As any one with some knowledge of Macedonia, Drama, and the Bulgarian frontier might have anticipated, the objects of the Salonika adventure were frustrated from the outset. Serbia was not saved; Bulgaria was not penetrated; the enemy’s communication with Sofia and Constantinople was not threatened. Salonika certainly was rescued from Austrian or Bulgarian occupation; the enemy was thwarted of its possible use as a submarine base (a dubious possibility, as many naval authorities thought); the Entente retained some hold, however small, upon the Balkan Peninsula, and could treat their position as a fulcrum for levering the Greek monarch from his throne. Those were the only advantages, and one may estimate them as considerable. But upon the far grander strategic conception of the Dardanelles, the Salonika project fell like a headsman’s blow. Little life was left beyond the subsiding spasms of a decapitated man. Balked of reinforcement, deprived of half the French contingent and one among his finest new Divisions, Sir Ian called up all his reserve of indomitable hopefulness--a General’s finest quality--for the support of himself and the army that still remained, however diminished. But the powers of darkness gathered round. In front lay the Turks, soon to be supplied with more German officers, more heavy guns, high explosives, and food. Close around him, and at the centre in London, unexpected figures could be discerned moving in obscurity, whispering despair, and suggesting disaster with the malign satisfaction of prophets whose gloomy forebodings fulfil their prognostications. It became evident that a General’s essential supports--the confidence and zealous co-operation of his own Government, never very enthusiastic in Sir Ian’s case--were melting away faster even than his army.