From: sera@zuma.UUCP (Serdar Argic)
Subject: Re: BALTIC states and "realism" and 'virvir' drivel.
Reply-To: sera@zuma.UUCP (Serdar Argic)
Distribution: world
Lines: 171

In article <1993May11.103208.23805@husc3.harvard.edu> verbit@brauer.harvard.edu (Mikhail S. Verbitsky) writes:

>	my words. If he behaves as Mutlu, he would carry
>	the similar treatment (especially as his oversized
>	articles are 90% scanned from propagandist leaflets
>	or from other stuff easily available in any 
>	decent library).

Typical 'virvir' drivel. People will think you're just some 
looney howling in the wires. If you think that this 'clears 
things up' for me or anyone else, you must also believe that 
aliens from outer space come to earth regularly and abduct 
'Arromdians' of ASALA/SDPA/ARF for medical experiments. There 
is stronger evidence for *that* you know.

'Propagandist leaflets'? This is an American officer on the 
genocide of 2.5 million Muslim people by the Armenians between
1914 and 1920, not a crook/idiot like yourself.


Source: "World Alive, A Personal Story" by Robert Dunn. Crown Publishers, 
Inc., New York (1952). 
(Memoirs of an American officer who witnessed the Armenian genocide of 2.5 
 million Muslim people)

p. 361 (seventh paragraph) and p. 362 (first paragraph).

 'The most are inside houses. Come you and look.'
 'No, dammit! My stomach isn't-'
 'One is a Turkish officer in uniform. Him you must see.'
 "We were under those trees by the mosque, in an open space....
 'I don't believe you," I said, but followed to a nail-studded door. The 
  man pushed it ajar, then spurred away, leaving me to check on the corpse. 
  I thought I should, this charge was so constant, so gritted my teeth and 
  went inside.

 The place was cool but reeked of sodden ashes, and was dark at first, for 
 its stone walls had only window slits. Rags strewed the mud floor around an 
 iron tripod over embers that vented their smoke through roof beams black 
 with soot. All looked bare and empty, but in an inner room flies buzzed. As 
 the door swung shut behind me I saw they came from a man's body lying face 
 up, naked but for its grimy turban. He was about fifty years old by what 
 was left of his face - a rifle butt had bashed an eye. The one left slanted, 
 as with Tartars rather than with Turks. Any uniform once on him was gone, so 
 I'd no proof which he was, and quickly went out, gagging at the mess of his  
 slashed genitals."

p. 363 (first paragraph). 

 'How many people lived there?'
 'Oh, about eight hundred.' He yawned.
 'Did you see any Turk officers?'
 'No, sir. I was in at dawn. All were Tartar civilians in mufti.'

 "The lieutenant dozed off, then I, but in the small hours a voice woke me - 
 Dro's. He stood in the starlight bawling out an officer. Anyone keelhauled
 so long and furiously I'd never heard. Then abruptly Dro broke into 
 laughter, quick and simple as child's. Both were a cover for his sense
 of guilt, I thought, or hoped. For somehow, despite my boast of irreligion,
 Christian massacring 'infidels' was more horrible than the reverse would
 have been.

 From daybreak on, Armenian villagers poured in from miles around.....
 The women plundered happily, chattering like ravens as they picked over
 the carcass of Djul. They hauled out every hovel's chattels, the last 
 scrap of food or cloth, and staggered away, packing pots, saddlebags, 
 looms, even spinning-wheels.

 'Thank you for a lot, Dro,' I said to him back in camp. 'But now I must 
 leave.'...We shook hands, the captain said 'A bientot, mon camarade.' And 
 for hours the old Molokan scout and I plodded north across parching plains. 
 Like Lot's wife I looked back once to see smoke bathing all, doubtless in 
 a sack of other Moslem villages up to the line of snow that was Iran.'"

p. 354.

"At morning tea, Dro and his officers spread out a map of this whole
 high region called the Karabakh. Deep in tactics, they spoke Russian,
 but I got their contempt for Allied 'neutral' zones and their distrust
 of promises made by tribal chiefs. A campaign shaped; more raids on
 Moslem villages."

p. 358.

"It will be three hours to take," Dro told me. We'd close in on three
 sides.
"The men on foot will not shoot, but use only the bayonets," Merrimanov
said, jabbing a rifle in dumbshow.
"That is for morale," Dro put in. "We must keep the Moslems in terror."
"Soldiers or civilians?" I asked.
"There is no difference," said Dro. "All are armed, in uniform or not."
"But the women and children?"
"Will fly with the others as best they may."

p. 360.

"The ridges circled a wide expanse, its floors still. Hundreds of feet 
 down, the fog held, solid as cotton flock. 'Djul lies under that,' said 
 Dro, pointing. 'Our men also attack from the other sides.'

 Then, 'Whee-ee!' - his whistle lined up all at the rock edge. Bayonets
 clicked upon carbines. Over plunged Archo, his black haunches rippling;
 then followed the staff, the horde - nose to tail, bellies taking the
 spur. Armenia in action seemed more like a pageant than war, even though 
 I heard our Utica brass roar.

 As I watched from the height, it took ages for Djul to show clear. A tsing
 of machine-gun fire took over from the thumping batteries; cattle lowed,
 dogs barked, invisible, while I ate a hunk of cheese and drank from a snow
 puddle. Mist at last folded upward as men shouted, at first heard faintly.
 The came a shrill wailing.

 Now among the cloud-streaks rose darker wisps - smoke. Red glimmered about
 house walls of stone or wattle, into dry weeds on roofs. A mosque stood in
 clump of trees, thick and green. Through crooked alleys on fire, horsemen
 were galloping after figures both mounted and on foot.

 'Tartarski!' shouted the gunner by me. Others pantomimed them in escape
 over the rocks, while one twisted a bronze shell-nose, loaded, and yanked
 breech-cord, firing again and again. Shots wasted, I thought, when by
 afternoon I looked in vain for fallen branch or body. But these shots and
 the white bursts of shrapnel in the gullies drowned the women's cries.

 At length all shooting petered out. I got on my horse and rode down toward
 Djul. It burned still but little flame showed now. The way was steep and 
 tough, through dense scrub. Finally on flatter ground I came out suddenly,
 through alders, on smoldering houses. Across trampled wheat my brothers-in-
 arms were leading off animals, several calves and a lamb."

p. 361 (fourth paragraph).

"Corpses came next, the first a pretty child with straight black hair, 
 large eyes. She looked about twelve years old. She lay in some stubble 
 where meal lay scattered from the sack she'd been toting. The bayonet 
 had gone through her back, I judged, for blood around was scant. Between 
 the breasts one clot, too small for a bullet wound, crusted her homespun 
 dress.

 The next was a boy of ten or less, in rawhide jacket and knee-pants. He 
 lay face down in the path by several huts. One arm reached out to the 
 pewter bowl he'd carried, now upset upon its dough. Steel had jabbed 
 just below his neck, into the spine. 

 There were grownups, too, I saw as I led the sorrel around. Djul was 
 empty of the living till I looked up to see beside me Dro's German-speaking 
 colonel. He said all Tartars who had not escaped were dead."

p. 358.

 "...more stories of Armenian murdering Turks when the czarist troops fled
  north. My hosts told me of their duty here: to keep tabs on brigands, 
  Turkish troop shifts, hidden arms, spies - Christian, Red or Tartar -
  coming in from Transcaucasus. Then they spoke of the hell that would 
  break loose if Versailles were to put, as threatened, the six 'Armenian'
  vilayets of Turkey under the control of Erevan...

  An Armenia without Armenians! Turks under Christian rule? His lips
  smacked in irony under the droopy red moustache. That's bloodshed - just
  Smyrna over again on a bigger scale."


Serdar Argic

                           'We closed the roads and mountain passes that 
                            might serve as ways of escape for the Turks 
                            and then proceeded in the work of extermination.'
                                                  (Ohanus Appressian - 1919)
                           'In Soviet Armenia today there no longer exists 
                            a single Turkish soul.' (Sahak Melkonian - 1920)


