations, February 1943. FO 371/37509, R2564/650/G44, Clark Kerr to Foreign Office, no. 177, 21 March 1943; Dixon minute, 22 March 1943. PREM 3/446/14, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 522, 15 March 1943. HW 12/287, 115982 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 26 March 1943 (3 April). HW 12/286, 115324 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 6 March 1943 (16 March) and passim. HW 12/287, 116511 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 8 April 1943 (16 April). FO 195/2479, Knox Helm minute, 10 March 1943. HW 12/287, 116389 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 10 April 1943 (13 April). HW 12/286, 115324 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 6 March 1943 (16 March). HW 12/286, 115000 Turkish military attaché Kuibyshev to General Staff, 3 March 1943 (7 March). See Chapter 6. HW 12/286, 115324 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 6 March 1943 (16 March). HW 12/291, 121351 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 6 August 1943 (15 August). HW 1/2017, 122343 Greek ambassador to Greek embassy Moscow, 7 September 1943 (9 September). HW 1/2017, 122343 Greek ambassador to Greek embassy Moscow, 7 September 1943 (9 September). PREM 3/446/15, WP (43) 420, ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 27 September 1943. PREM 3/446/18, COS (Q) 5, ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 7 August 1943 – note by the Prime Minister. PREM 3/446/18, Foreign Office to Clark Kerr, no. 1026, 4 August 1943. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen papers, KNAT 1/14, Hugessen diary, 25 August, 16 September and 7 November 1943. This thesis has been articulated by Martin Folly, in an important book on British perceptions of the Soviet Union which complements earlier work by Eduard Mark on similar attitudes in the United States. Martin Folly, Churchill, Whitehall and the Soviet Union, 1940–45 (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000). Eduard Mark, ‘October or Thermidor? Interpretations of Stalinism and the Perception of Soviet Foreign Policy in the United States, 1927–1947,’ American Historical Review 94:4 (1989), pp. 937–62.

234

Notes

77. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen papers, KNAT 1/14, Hugessen diary, 16 September 1943. 78. WO 201/1231, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 134, 19 July 1943.

6 The Eastern Mediterranean, in Peace and War: May to October 1943 1. CAB 80/71, COS (43) 364 (O), ‘Policy Towards Turkey – Memorandum by the Foreign Office,’ 5 July 1943. 2. PREM 3/446/5, Hugessen to Foreign Office, nos 856, 857, 858, 4 May 1943. 3. FO 371/37468, R4637/55/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 998, 24 May 1943. ‘Laudatory’ articles of the kind described by Hugessen included Times, ‘Turkish Policy for the Peace—Regional Co-Operation,’ 20 April 1943, p. 3; ˙ ‘Turkey Planning for Peace—President Inönü’s Survey—A Democratic Trend,’ 10 June 1943, p. 3. 4. Manchester Guardian, ‘The Neutrality of Turkey – A Paradox,’ 24 July 1943, p. 7. 5. FO 371/37469, R5034/55/G44, Hugessen to Sargent, 28 May 1943. See also FO 371/37470, R6011/55/44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1279, 9 July 1943; Southern Department minute [unknown author], 27 July 1943. 6. Overy, Why the Allies Won, 2nd edition (London: Pimlico, 2006), pp. 297–8. 7. Hale, Turkish Foreign Policy, pp. 104–5. 8. FO 371/37470, R5840/55G44, Hugessen to Cadogan, 26 June 1943. ‘Chests full of gold and bins full of corn’ was a reference to a speech made by Saraco˘ glu to the Congress of the Republican People’s Party earlier in June. Hugessen to Eden, no. 250, 20 June 1943; BDFA, Part III, Series B, vol. 2, 25–6. Hugessen made the same point, that the alliance ‘alone’ had saved Turkey, in PREM 3/446/18, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1141, 13 June 1943. 9. FO 371/37469, R5366/55/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1180, for Cadogan, 19 June 1943. 10. FO 371/37469, R5366/55/G44, Clutton minute, 22 June 1943. 11. CAB 80/71, COS (43) 364 (O), ‘Policy Towards Turkey – Memorandum by the Foreign Office,’ 5 July 1943. 12. Weinberg, World at Arms, p. 440. 13. CAB 80/69, COS (43) 268 (O), ‘Turkey – Meeting with Marshal Çakmak,’ 24 May 1943. 14. CAB 84/54, JP (43) 218 (FINAL), ‘Mediterranean Strategy,’ 21 June 1943. 15. CAB 84/54, JP (43) 240 (Final), ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 20 July 1943. 16. FO 371/37471, R6430/55/G44, Eden minute, 17 July 1943. 17. CAB 69/5, DO (43), 7th meeting, 2 August 1943. 18. PREM 3/446/18, COS (Q) 5, ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 7 August 1943 – note by the Prime Minister. 19. FO 371/37471, R7114/55/G44, Howard minute, 5 August 1943. 20. Winston S Churchill, The Second World War, vol. 5 (London: Cassell, 1952), pp. 181–5. 21. Ibid., p. 190. 22. Deringil, Turkish Foreign Policy, pp. 149–50.

Notes

235

23. FO 371/37471, R7114/55/G44, Cadogan minute, 5 August 1943. 24. FO 371/37471, R7114/55/G44, Eden minute, 6 August 1943. Eden endorsed Churchill’s proposal to divert supplies for Turkey at the meeting of the Defence Committee on 2 August. CAB 69/5, DO (43), 7th meeting, 2 August 1943. 25. FO 371/37471, R7114/55/G44, Howard minute, 11 August 1943. 26. PREM 3/446/18, COS (Q) 35, ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 19 August 1943 – note by Jacob, annexing COS reply to Churchill, 14 August 1943. 27. FO 371/37471, R7834/55/G44, Eden to Sargent, WELFARE no. 250, 20 August 1943. 28. PREM 3/3/2, Churchill to Eden, 4 April 1943; Eden to Churchill, 9 April 1943. 29. CAB 69/5, DO (43), 7th meeting, 2 August 1943. 30. Churchill, Second World War, vol. 5, pp. 182, 184. 31. Alanbrooke diary, 7 and 8 October 1943; Alanbrooke, War Diaries, pp. 458–9. 32. Churchill, Second World War, vol. 5, p. 185. 33. FO 371/37472, R9007/55/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 1704, 21 September 1943. 34. FO 371/37474, R10338/55/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 152 SAVING, 9 October 1943; R10361/55/44, no. 154 SAVING, 10 October 1943; R11099/55/G44, no. 168 SAVING, 25 October 1943. On the role of the ˙ British service attaches in Turkey and the MI9 organisation in Izmir, in rescuing British garrisons from the Aegean islands, see MRD Foot and JM Langley, MI9 – The British Secret Service that Fostered Escape & Evasion 1939–1945 and Its American Counterpart (London: Bodley Head, 1979), pp. 198–9. 35. FO 371/37473, R10301/55/G44, Clutton minute, 20 October 1943. 36. FO 371/37474, R10832/55/G44, Sterndale-Bennett paper, 27 October 1943. 37. PREM 3/3/9, Churchill to Eden, November 1943. 38. FO 371/37473, R10301/55/G44, Clutton minute, 20 October 1943. 39. FO 371/37473, R9672/55/G44, Clutton minutes, 5 October 1943. 40. PREM 3/446/18, Churchill to Cadogan, 4 April 1943; Churchill to Eden, 12 June 1943. 41. Memorandum of a conversation between Churchill and Harry Hopkins, 19 January 1943; FRUS Washington 1941–42 and Casablanca 1943 (Washington DC: Department of State, 1968), p. 643. PREM 3/446/18, Churchill to Eden, 6 August 1943. 42. FO 371/37470, R5624/55/G44, Cadogan minute, 1 July 1943. 43. CAB 84/52, JP (43) 8 (O) Revised Draft, ‘Allied Plans Relating to Turkey,’ 8 January 1943 [bold type in original]. 44. CAB 80/71, COS (43) 364 (O), Foreign Office paper on ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 5 July 1943. 45. CAB 84/55, JP (43) 283 (Final), ‘Turkey & the Dardanelles,’ 24 August 1943. 46. Ibid. 47. CAB 79/63, COS (43), 197th meeting (O), 26 August 1943. 48. CAB 79/64, JP (43) 294 (Final), ‘Turkey & the Dardanelles,’ 20 September 1943. 49. Ibid. 50. CAB 79/64, COS (43), 223rd meeting (O), 22 September 1943; CAB 80/75, COS (43) 569 (O), ‘Turkey & the Dardanelles,’ 22 September 1943.

236

Notes

51. CAB 80/71, COS (43) 364 (O), Foreign Office paper on ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 5 July 1943. 52. FO 371/37473, R9168/55/G44, Clutton minute, 29 September 1943. 53. Ibid. 54. FO 371/37473, R9168/55/G44, Warner minute, 3 October 1943. 55. Ibid. 56. FO 371/37473, R9168/55/G44, Sargent minute, 11 October 1943. 57. HW 12/293, 123921 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 9 October 1943 (18 October). 58. FO 371/37473, R9168/55/G44, Jebb minute, 15 October 1943; draft telegram from Brigadier Hollis (War Cabinet Offices) to Capel-Dunn (British military mission, Moscow), no date (October 1943). 59. FO 371/37473, R9168/55/G44, draft telegram from Hollis to Capel-Dunn, no date (October 1943). 60. FO 371/37471, R8032/55/G44, Howard minute, 31 August 1943 [emphasis in original]. 61. FO 371/37468, R4557/55/G44, Dixon minute, 24 May 1943. FO 371/37510, R7288/650/G44, Clutton and Howard minutes, 10 August 1943. 62. FO 371/37468, R4131/55/G44, Cadogan minute, 11 May 1943. 63. FO 371/37471, R8032/55/G44, Clutton minute, 28 August 1943.

7 Alliance Diplomacy and the Rise of Anglo-Turkish Antagonism, October 1943–September 1944 1. Keith Sainsbury, The Turning Point – Roosevelt, Stalin, Churchill and Chiang Kai-Shek, 1943: The Moscow, Cairo and Teheran Conferences (London: OUP, 1985), p. 31. 2. Weinberg, World at Arms, p. 623. 3. PREM 3/446/15, Eden (Moscow) to Churchill, no. 54 SPACE, 22 October 1943. 4. PREM 3/446/6, Foreign Office (from Churchill) to Eden (Moscow), no. 194 Extra, 30 October 1943; Eden (Moscow) to Foreign Office (for Churchill), no. 145, 31 October 1943. 5. WM (43), 148th conclusions, 1 November 1943; War Cabinet Minutes. GHQ Middle East could only provide a reduced Hardihood force of four and a ˙ half RAF squadrons for Istanbul and Izmir, as opposed to the agreed 25. PREM 3/446/6, Eden (Cairo) to Foreign Office (for Churchill), no. 2071, 6 November 1943. 6. PREM 3/446/6, Moscow (Eden) to Foreign Office (for Churchill), no. 153, 2 November 1943. 7. PREM 3/446/6, Eden (Moscow) to Foreign Office (for Churchill), no. 153, 2 November 1943. PREM 3/172/5, Winant to Churchill, 4 November 1943. 8. PREM 3/446/15, Eden (Moscow) to Foreign Office, no. 132, 31 October 1943. 9. PREM 3/446/6, Eden to Churchill, 2 November 1943. 10. Sainsbury, Turning Point, pp. 111–12. 11. PREM 3/446/6, Roosevelt to Churchill, 5 November 1943.

Notes

237

12. HW 12/293, 123921 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 9 October 1943 (18 October). 13. HW 12/293, 123833 Japanese ambassador Ankara to Foreign Ministry Tokyo, 13 October 1943 (17 October); 123923 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador London, 14 October 1943 (18 October). 14. HW 12/293, 124258 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 21 October 1943 (26 October). 15. FO 371/37474, R11167/55/G44, Foreign Office (Churchill) to Cairo (Eden), no. 1752, 3 November 1943. 16. Ibid. 17. FO 371/37474, R11337/55/G44, Clutton minute, 8 November 1943. 18. FO 371/37474, R11337/55/G44, Cadogan minute, 8 November 1943. 19. PREM 3/446/6, Eden (Cairo) to Foreign Office (for Churchill), no. 2082, 7 November 1943. 20. PREM 3/446/6, Eden (Cairo) to Foreign Office (for Churchill), no. 2082, 7 November 1943; Eden (Cairo) to Foreign Office (for Churchill), no. 2110, 8 November 1943. 21. FO 371/37473, R9168/55/G44, Jebb minute, 15 October 1943. 22. FO 371/37474, R11413/55/G44, Clutton minute, 9 November 1943. 23. FO 371/37474, R10733/55/G44, Clutton minute, 26 October 1943. 24. PREM 3/446/15, Foreign Office (Cadogan) to Moscow (Eden), no. 1728, 28 October 1943. 25. PREM 3/446/15, Eden to Churchill, 21 October 1943. 26. FO 371/37474, R10733/55/G44, Sargent minute, 26 October 1943. 27. PREM 3/446/15, Foreign Office (Cadogan) to Moscow (Eden), no. 1728, 28 October 1943. PREM 3/446/17, JPS aide memoire, ‘Entry of Turkey into the War,’ 25 November 1943. The Joint Planners warned against Turkey actually taking the offensive against Bulgaria, since this ‘would vitiate the chances of our getting the surrender we want.’ 28. PREM 3/136/5, Cairo (‘Sextant’) conference, 3rd plenary meeting, 4 December 1943. 29. PREM 3/446/6, Foreign Office (from Churchill) to Eden (Moscow), no. 171, 29 October 1943; Eden (Moscow) to Foreign Office (for Churchill), no. 153, 2 November 1943. 30. PREM 3/447/1, Anglo-Turkish conversations, Cairo, 5 November 1943 (1st meeting). 31. Weinberg, World at Arms, p. 461. 32. Minutes of a meeting between Churchill, Roosevelt and the Combined Chiefs of Staff, 12 May 1943; FRUS Washington and Quebec 1943 (Washington DC: Department of State, 1970), p. 29. 33. JCS memorandum, ‘Strategic Concept for the Defeat of the Axis in Europe,’ 9 August 1943; ‘Report by the Combined Chiefs of Staff to the President & Prime Minister,’ 10 September 1943; FRUS Washington and Quebec 1943, pp. 480, 1292. 34. Sainsbury, Turning Point, p. 159. 35. PREM 3/446/6, Roosevelt to Churchill, 5 November 1943. Meeting of the President with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, 28 November 1943; FRUS Cairo and Tehran 1943 (Washington DC: Department of State, 1961), p. 480.

238

Notes

36. A development recognised by Brooke, who was present at Tehran. Alanbrooke diary, 28 November 1943 and ‘notes for my memoirs’; Alanbrooke, War Diaries, pp. 482–3. 37. Weinberg, World at Arms, p. 629n. 38. Mastny, Russia’s Road to the Cold War, p. 125; PREM 3/136/8, WP (44) 8, ‘Records of the Anglo-American-Russian Conversations in Tehran and of the Anglo-American-Turkish Conversations in Cairo,’ 7 January 1944 – record of conversation between Mr Eden, M. Molotov and Mr Harry Hopkins at HM Legation, Tehran, 30 November 1943. 39. PREM 3/447/1, COS (Sextant) 30, ‘Operation Saturn,’ 7 December 1943 – note by the Prime Minister, 6 December 1943. 40. FO 371/37474, R11337/55/G44, Sargent minute, 9 November 1943. 41. PREM 3/136/5, Tehran conference, 2nd plenary meeting, 29 November 1943. 42. Pechatnov, ‘The Big Three After World War II,’ p. 3. 43. PREM 3/447/5A, ‘Turkish Timetable,’ memorandum by Commanders-inChief Middle East, 6 December 1943. 44. PREM 3/447/5A, Eden to Foreign Office, 5 December 1943. Hugessen had warned that overt British pressure would expose them to this charge. PREM 3/446/16, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 2062, 22 November 1943. 45. PREM 3/136/8, WP (44) 8, ‘Records of the Anglo-American-Russian Conversations in Tehran and of the Anglo-American-Turkish Conversations in Cairo,’ 7 January 1944 – record of Anglo-Turkish meeting held at Casey Villa, 7 December 1943. 46. CAB 79/67, COS (43) O, 286th meeting, 23 November 1943; discussion of JP (43) 406 (FINAL), ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 22 November 1943. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen papers, KNAT 1/14, Hugessen diary, 7 December 1943. 47. CAB 79/67, COS (43) O, 286th meeting, 23 November 1943; discussion of JP (43) 406 (FINAL), ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 22 November 1943. FO 371/37476, R12241/55/G44, Vice Chiefs of Staff to Chiefs of Staff (Cairo), 24 November 1943. 48. PREM 3/136/8, WP (44) 8, ‘Records of the Anglo-American-Russian Conversations in Tehran and of the Anglo-American-Turkish Conversations in Cairo,’ 7 January 1944 – record of Anglo-Turkish meeting held at Casey Villa, 7 December 1943. 49. PREM 3/447/5A, Eden to Churchill, GRAND 568, 12 December 1943; encloses Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 2183. FO 371/37476, R12241/ 55/G44, Vice Chiefs of Staff to Chiefs of Staff (Cairo), 24 November 1943. Harry N Howard, Turkey, the Straits & US Policy (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1974), p. 184. 50. PREM 3/447/5A, Eden to Churchill, GRAND 569, 12 December 1943; encloses Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 2184; Eden to Churchill, GRAND 584, 13 December; encloses Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 2190. 51. PREM 3/447/5A, Churchill to Eden, 13 December 1943. 52. PREM 3/447/5A, Churchill to Ismay for Chiefs of Staff, Eden to see, FROZEN 795, 22 December 1943. 53. PREM 3/447/5A, Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 1738, 18 December 1943.

Notes

239

54. HW 12/294, 125315 Greek ambassador Ankara to Greek embassy London, 20 November 1943 (23 November). 55. PREM 3/447/5A, Eden to Churchill, 6 January 1944; encloses Hugessen reports on conversations with Numan Menemencio˘ glu, 18 December 1943. Hugessen described this ‘painful’ conversation as one in which Menemencio˘ glu spoke ‘a good deal of absolute nonsense and a modicum of unpleasant sense.’ Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen papers, KNAT 1/14, Hugessen diary, 19 December 1943. 56. PREM 3/447/5A, Churchill to Eden, 7 January 1944. 57. PREM 3/446/16, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 2063, 22 November 1943. 58. PREM 3/447/5A, Eden to Churchill, 6 January 1944; encloses Hugessen reports on conversations with Numan Menemencio˘ glu, 18 December 1943. 59. PREM 3/447/5A, Cadogan to Eden, 5 December 1943. 60. HW 12/294, 125315 Greek ambassador Ankara to Greek embassy London, 20 November 1943 (23 November). 61. FO 371/44143, R2081/1293/44, Clutton minute, 1 February 1944. 62. FO 371/44066, R1505/7/G44, Eden minute, 18 February 1944. 63. FO 371/44064, R403/7/G44, Eden minute, 9 January 1944. 64. FO 371/44138, R2084/919/44, Lord Selborne to Eden, 9 February 1944. 65. FO 371/44066, R1505/7/G44, Clutton minute, 30 January 1944. 66. CAB 84/63, JP (44) 132 (Final), ‘Value of Turkish Help to Allies,’ 15 May 1944. 67. Parliamentary Debates, 5th series, vol. 397, 23 February 1944, columns 881–2; vol. 399, 19 April 1944, column 181. This trend continued into 1945. See the comments of Lord Vansittart in Parliamentary Debates, 5th series, vol. 134 (Lords), 7 February 1945, columns 927–30. 68. Times, ‘Turkey & the Powers,’ 9 February 1944, p. 5; ‘Hesitation in Ankara,’ 26 February 1944, p. 5. 69. Times, ‘Hesitation in Ankara,’ 26 February 1944, p. 5. See also Manchester Guardian, ‘Turkey & the War,’ 6 March 1944, p. 4; ‘The Neutrals & Germany,’ 14 April 1944, p. 4. 70. Sir Edward Grigg, British Foreign Policy (London: Hutchinson, 1944), p. 116. The British embassy in Ankara subsequently vetoed an attempt by the Ministry of Information to have this book translated and circulated in Turkish. FO 371/48773, R11226/4476/G44, Sir Maurice Peterson to Sargent, 25 June 1945. 71. FO 371/44067, R2499/7/G44, Hugessen to Sargent, 7 February 1944. The Portuguese cession of bases in the Atlantic to the Allies in the autumn of 1943 embarrassed the Turks, at a time when they were resisting British demands for bases in western Turkey. HW 12/293 123963 Turkish chargé d’affaires Lisbon to MFA Ankara, 13 October 1943 (19 October). HW 12/294 125118 Portuguese minister Washington to Foreign Ministry Lisbon, 11 November 1943 (17 November). 72. FO 371/43646, R4817/349/G67, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 445, 26 March 1944. 73. HW 12/297, 128440 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassadors Washington, London, Moscow, 13 February 1944 (19 February).

240

Notes

74. HW 1/2483, 128492 Foreign Ministry Berlin to All Stations, 16 February 1943 (21 February). 75. FO 371/44067, R3774/7/G44, Arnold to Director of Military Intelligence, 18 February 1944. 76. HW 12/298, 129551 Foreign Ministry Berlin to All Stations, 15 March 1944 (20 March). See also Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen papers, KNAT 1/14, Hugessen diary, 13 and 23 February 1944. 77. Cadogan diary, 29 March 1944; Dilks, ed., p. 615 [emphasis in original]. 78. FO 371/44068, R4945/7/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 458, 28 March 1944; Clutton minute, 28 March 1944 [emphasis in original]. 79. FO 371/44068, R5420/7/44, Sterndale-Bennett to Howard, 23 March 1944. 80. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen papers, KNAT 1/14, Hugessen diary, 6 April 1944. 81. St Anthony’s College Oxford, GB 165-0316 Sir Denis Wright papers, Wright diary, 25 April 1944. See also Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Hughe Knatchbull-Hugessen papers, KNAT 1/14, Hugessen diary, 23 March 1944. 82. The Americans understood this agreement to be limited to the military and supply spheres, and did not believe, as some Britons appeared to, that they had abdicated the right to intervene in political issues affecting Turkey. FO 371/37467, R3209/55/G44, Strang minute, 7 April 1943. Memoranda by the Adviser on Political Relations (Wallace Murray) to Secretary of State, 2 and 12 July 1943; FRUS 1943, vol. IV, pp. 1065–6, 1068–9. FO 371/37478, R13353/55/G44, Cordell Hull to Halifax, 10 July 1943. 83. Molotov may inadvertently have encouraged this tendency at the Moscow conference in October 1943, permitting Eden to speak ‘for the Soviet Union’ in his talks with Menemencio˘ glu. PREM 3/446/6, Eden to Churchill, 2 November 1943. At Cairo, Stalin emphasised that Britain was welcome to continue its pursuit of Turkish belligerency, since ‘Turkey was an ally of England and on terms of friendship with the United States. It was for them to persuade her to take the proper course.’ PREM 3/136/5, first plenary meeting of the Tehran conference, 28 November 1943. 84. FO 371/44069, R9997/7/G44, Clutton minute, 26 June 1944. Clutton was summarising views expressed by Eden. CAB 69/6, DO (44), 10th meeting, 20 July 1944. 85. FO 371/44070, R10407/7/G44, Clark Kerr to Ankara, no. 1767, 3 July 1944. 86. FO 371/44070, R10407/7/G44, Clutton minute, 4 July 1944. See also FO 371/44071, Clark Kerr to Sargent, R11506/7/G44, 10 July 1944, and McDermott and Clutton minutes, 27 July and 9 August 1944. 87. FO 371/44143, R10648/1293/44, Ivonne Kirkpatrick minute, 11 July 1944. 88. CAB 66/48, WP (44) 186, ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 4 April 1944. 89. Ibid. 90. Memorandum by George V Allen (Division of Near Eastern Affairs), 16 March 1943; FRUS 1943, vol. IV, pp. 1099–100. 91. HW 12/304, 135912 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 5 September 1944 (11 September). 92. HW 12/298, 129533 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 9 March 1944 (19 March). Menemencio˘ glu replied, on 14 March, ‘My own

Notes

93.

94. 95.

96. 97.

98.

99. 100. 101. 102.

103. 104.

105.

106.

107.

108.

241

views of the situation, as seen from here, are in entire agreement with yours.’ FO 371/44068, R4995/7/G44, Sterndale-Bennett to Sargent, 18 March 1944; R4639/7/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 411, 22 March 1944. FO 371/44185, R8282/8282/44, Helm to Howard, 15 May 1944. CAB 79/69, COS (44), 6th meeting (O), 8 January 1944. FO 371/44065, R111/7/G44, Sargent minute, 23 January 1944. On Menemencio˘ glu’s role in undermining British ‘cover,’ see FO 371/44067, R2353/7/G44, Douglas Howard and Cadogan minutes, 17 and 18 February 1944. For the most recent archival releases on the security leak in Ankara – Hugessen’s infamous valet ‘Cicero’ – see FO 370/2930. This material demonstrates the precise extent of Hugessen’s negligence in security matters, and affords some interesting insights into the preparation of decoy documents to pass to ‘Cicero’ in the spring of 1944. Parliamentary Debates, 5th series [Commons], vol. 399, 18 April 1944, columns 7–8. FO 371/44138, R2084/919/44, Howard minute, 14 February 1944. Parliamentary Debates, 5th series [Lords], vol. 131, 9 May 1944, columns 657–8, 666. Times, ‘Turkish Chrome—Exports to Axis Stopped—Long-Term Effect on Germany,’ 21 April 1944, p. 4; ‘Turkish Chrome Decision—Standing by the Allies—Surprise for Germans,’ 24 April 1944, p. 4. HW 12/299, 130985 German embassy Ankara to German consulates, Istanbul and Adana, 22 April 1944 (30 April). FO 371/44079, R6548/18/G44, Cadogan to Churchill, 21 April 1944. Parliamentary Debates, 5th series (Commons), vol. 400, 24 May 1944, columns 746–6. Spectator, ‘Mr Churchill Sums Up,’ 26 May 1944, p. 467. See also Spectator, ‘Turkey the Equivocal,’ 14 April 1944, p. 326. (‘Turkey is playing a very Oriental game.’). CAB 66/49, WP (44) 244, ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 6 May 1944. FO 371/44133, R10541/789/44, Dew minute, 17 July 1944. In 1940 Hugessen had speculated on the ‘pro-German’ attitude of several leading Turks, mostly members of the General Staff. Menemencio˘ glu was not included in this number. Hugessen to Halifax, no. 390, ‘notes on leading personalities,’ 12 July 1940; BDFA Part III, Series B, vol. 1, p. 126. HS 3/227, Dixon to Glenconner, 27 May 1942. FO 195/2743, Helm and Sterndale-Bennett minutes, 31 July 1942. FO 1011/199, Hugessen to Loraine, 21 September 1942. FO 371/44065, R874/7/G44, Sargent minute, 20 January 1944. For Axis ˙ recognition that Inönü was ultimately responsible for the policy of neutrality, see HW 12/297, 127854 Japanese ambassador Berlin to Foreign Ministry Tokyo, 23 January 1944 (4 February). HW 12/297, 128354 Foreign Ministry Berlin to All Stations, 12 February 1944 (17 February). HW 12/298, 129551, Berlin to All Stations, 15 March 1944 (20 March). HW 12/300, 131511 Portuguese minister Ankara to Foreign Ministry Lisbon, 15 May 1944 (17 May).

242

Notes

109. FO 371/43646, R9411/349/G67, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 915, 14 June 1944. FO 195/2483, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 916, 14 June 1944. FO 371/43646, R9411/349/G67, undated Eden minute (June 1944); R9412/349/G67, Clutton minute, 16 June 1944. 110. FO 371/44068, R4548/7/G44, Sterndale-Bennett to Sargent, 11 March 1944; Clutton minute, 30 March 1944; Howard minute, 2 April 1944. R6158/7/G44, Hugessen to Sargent, 4 April 1944; Clutton minute, 20 April 1944. 111. FO 371/44120, R1296/396/44, C-in-C Middle East to Arnold, cc War Office, 19 January 1944. 112. FO 371/44120, R1566/396/G44, Clutton minute, 2 February 1944. 113. FO 371/44120, R1566/396/G44 and R8741/396/G44, Clutton minutes, 2 and 4 June 1944. 114. FO 371/44120, R8797/396/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 858, 2 June 1944. See also HS 3/223 passim for SOE correspondence on this subject. 115. FO 371/44120, R8997/396/G44, COS (44) 181st conclusions (O), 3 June 1944; annex IV, General Ismay personal minute to Chiefs of Staff, 3 June 1944. Cadogan summarised the affair in his diary: ‘Those damned Turks have gone and let German (disguised) warships through the Straits. We shall have to have a row with them, but that will upset “cover” as we were on the point of concluding an economic agreement with them!’ Cadogan diary, 3 June 1944; Dilks, ed., p. 634. 116. FO 371/44069, R8777/7/G44, Foreign Office to Hugessen, no. 695, 6 June 1944. 117. FO 371/44069, R9129/7/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 885, 9 June 1944. 118. FO 371/44133, R9321/789/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 910, 13 June 1944. 119. FO 371/44133, R9321/789/G44, Foreign Office to Hugessen (unsent draft), 13 June 1944. The passage in the draft dealing with a ‘fundamental change’ in Turkish policy went on ‘nor do I believe that Numan is actively pro-German as distinct from pro-British,’ – but this was scored out by Eden. 120. FO 371/43646, R9412/349/G67, Clutton minute, 16 June 1944. 121. HW 12/301, 133085 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador London, 24 June 1944 (29 June). 122. Yücel Güçlü, Eminence Grise of the Turkish Foreign Service: Numan Menemencio˘glu (Ankara: Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 2002), pp. 102–4. On Hasan Ali Yücel’s British Council connections, see Frances Donaldson, The British Council – The First Fifty Years (London: Cape, 1984), pp. 97–8. 123. FO 195/2483, Knox Helm minute, June 1944, included in Hugessen to Sargent, 19 June 1944. The British were displeased to see Menemencio˘ glu return as ambassador to Paris in November 1944. FO 371/44074, R18476/7/44, Geoffrey McDermott, Dew and Cadogan minutes, 11, 15 and 16 November 1944. Eden wrote: ‘I regret Numan’s appointment to Paris; he will do no good there.’ Eden minute, 16 November 1945. The French welcomed the former Foreign Minister’s appointment, and Menemencio˘ glu proved to be a popular presence in Paris, where he served until his retirement in 1956. Güçlü, Eminence Grise, pp. 107–8, 119.

Notes

243

124. FO 371/44069, R9497/7/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 933, 16 June 1944. 125. FO 371/44069, R9497/7/G44, Eden to Churchill, 20 June 1944. 126. HW 12/302, 133514 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassadors London, Washington, Moscow, 4 July 1944 (10 July). See also 133815 Japanese ambassador Ankara to Foreign Ministry Tokyo, 12 July 1944 (19 July). 127. HW 1/2978, SIS Southern Dept no. 199, 15 June 1944 (passed to Churchill 20 June, seen 21 June). 128. HW 1/3191, 135273 Japanese ambassador Berlin to Foreign Ministry Tokyo, 19 August 1945 (26 August). 129. Parliamentary Debates, 5th series [Commons], vol. 402, 2 August 1944, columns 1484–5. 130. Churchill College Archives Centre, Sir Winston Churchill papers, CHAR 9/200A/74-5, Eden to Churchill, 1 August 1944. 131. FO 371/44072, R12062/7/G44, Clutton to AS Henderson (Ministry of Information), 1 August 1944. 132. Times, ‘Light Ahead,’ 3 August 1944, p. 5. Manchester Guardian, ‘Turkey & Finland,’ 3 August 1944, p. 4. The Turkish military attaché in London nonetheless concluded that the break with Germany ‘has not had great repercussions in the British press . . . Britain would be pleased only by Turkey’s entry into the war.’ HW 12/303, 135001 Turkish military attaché London to General Staff, 11 August 1944 (17 August). 133. New Statesman & Nation, Sagittarius, ‘Whataturk!’ 22 July 1944, p. 53. 134. PREM 3/447/12A, Hugessen to Eden, no. 352 Secret, 8 September 1944.

8 1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7.

8.

9.

The Balkans, 1944–45 FO 371/44066, R1505/7/G44, Clutton minute, 30 January 1944. FO 371/44065, R874/7/G44, Clutton minute, 20 January 1944. CAB 66/48, WP (44) 186, ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 4 April 1944. Weinberg, World at Arms, pp. 670–1. Numan Menemencio˘ glu, in a rare interview with Hugessen during the period of British aloofness, revisited his previous interest in a Balkan barrier against the Soviet Union. ‘He’ll have to be quick!’ Hugessen drolly told Sargent. FO 371/44068, R5481/7/G44, Hugessen to Sargent, 27 March 1944. Martin Kitchen, British Policy Towards the Soviet Union During the Second World War (Basingstoke, Hampshire: Macmillan, 1986), pp. 211–12. Elisabeth Barker, British Policy in South-Eastern Europe in the Second World War (London: Macmillan, 1976), pp. 139–40, 234. Elisabeth Barker, ‘Problems of the Alliance: Misconceptions & Misunderstandings’ in William Deakin, Elisabeth Barker, and Jonathan Chadwick, eds. British Political & Military Strategy in Central, Eastern and Southern Europe in 1944 (Basingstoke, Hampshire: Macmillan, 1988), p. 50. PREM 3/66/8, Eden to Churchill, 12 May 1944. For Turkish apprehension of a British policy which was increasingly concerned to prevent the Soviet Union from securing a Mediterranean outlet, see HW 12/302, 133477 Turkish ambassador Cairo to MFA Ankara, 1 July 1944 (9 July). FO 371/44068, R6659/7/G44, Eden minute, 5 May 1944.

244

Notes

10. HW 12/300, 131269 Turkish ambassador to Greek government Cairo to MFA Ankara, 30 April 1944 (10 May). 11. FO 371/43646, R9092/349/G67, Cadogan minute, 22 May 1944 [emphasis in original]. 12. FO 371/43646, R9092/349/G67, Warner minute, 31 May 1944. 13. CAB 66/51, WP (44) 304, ‘Soviet Policy in the Balkans,’ 7 June 1944. 14. Ibid. 15. PREM 3/447/9, Churchill to Ismay, 11 July 1944. 16. CAB 81/124, JIC (44) 326 (O), ‘Attitude of the Balkan Satellite Countries Should Turkey Break Off Diplomatic & Economic Relations with Germany – JIC Cairo paper no. 4,’ 25 July 1944. 17. PREM 3/447/9, Churchill to Ismay, 11 July 1944. 18. PREM 3/447/12A, Eden to Churchill, 10 August 1944. 19. PREM 3/447/12A, Sargent to Dixon, 14 August 1944; Churchill minute, 16 August 1944. 20. HW 12/302, 134186 Turkish ambassador to Yugoslav government, Cairo to MFA Ankara, 11 July 1944 (28 July). 21. Barker, ‘Bulgaria in August 1944 – A British View’ in Deakin, Barker, and Chadwick, eds. British Political & Military Strategy, p. 210. 22. Weinberg, World at Arms, pp. 713–15. Although the defection from the Axis of both Romania and Bulgaria occurred within weeks of the Turkish break, only the most egotistical elements of the Turkish press claimed that this had much to do with the moral blow dealt by Turkish action, as opposed to the unstoppable Red Army. Review of the Foreign Press, Series N: The Near & Middle East; #32, 6 September 1944. 23. FO 371/44073, R14197/7/G44, undated Eden minute to Sargent, c. 9 September 1944. 24. PREM 3/447/12A, General Sir Henry Maitland Wilson to Chiefs of Staff, 12 September 1944. 25. CAB 80/87, COS (44) 831 (O), ‘Policy Towards Turkey,’ 6 September 1944. 26. PREM 3/3/2, Churchill to Eden, 4 April 1943; Eden to Churchill, 9 April 1943. 27. CAB 79/80, COS (44), 300th meeting (O), 7 September 1944 and COS (44), 302nd meeting (O), 8 September 1944. 28. FO 371/44073, R14229/7/G44, McDermott minute, 12 September 1944. 29. PREM 3/447/12A, Hugessen to Eden, no. 352 Secret, 8 September 1944. 30. HW 12/304, 136161 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 9 and 10 September 1944 (17 September). See also 136657 Turkish ambassador Cairo to MFA Ankara, 22 September 1944 (30 September), which asserted that the Russians ‘are neglecting Germany and are trying to establish their own predominance in the Balkans and eastern Mediterranean.’ 31. FO 371/44073, R14229/7/G44, Howard minute, 14 September 1944. 32. CAB 79/80, COS (44), 309th meeting (O), 16 September 1944. FO 371/44073, R14229/7/G44, extracts from minutes of OCTAGON meetings, 14–15 September 1944. PREM 3/447/12A, Chiefs of Staff to Wilson, 16 September 1944. 33. FO 371/44073, R14781/7/G44, Peterson minute, 11 September 1944. 34. Ibid. 35. FO 371/44074, R15838/7/G44, ‘Memorandum for Sir Maurice Peterson on his Mission to Turkey,’ 5 October 1944.

Notes

245

36. FO 371/44073, R14197/7/G44, McDermott minute, 11 September 1944. 37. FO 371/44073, R14197/7/G44, undated Eden minute to Sargent, c. 9–10 September 1944; McDermott minute, 11 September 1944. 38. FO 371/44074, R15838/7/G44, ‘Memorandum for Sir Maurice Peterson on his Mission to Turkey,’ 5 October 1944. 39. FO 371/44074, R15838/7/G44, ‘Memorandum for Sir Maurice Peterson on his Mission to Turkey,’ 5 October 1944. An earlier version of these instructions ‘thought of telling the Turks that . . . it was . . . our firm intention at the appropriate moment to conclude a fresh treaty with them since the alliance carried with it the corollary of a new treaty.’ This was vetoed by Eden, who felt this went too far, and could not be promised without a decision of the War Cabinet. PREM 3/447/12A, Sargent to Eden (Moscow), 12 October 1944. 40. FO 371/44073, R14611/7/44, Howard minute, 20 September 1944. 41. PREM 3/66/6, Eden to Churchill, 23 August 1944. 42. PREM 3/79/2, Eden to Churchill, 19 September 1944. 43. Ibid. See also Eden to Churchill, 6 October 1944. 44. John Kent, British Imperial Strategy & the Origins of the Cold War, 1944–49 (Leicester: Leicester UP, 1993), p. 30. 45. PREM 3/434/2, ‘Records of Meetings at the Kremlin, October 9–October 17 1944’ – 9 October (10 P.M.) meeting, p. 8. 46. PREM 3/79/3, Eden (Moscow) to Sargent, 15 October 1944. 47. PREM 3/447/12A, Churchill to Eden, 10 June 1944. 48. PREM 3/447/9, Churchill to Ismay, 11 July 1944. 49. AP 20/11/644, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Eden to Churchill, 6 October 1944. 50. PREM 3/434/2, ‘Records of Meetings at the Kremlin, October 9–October 17 1944’ – 9 October (10 P.M.) meeting, p. 7. 51. FO 371/44207, R18327/17223/44, Howard minute, 9 November 1944. 52. FO 371/44165, R16013/3830/44, Sargent paper on the Straits, 6 October 1944. 53. AP 20/11/653, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Eden to Churchill, 10 October 1944. 54. FO 371/44207, R18327/17223/44, Eden minute, 16 November 1944. 55. German propaganda in the wake of the Tehran conference had spread the rumour that Britain was compelled to ‘relinquish her interests in the Balkans and the Straits and to concede them to Bolshevism.’ HW 12/296, 126747 German Foreign Ministry to All Stations, 28 December 1943 (1 January 1944). In Cairo, the Yugoslav government denounced Britain’s role in ‘Bolshevising the country on behalf of the Russians.’ HW 1/2858, 131989 Turkish ambassador to Yugoslav government, Cairo to MFA Ankara, 23 May 1944 (30 May). In China, General Carton de Wiart told the Turkish minister, ‘Please realise that we have recognised the Balkans as entirely the Russian sphere of influence.’ HW 12/302, 133394 Turkish minister Chungking to MFA Ankara, 23 June 1944 (7 July). 56. Peterson to Eden, no. 407, 16 October 1944, no. 413, 19 October 1944, no. 195, 26 October 1944; BDFA, Part III, Series B, vol. 2, pp. 235–6. HW 12/306, 138484 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 15 November 1944 (19 November).

246

Notes

57. HW 12/304, 135762 Turkish minister Madrid to MFA Ankara, 2 September 1944 (7 September). HW 12/305, 137100 Turkish minister Berne to MFA Ankara and Turkish ambassador London, 6 October 1944 (12 October). 58. Eden to Peterson, no. 273, 23 November 1944; BDFA, Part III, Series B, vol. 2, pp. 237–8. 59. HW 12/307, 139094 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 24 November 1944 (6 December). 60. PREM 3/434/2, ‘Records of Meetings at the Kremlin, October 9–October 17 1944’ – 9 October (10 P.M.) meeting, p. 5. Stalin had replied that ‘It was a serious matter for Britain when the Mediterranean route was not in her hands. In that respect Greece was very important.’ 61. HW 12/302, 133474 Turkish ambassador to Greek government, Cairo to MFA Ankara, 28 June 1944 (9 July). 62. HW 1/3284, 137522 Japanese ambassador Ankara to Foreign Ministry Tokyo, 19 October 1944 (24 October). HW 12/307, 139421 Turkish ambassador Cairo to MFA Ankara, 7 December 1944 (15 December). 63. HW 12/307, 139839 Turkish ambassador London to MFA Ankara, 26 December 1944 (30 December). 64. Review of the Foreign Press, Series N: The Near & Middle East, #43, 7 February 1945. 65. Ibid.; #44, 21 February 1945; #45, 7 March 1945. 66. HW 12/308, 139903 Turkish ambassador Cairo to MFA Ankara, 22 December 1944 (1 January 1945). 67. FO 371/44070, R10300/7/G44, Cadogan minute, 2 July 1944. 68. Fifth plenary meeting of the Yalta conference, 8 February 1945; FRUS Malta and Yalta (Washington DC: Department of State, 1955), pp. 773–4. 69. FO 371/48764, R3854/1723/44, Howard minute, 27 February 1945. 70. Times, ‘Turkey Decides,’ 24 February 1945, p. 5. See also Manchester Guardian, ‘Bandwagon,’ 24 February 1945, p. 4. 71. Parliamentary Debates, 5th series, vol. 408 (Commons), 27 February 1945, columns 1288–9. 72. HW 12/310, 142043 Spanish minister Ankara to Foreign Ministry Madrid, 24 February 1945 (7 March 1945). 73. HW 12/309, 141754 Turkish ambassador Athens to MFA Ankara, 13 February 1945 (27 February). 74. FO 371/48342, R3857/188/G19, Cadogan minute, 24 February 1945. HW 12/310, 141850 Greek ambassador Washington to Foreign Ministry Athens, 27 February 1945 (2 March). In mid-May, Peterson reported Turkish concerns that they be ‘consulted’ on the disposal of the Aegean islands. FO 371/48342, R8317/188/G19, Peterson to Foreign Office, no. 599, 13 May 1945. 75. HW 12/313, 143494 Turkish ambassador Athens to MFA Ankara, 6 April 1945 (11 April). HW 12/314, 143936 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Athens, 17 April 1945 (22 April); 143956 Greek ambassador Ankara to Foreign Ministry Athens and Greek ambassador Washington, 19 April 1945 (23 April). FO 371/48343, R7542/210/19, Peterson to Foreign Office, no. 539, 26 April 1945. The British ambassador to Greece, Reginald Leeper, asserted that the Greeks ‘would not dream of putting forward any serious claim to Turkish Thrace. This claim had been adopted by the Communists, no doubt in order to embarrass ourselves and the Greek Government and possibly on orders

Notes

76. 77. 78. 79.

80. 81. 82.

83.

84. 85. 86. 87.

88.

89. 90. 91.

247

from Moscow.’ FO 371/48344, R10247/210/19, record of a meeting on Greek territorial claims, 14 June 1945. FO 371/48764, R3167/1723/G44, Howard minute, 17 February 1945. FO 371/48217, R3459/3168/67, Sargent minute, 6 March 1945. HW 12/310, 141828 Turkish minister Lisbon to MFA Ankara, 26 February 1945 (1 March). Spectator, ‘Turkey & Egypt,’ 2 March 1945, p. 185. FO 371/48764, R4066/1723/44, Fitzroy Maclean (Belgrade) to Foreign Office, no. 225, 27 February 1945. See also FO 371/43647, R16300/349/67, BBC Monitoring, 9 October 1944, Radio Free Yugoslavia (in Serbo-Croat), ‘Hands Off the Balkans: Free Yugoslavia Warns the Turks’. FO 371/48774, R12061/4476/44, Frank Roberts (Moscow) to Foreign Office, no. 3169, 17 July 1945. FO 371/44207, R17223/17223/44, Clutton minute, 1 November 1944. HW 12/308, 140258 Greek minister Paris to Foreign Ministry Athens and embassies, 10 January 1945 (14 January). HW 12/309, 141048 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassadors London and Moscow, 31 January 1945 (2 February). Misha Glenny, The Balkans (London: Granta, 2000), p. 535. PREM 3/79/5, WP (45) 174, ‘Bulgaria,’ 17 March 1945. The non-communist Left was in turn undermined by communist intrigues which provoked a series of splits in the Social Democratic and Peasant parties in the spring and summer of 1945. PREM 3/79/4, British military mission Sofia to War Office, 5 April 1945. PREM 3/79/4, Foreign Office to Peterson, no. 379, 9 April 1945; Peterson to Foreign Office, no. 463, 11 April 1945. Sargent minute, 2 April 1945; Ross, ed. The Foreign Office & the Kremlin, p. 202. ‘Stocktaking after VE Day,’ 11 July 1945; Documents on British Policy Overseas [hereafter DBPO], Series I, vol. 1; Rohan Butler, ME Pelly, HJ Yasamee, eds (London: HMSO, 1984), pp. 181–7. John Kent, ‘The British Empire & the Origins of the Cold War, 1944–49’ in Anne Deighton, ed. Britain & The First Cold War (Basingstoke, Hampshire: Macmillan, 1990), pp. 168–9. Barker, British Policy in South-East Europe, p. 6. Ibid., p. 108. FO 371/50885, U6311/2600/70, Jebb memorandum, 29 July 1945.

9 Russia, the Caucasus and the Straits, October 1944 to July 1945 1. FO 371/44069, R9129/7/G44, Hugessen to Foreign Office, no. 885, 9 June 1944. HW 12/302, 133549 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Moscow, 5 July 1944 (11 July). 2. Ulunian, ‘Soviet Cold War Perceptions of Turkey & Greece,’ p. 40. Molotov had hinted at this concept in October 1944, wondering whether the signature of the Bulgarian armistice by General Wilson, a ‘Mediterranean General,’ might lead Bulgaria to ‘claim that she was not only a Black Sea Power but also a Mediterranean Power.’ Eden ‘replied that there was no question of Bulgaria being a Mediterranean Power . . . He could promise that the Royal Navy would keep the Bulgarians out of the Mediterranean.’ PREM

248

3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

Notes 3/434/2, ‘Records of Meetings at the Kremlin, October 9–October, 17, 1944’ – 10 October Eden-Molotov meeting, p. 12. Mazov, ‘The USSR and the Former Italian Colonies,’ p. 51. Ibid., pp. 52–3. Foreign Office Research Department, ‘The Regime of the Straits,’ 23 November 1943; BDFA, Part III, Series B, vol. 2, pp. 238, 243–4. FO 371/44165, R16013/3830/44, Sargent paper on the Straits, 6 October 1944. Winston Churchill to Lady Randolph Churchill, 6 April 1897, cited in Randolph S Churchill, Winston S Churchill, vol. I, Youth (London: Heinemann, 1966), pp. 316–18. AP 20/12/484, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Churchill to Eden, 12 October 1944. PREM 3/434/2 ‘Records of Meetings at the Kremlin, October 9–October 17, 1944’ – 9 October (10 P.M.) meeting, p. 7. Ibid. AP 20/11/653, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Eden to Churchill, 10 October 1944. AP 20/12/484, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Churchill to Eden, 12 October 1944. PREM 3/434/2 ‘Records of Meetings at the Kremlin, October 9–October 17, 1944’ – 9 October (10 P.M.) meeting, p. 6. CAB 81/45, PHP (44) 13 (O), ‘Effect of Soviet Policy on British Strategic Interests,’ 6 June 1944. CAB 81/125, JIC (44) 442 (O) (Draft), ‘Russia’s Strategic Interests from the Point of View of Her Security,’ 18 October 1944 [my emphasis]. See Chapter 1, p. 42. FO 371/44188, R19586/9943/44, GM Wilson (Northern Department) minute, 18 December 1944. FO 371/44188, R19586/9943/44, Roger Allen (Services Liaison Department) minute, 6 January 1945. FO 371/48697, R1885/44/G44, Cadogan minute, 24 January 1945. Eden wrote to Churchill in similar terms. Eden to Churchill, 27 January 1945. FO 954/28, Churchill to Eden, 28 January 1945. Minutes of Anthony Eden-Edward Stettinius meeting, Malta, 1 February 1945; FRUS 1945 Malta and Yalta, p. 501. State Department Briefing Book Paper, ‘Memorandum regarding the question of the Turkish Straits,’ no date (c. October 1944); FRUS 1945 Malta and Yalta, pp. 328–9. David J Alvarez, Bureaucracy & Cold War Diplomacy: The United States & Turkey, 1943–46 (Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1980), pp. 41–4. CAB 66/63, WP (45) 157, minutes of the seventh plenary meeting of the Yalta conference, 10 February 1945. FO 371/48764, R3167/1723/G44, Peterson to Foreign Office, no. 35, 3 February 1945. FO 371/48764, R3167/1723/G44, Eden minute, 24 February 1945. CAB 79/29, COS (45), 41st meeting, 12 February 1945. FO 371/48764, R3167/1723/G44, McDermott minute, 16 February 1945. FO 371/48697, R4707/44/G44, JG Ward (Reconstruction Department) minute, 18 March 1945.

Notes

249

29. CAB 79/31, COS (45), 89th meeting, 5 April 1945; CAB 80/93, COS (45) 220 (O) (PHP), ‘The Montreux Convention – Staff Study,’ 6 April 1945. 30. CAB 80/93, COS (45) 220 (O) (PHP), ‘The Montreux Convention – Staff Study,’ 6 April 1945. FO 371/48697, R4707/44/G44, McDermott minute, 12 March 1945 and Roger Allen minute, 17, March 1945. 31. FO 371/48697, R4707/44/G44, Roger Allen minute, 17 March 1945. 32. CAB 80/93, COS (45) 220 (O) (PHP), ‘The Montreux Convention – Staff Study,’ 6 April 1945. 33. HW 12/297, 128492 German Foreign Ministry Berlin to All Stations, 16 February 1944 (21 February). 34. HW 12/298, 129926 Portuguese minister Ankara to Foreign Ministry Lisbon, 28 March 1944 (31 March). 35. HW 12/298, 129164 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Moscow, 3 March 1944 (9 March); 129637 Ankara to Moscow, 18 March 1944 (22 March); 129668 Ankara to Moscow, 18 March 1944 (23 March). 36. HW 12/302, 133549 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Moscow, 5 July 1944 (11 July). 37. Ibid. 38. HW 12/307, 139529 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Moscow, 14 December 1944 (18 December). 39. HW 12/297, 128096 Turkish military attaché Tehran to General Staff, 4 February 1944 (10 February). HW 12/298, 128878 military attaché Tehran to General Staff, 24 February 1944 (1 March); 129726 military attaché Tehran to General Staff, 17 March 1944 (25 March). HW 12/300, 131479 Turkish ambassador Tehran to MFA Ankara, 9 April 1944 (16 May). 40. HW 12/301, 132372 Turkish ambassador Tehran to MFA Ankara, 23 May 1944 (10 June). See also HW 12/301, 132084 Turkish ambassador Tehran to MFA Ankara, 12 May 1944 (2 June). 41. HW 12/317, 145435 Turkish consul Rezaieh to MFA Ankara, 27 May 1945 (31 May). HW 12/321, 146415 Turkish minister Baghdad to MFA Ankara, 31 May 1945 (27 June). 42. HW 12/304, 136016 Turkish ambassador Washington to MFA Ankara, 8 September 1944 (13 September); 136478 Turkish minister Ottawa to MFA Ankara, 21 September 1944 (29 September). 43. HW 12/309, 141280 Turkish minister Madrid to MFA Ankara, 6 February 1945 (12 February). 44. HW 12/302, 133477 Turkish ambassador Cairo to Ankara, 1 July 1944 (9 July). HW 12/303, 135304 Turkish ambassador to Greek government, Cairo to MFA Ankara, 13 August 1944 (26 August). 45. HW 12/309, 141735 Greek ambassador Ankara to Greek government Athens, 24 February 1945 (27 February). HW 12/310, 141825 Spanish minister Ankara to Foreign Ministry Madrid, 22 February 1945 (1 March). 46. HW 12/308, 140590 Turkish ambassador Paris to MFA Ankara, 19 January 1945 (23 January). 47. HW 12/309, 141109 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 27 January 1945 (7 February). 48. HW 12/309, Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 27 January 1945 (7 February). FO 371/48773, Peterson to Foreign Office, no. 37, 1 March 1945.

250

Notes

49. PREM 3/447/12A, Churchill to Eden, 14 March 1945. AP 20/1/25, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Eden diary, 23 March 1945. 50. HW 12/310, 142252 Turkish naval attaché Stockholm to General Staff, 6 March 1945 (12 March). 51. HW 12/318, 145506 Turkish delegation San Francisco to MFA Ankara, 8 May 1945 (2 June). 52. HW 12/313, 143677 Turkish military attache Washington to General Staff, 11 April 1945 (15 April). HW 12/317, 145435 Turkish consul Rezaieh to MFA Ankara, 27 May 1945 (31 May). 53. HW 12/317, 145362 Cevat Açıkalın (London) to MFA Ankara, 18 May 1945 (29 May). See also HW 12/319, 145998 Turkish minister Berne to MFA Ankara, 8 June 1945 (15 June). 54. Vladislav Zubok and Constantine Pleshakov, Inside the Kremlin’s Cold War – From Stalin to Khrushchev (London: Harvard UP, 1996), p. 91. 55. Süleyman Seydi, ‘Making a Cold War in the Near East: Turkey & the origins of the Cold War, 1945–47,’ Diplomacy & Statecraft 17:1 (2006), p. 117. 56. HW 1/3779, 145227 Spanish minister Ankara to Foreign Ministry Madrid, 21 May 1945 (26 May). 57. HW 12/320, 146341 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 19 June 1945 (24 June). FO 371/48774, R11696/4476/G44, Foreign Office brief on Soviet-Turkish relations, c. 10 July 1945. 58. HW 12/321, 146365 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Moscow, 22 June 1945 (25 June). 59. CAB 81/46, PHP (45) 10 (O) (Final), ‘Security in the Eastern Mediterranean & Middle East,’ 27 March 1945. 60. CAB 81/126, JIC (44) 467 (O), ‘Russia’s Strategic Interests & Intentions from the Point of View of Her Security,’ 18 December 1944. FO 371/48697, R10123/44/44, McDermott minute, 14 June 1945. 61. Albert Resis, ed. Molotov Remembers (Chicago: IR Dee, 1993), p. 73. 62. Nikita Khrushchev, Khrushchev Remembers, vol. 2, Strobe Talbott, ed. (London: André Deutsch, 1974), pp. 295–6. 63. Beria, Beria, My Father, p. 78. Beytullayev, ‘Soviet Policy Towards Turkey, 1944–46,’ p. 120. 64. HW 12/319, 146067 Turkish ambassador Moscow to MFA Ankara, 8 June 1945 (17 June). The British ambassador in Moscow, Sir Archibald Clark Kerr, concurred in Sarper’s initial assessment. FO 371/48773, R 11160/4476/G44, Clark Kerr to Foreign Office, no. 2825, 30 June 1945. See also Mastny, Russia’s Road to the Cold War, p. 289. 65. HW 12/319, 146067 MFA Ankara to Turkish ambassador Moscow, 12 June 1945 (17 June). 66. Seydi, ‘Making a Cold War in the Near East,’ p. 117 67. FO 371/48697, R10224/4476/G44, Peterson (Istanbul) to Foreign Office, nos 52 and 54, 14 June 1945. 68. FO 371/48697, R10224/4476/G44, McDermott and William Hayter minutes, 14 June 1945. 69. FO 954/28, Richard Law to Churchill, 16 June 1945.

Notes

251

70. Briefing Book Paper, ‘US Policy toward Turkey,’ 29 June 1945; FRUS Potsdam vol. 1 (Washington DC: Department of State, 1960), pp. 1015–16. Loy Henderson to Grew, 22 June 1945; FRUS 1945 Potsdam vol. 1, p. 1026. 71. Memorandum of conversation between John Balfour and Joseph Grew, 18 June 1945; Edwin Wilson to Grew, 20 June 1945; FRUS 1945 Potsdam vol. 1, pp. 1017–18, 1023. 72. AP 20/1/25, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Eden diary, 3 July 1945. 73. Alvarez, Bureaucracy & Cold War Diplomacy, pp. 50–1. 74. Ibid., pp. 56–7. 75. George Allen to Assistant Secretary of State, 15 July 1945; FRUS 1945 Potsdam vol. 1, pp. 1053–4. 76. FO 371/48773, R10691/4476/G44, Peterson to Foreign Office, no. 78, 21 June 1945. 77. FO 371/48773, R10692/4476/G44, McDermott minute, 23 June 1945. 78. FO 371/48773, R10692/4476/G44, Howard minute, 23 June 1945. 79. HW 12/320, 146341 Turkish ambassador Moscow to Ankara, 19 June 1945 (24 June). 80. PREM 3/447/4B, Foreign Office no. 7184 to Washington, 3790 to Moscow, 1175 to Cairo, 5 July 1945. 81. FO 371/48773, R11160/4476/G44, Clark Kerr to Foreign Office, no. 2825, 30 June 1945; R11617/4476/G44, Clark Kerr to Foreign Office, no. 3008, 9 July 1945. 82. PREM 3/447/4B, Foreign Office no. 7184 to Washington, 3790 to Moscow, 1175 to Cairo, 5 July 1945. 83. FO 371/48773, R10958/4476/G44, Peterson to Foreign Office, no. 89, 27 June 1945; R11021/4476/G44, McDermott minute, 29 June 1945. 84. PREM 3/66/8, Eden to Churchill, 12 May 1944. PREM 3/66/6, Eden to Churchill, 23 August 1944. AP 20/11/644, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Eden to Churchill, 6 October 1944. 85. AP 20/1/25, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Eden diary, 4 July 1945. 86. FO 371/48774, R11430/4476/G44, Foreign Office to Moscow, no. 3766, 5 July 1945, and to Washington, no. 7137, 5 July 1945. The ‘special’ telegram revealing the influence of the Turkish decrypts can be found in PREM 3/447/4B, Foreign Office no. 7184 to Washington, 3790 to Moscow, 1175 to Cairo, 5 July 1945. 87. FO 371/48774, R11430/4476/G44, Foreign Office to Moscow, no. 3788, 5 July 1945. 88. FO 371/48773, R11021/4476/G44, McDermott minute, 29 June 1945. AP 20/1/25, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Eden diary, 3 July 1945. 89. On this episode, see also Nicholas Tamkin, ‘Diplomatic Sigint and the British Official Mind During the Second World War: Soviet Claims on Turkey, 1940– 1945,’ Intelligence & National Security 23:6 (2008), pp. 749–66. 90. FO 371/48774, R12060/4476/G44, Foreign Office brief for Eden-Hasan Saka meeting, c. 10 July 1945. R11820/4476/G44, Foreign Office to Peterson, no. 209, 11 July 1945; Howard minute, 13 July 1945.

252

Notes

91. FO 371/48774, R11507/4476/G44, McDermott minute, 7 July 1945. Sarper admitted his own culpability to Clark Kerr, but asserted – contrary to his original conclusions – that the Soviets demands for Kars and Ardahan were in earnest. FO 371/48773, R11617/4476/G44, Clark Kerr to Foreign Office, no. 3008, 9 July 1945. 92. FO 371/48774, R13646/4476/G44, McDermott minute, 16 August 1945. 93. CAB 84/73, JP (45) 170 (Final), ‘Montreux Convention & Security of the Baltic,’ 11 July 1945. 94. Zubok and Pleshakov, Inside the Kremlin’s Cold War, pp. 25–7, 37–9. 95. FO 371/48774, R11476/4476/G44, Roger Allen minute, 16 July 1945. 96. Eden to Churchill, 17 July 1945; DBPO, Series I, vol. 1, p. 352. For the expression of similar sentiments by the US ambassador in Ankara, Edwin Wilson, see Wilson to Secretary of State ad interim, 2 July 1945; FRUS 1945 Potsdam vol. 1, pp. 1033–4. 97. Pratt, East of Malta, West of Suez, p. 87. 98. FO 371/48774, R 13427/4476/G44, Peterson to Sargent, 1 August 1945. 99. Minutes of a meeting between Churchill and Stalin, 18 July 1945; DBPO, Series I, vol. 1, pp. 387–8. 100. AP 20/1/25, Avon Papers, Special Collections, Library Services, University of Birmingham, Eden diary, 17 July 1945. 101. Roberts, Stalin’s Wars, pp. 297–301. 102. Sixth plenary meeting of the Potsdam conference, 22 July 1945; DBPO, Series I, vol. 1, pp. 542–5. 103. The antiquity of Churchill’s vocabulary is striking, referring to Turkish concern ‘for the integrity of her Empire.’ DBPO, Series I, vol. 1, p. 543. 104. ‘The Black Sea Straits,’ draft submitted by the Soviet delegation (Berlin), 22 July 1945; DBPO, Series I, vol. 1, p. 547. 105. Sixth plenary meeting of the Potsdam conference, 22 July 1945; DBPO, Series I, vol. 1, p. 544. 106. CAB 121/672, Sargent to Major-General Leslie Hollis, 29 August 1945. 107. Nazi-Soviet Relations 1939–41 – Documents from the Archives of the German Foreign Office, RJ Sontag and JS Beddie, eds (Washington DC: Department of State, 1948), preface. Eduard Mark, ‘The War Scare of 1946 & Its Consequences,’ Diplomatic History 21 (1997), p. 389 & n. Julian Lewis, Changing Direction: British Military Planning for Post-War Strategic Defence, 1942–47, 2nd edition (London: Frank Cass, 2003), pp. lvi–lvii. 108. Seventh plenary meeting of the Potsdam conference, 23 July 1945; DBPO, Series I, vol. 1, pp. 584–7. 109. The State Department doubted that the Turks could be persuaded to accept demilitarisation without Allied coercion. George Allen to Assistant Secretary of State Dunn, 19 July 1945; FRUS Potsdam vol. 2 (Washington DC: Department of State, 1960), pp. 1425–6. 110. FO 934/5, ‘Turkey and the Straits,’ no date (c. 24 July 1945). 111. Alvarez, Bureaucracy & Cold War Diplomacy, p. 67. 112. FO 371/48775, R14068/4476/G44, Sargent minute, 28 August 1945 and Foreign Office to Washington, no. 8948, 28 August 1945; R15130/4476/G44, John Balfour to Foreign Office, no. 6048, 5 September 1945; R15250/4476/G44, Balfour to Foreign Office, no. 6116, 8 September 1945; R15715/4476/G44, Halifax to Foreign Office, no. 6213, 14 September 1945.

Notes

253

113. Bilgin, Britain and Turkey in the Middle East, pp. 73, 231. 114. Mustafa Bilgin, ‘Anglo-Turkish Relations in the Middle East: British Perceptions, 1945–53’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Birmingham, 2001), p. 22. 115. Sir David Kelly (Ankara) to Hector McNeil, no. 487, 26 November 1948; BDFA Part IV, Series B, vol. 5; Malcolm Yapp, ed. (Bethesda, Maryland: University Publications of America, 2001), p. 228. 116. HW 12/322, 146773 Turkish minister Ottawa to MFA Ankara, 29 June 1945 (6 July). HW 1/3788, 148000 Italian minister Ankara to Foreign Ministry Rome, 27 July 1945 (6 August). HW 12/330, 148888 Turkish ambassador Paris to MFA Ankara, 21 August 1945 (27 August). 117. Attlee to Eden, 18 July 1945; DBPO, Series I, vol. 1, pp. 363–4. 118. Eden to Attlee, 23 July 1945; DBPO, Series I, vol. 1, pp. 575–6. 119. Weinberg, World at Arms, p. 351. 120. John Keegan, ed. Times Atlas of the Second World War (London: Times Books, 1989), p. 78. 121. Dutton, Anthony Eden, pp. 173–4. 122. Michael Blackwell, Clinging to Grandeur – British Attitudes and Foreign Policy in the Aftermath of the Second World War (London: Greenwood, 1993), pp. 68–9. 123. On Attlee’s subsequent attempt to achieve a radical revision of British policy in the Middle East, thwarted by the combined opposition of Ernest Bevin, the Foreign Office and the Chiefs of Staff, see Raymond Smith and John Zametica, ‘Clement Attlee – The Cold Warrior Reconsidered,’ International Affairs 61 (1985), pp. 237–52. 124. Attlee to Churchill, 23 July 1945; DBPO, Series I, vol. 1, pp. 573–4. 125. FO 371/50885, U6311/2600/70, Jebb memorandum, 29 July 1945. 126. CAB 80/93, COS (45) 220 (O) (PHP), ‘The Montreux Convention – Staff Study,’ 6 April 1945. 127. FO 371/48775, R14773/4476/G44, Roger Allen minute, 1 September 1945. 128. FO 371/50885, U6311/2600/70, Jebb memorandum, 29 July 1945. 129. CAB 84/73, JP (45) 170 (Final), ‘Montreux Convention & Security of the Baltic,’ 11 July 1945. 130. Peterson to Bevin, no. 268, 28 July 1945; BDFA Part III, Series B, vol. 2, p. 325. 131. CAB 81/46, PHP (45) 10 (O) (Final), ‘Security in the Eastern Mediterranean & Middle East,’ 27 March 1945. 132. Ekavi Athanassopoulou, Turkey – Anglo-American Security Interests, 1945–52 (London: Frank Cass, 1999), p. 171. 133. PREM 3/447/5A, Churchill to Eden, 7 January 1944.

Conclusion 1. Tamkin, ‘Diplomatic Sigint and the British Official Mind during the Second World War.’ 2. Millman, Ill-Made Alliance, p. 200. 3. Cf. John C Cairns, ‘A Nation of Shopkeepers in Search of a Suitable France, 1919–1940,’ American Historical Research 79 (1974), pp. 710–43.

254

Notes

4. David R Devereux, The Formulation of British Defence Policy Toward the Middle East, 1948–56 (Basingstoke, Hampshire: Macmillan, 1990). 5. Bilgin, Britain and Turkey in the Middle East. 6. Athanassopoulou, Turkey – Anglo-American Security Interests.

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Unpublished theses Beytullayev, El’vis, ‘Soviet Policy Towards Turkey, 1944–46’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Cambridge, 2005). Bilgin, Mustafa Sitki, ‘Anglo-Turkish Relations in the Middle East – British Perceptions, 1945–53’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Birmingham, 2001). Nikoli´c, Irina, ‘Anglo-Yugoslav Relations, 1938–41’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Cambridge, 2001). Zametica, John, ‘British Strategic Planning for the Eastern Mediterranean and the Middle East, 1944–47’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Cambridge, 1986).

Index Açıkalın, Cevat, 71, 172–4, 176 Adana conference (1943), 77, 84–98, 101, 104–5, 114–17, 118–20, 122, 125–6, 130, 135–8, 140, 159, 173, 190, 194–5 Aktay, Haydar, 22–3, 26, 28, 56, 108, 110–11 Aras, Tevfik Rü¸stü, 9–11, 33, 109 Arnold, Allan, 41, 78, 83, 101–2, 142 Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal, 3, 8–14, 48, 99–102, 141, 196 Attlee, Clement, 21, 85, 183–7, 193 Auchinleck, Sir Claude, 58–9, 63, 67, 69–70, 72

Dill, Sir John, 37, 40–3, 46, 61, 75 Dixon, Pierson, 24, 57, 60, 77, 99

‘Bagration’ Operation, 148–9, 192 Beria, Lavrenti, 5, 22, 176 ‘Blue’ Operation, 58, 69, 70 Brooke, Sir Alan, 2, 57, 66, 70, 72, 74–5, 77, 79, 81–2, 84–6, 88–91, 93, 105, 119, 124, 136, 190, 194–5

Glenconner, 2nd Baron, 67–8 Grigg, Sir Edward, 142

Eden, Anthony, 2, 14, 28, 32, 37, 40–5, 47, 49, 51–7, 59–61, 68–9, 74, 78–81, 83–8, 90–4, 99, 103–5, 107–9, 112, 120, 122–3, 125, 132–42, 145, 147–50, 151–3, 155–61, 163–4, 167–71, 177, 179–82, 184–5, 188, 190, 192–5 Elmhirst, Sir Thomas, 39 Erkin, Feridun Cemal, 148, 176 Ertegün, Mehmet Münür, 111, 115, 133

Cadogan, Sir Alexander, 17, 36–7, 39, 44–5, 58, 69, 82–3, 86–7, 89–93, 99, 104, 125–7, 130, 133, 142, 145, 153, 155, 162, 164, 170–1, 177 Casablanca conference (1943), 84–7, 93, 115, 119, 125, 131, 143, 170 Cavendish-Bentinck, Sir Victor, 78, 81–3, 91, 105 Churchill, Winston S., 1–4, 8–9, 10, 16, 27, 32, 34, 37–47, 51–5, 57–60, 62–3, 69–74, 76–81, 83–93, 95–8, 102–5, 108, 113–14, 116, 118–19, 121–5, 131, 133, 135–40, 143–5, 149–50, 153–62, 164, 166, 168–71, 177, 179, 181–3, 188, 190, 192–5 Clark Kerr, Sir Archibald, 110, 143, 178–9 Cripps, Sir Stafford, 20–5, 28, 58, 108, 111, 147, 170, 185

Halifax, 1st Earl of, 20–1, 28, 33, 37–8, 177, 179 Harvey, Oliver, 86, 90 Helm, Alexander Knox, 81, 100, 113–14, 148, 156 Inönü, Ismet, 3, 10, 14, 27, 42–5, 48, 85–7, 89, 91, 99–100, 114, 136–7, 145–9, 166, 175, 177 Jebb, Gladwyn, 67–8, 126, 128, 164, 185–6 Kennedy, Sir John, 42, 57, 61, 63, 67, 73, 78, 81, 124 Knatchbull-Hugessen, Sir Hughe, 18, 19–21, 23, 26, 28–9, 35, 38–9, 43, 46–7, 55, 57–8, 60, 65, 71, 77, 82–3, 85–91, 93, 95–100, 102–5, 107–10, 114, 116–17, 119–20, 134, 138–9, 141–3, 146–9, 156, 167 Litvinov, Maxim, 10, 167, 173 Lloyd George, David, 8–9

266

Index 267 Maisky, Ivan, 22, 27, 108, 137, 163 Marshall-Cornwall, Sir James, 38, 41 Menemencioˇglu, Numan, 15, 42–3, 77–8, 80–1, 90, 95–6, 99–100, 105, 112–14, 132, 134, 136–48, 154, 166, 172–3 Menzies, Sir Stewart, 4, 62, 78, 82, 91 Molotov, Vyacheslav, 5, 25–6, 30, 72, 110, 112, 114–15, 127, 132–3, 135, 137, 152, 159, 161, 167, 169–70, 172–80, 182 Montreux convention, 13, 16, 21, 23–4, 123, 127, 146–8, 159, 167–8, 170, 176, 182–3 Moscow conference (1943), 128, 132–3, 135, 192 Moscow conference (1944), 157–61, 163–4, 167–8, 171, 179, 181–2 Orbay, Rauf, 71, 77, 96, 112, 115 ‘Overlord’ Operation, 5, 136–8, 144, 147–8, 154, 192 Peterson, Sir Maurice, 156–7, 160, 163, 171, 176, 178–9, 182, 187 Potsdam conference (1945), 178–82, 193 Quebec conference (1943), 121, 123–4, 129, 135–6, 138 Roosevelt, Franklin D., 76, 79–80, 83–4, 86–7, 111, 125, 136–8, 144, 174, 190, 195 Saka, Hasan, 174, 176, 180 Saraco˘ glu, S¸ ükrü, 16, 19, 23, 28, 42, 44, 47–9, 81, 87, 92, 95, 98–100,

110, 114, 117, 126, 148, 156, 162, 175, 177 Sargent, Sir Orme, 17, 20–4, 26, 29, 31, 48, 55, 69, 81–2, 85–6, 90–1, 93, 102, 113, 128, 133, 145, 155, 160, 163–4, 167–8, 177, 179, 181 Sarper, Selim, 173–80, 182 ‘Saturn’ Operation, 137, 141 Special Operations Executive (SOE), 21, 66–9, 71, 146 Stalin, Josef, 5, 8, 16, 20–30, 39, 45, 49, 53, 55, 59–60, 72, 74, 76, 80, 84, 109, 111, 114, 126, 132, 134, 136–8, 144, 151, 159–61, 163, 168–71, 173–8, 181–3, 190, 192 Sterndale-Bennett, John, 96, 113–14, 124 Sulzberger, Cyrus, 103 Taray, Cemal Hüsnü, 108 Tehran conference (1943), 125, 128, 132, 137–8, 140, 151, 166, 168, 171–2, 181–2 ‘Torch’ Operation, 76, 78–9, 81, 90 Toynbee, Arnold, 9 Truman, Harry S., 174, 183 Washington conference (1943), 120, 123–4 Wavell, Sir Archibald, 37, 40, 42–3, 53, 57–8, 62 Wilson, Sir Henry Maitland, 72, 121–2, 155–6, 159 Yalta conference (1945), 162, 170–1, 176–7, 182