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CAUGHT BY THE TURKS
BY
FRANCIS YEATS-BROWN
WITH PORTRAITS AND PLANS
LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
1919
[_All rights reserved_]
To
LADY PAUL
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. CAPTURE 1
II. A SHADOWLAND OF ARABESQUES 25
III. THE TERRIBLE TURK 42
IV. "OUT OF GREAT TRIBULATION" 56
V. THE LONG DESCENT OF WASTED DAYS 75
VI. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF PRISON 95
VII. THE COMIC HOSPITAL IN CONSTANTINOPLE 102
VIII. OUR FIRST ESCAPE 122
IX. A CITY OF DISGUISES 140
X. RECAPTURED 159
XI. THE BLACK HOLE OF CONSTANTINOPLE 172
XII. OUR SECOND ESCAPE 198
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THE ARMENIAN PATRIARCHATE AT PSAMATTIA, CONSTANTINOPLE 137
THE AUTHOR AS A GERMAN GOVERNESS _facing p._ 154
THE AUTHOR AS A HUNGARIAN MECHANIC _facing p._ 170
THE SQUARE OF THE SERASKERAT, CONSTANTINOPLE 213
CAUGHT BY THE TURKS
CHAPTER I
CAPTURE
Half an hour before dawn on November the thirteenth, 1915. . . .
We were on an aerodrome by the River Tigris, below Baghdad, about to
start out to cut the telegraph lines behind the Turkish position.
My pilot ran his engine to free the cylinders from the cold of night,
while I stowed away in the body of the machine some necklaces of
gun-cotton, some wire cutters, a rifle, Verey lights, provisions, and
the specially prepared map--prepared for the eventuality of its falling
into the hands of the Turks--on which nothing was traced except our
intended route to the telegraph lines west and north of Baghdad. Some
primers, which are the explosive charges designed to detonate the
gun-cotton, I carefully stowed away in another part of the machine, and
with even more care--trepidation, indeed--I put into my pockets the
highly explosive pencils of fulminate of mercury, which detonate the
primers which detonate the gun-cotton.
Then I climbed gingerly aboard, feeling rather highly charged with
explosives and excitement.
For some time the pilot continued to run his engine and watch the
revolution meter. The warmer the engine became, the colder I got, for
the prelude to adventure is always a chilly business. Unlike the engine,
I did not warm to my work during those waiting moments. At last,
however, the pilot waved his hand to give the signal to stand clear, and
we slid away on the flight that was to be our last for many a day. The
exhaust gases of our engine lit the darkness behind me with a ring of
fire. I looked back as we taxied down the aerodrome, and saw the
mechanics melting away to their morning tea. Only one figure remained, a
young pilot in a black and yellow fur coat, who had left his warm bed to
wish us luck. For a moment I saw him standing there, framed in flame,
looking after us regretfully. Then I saw him no more, and later they
told me (but it was not true) that he had died at Ctesiphon.
We rose over the tents of our camp at Aziziah, all silver and still in
the half-light, and headed for the Turkish outposts at El Kutunieh.
Their bivouac fires mounted straight to heaven. It was a calm and
cloudless dawn, ideal weather for the business we had been sent out to
do.
At all costs, we had been told, the telegraphic communications west and
north of Baghdad must be cut that day. Von der Goltz and a German
battery of quick-firing guns were hasting down from Mosul to help their
stricken ally, and reinforcements of the best Anatolian troops,
magnificently equipped and organised by the Germans, were on their way
from Gallipoli, whence they came flushed with the confidence of success.
Our attack on Ctesiphon was imminent. It was a matter of moments whether
the Turkish reinforcements would arrive in time. Delay and confusion in
the Turkish rear would have helped us greatly, and the moral and
material advantage of cutting communications between Nur-ed-Din, the
vacillating Commander-in-Chief defending Baghdad, and Von der Goltz, the
veteran of victories, was obvious and unquestionable. But could we do it
in an old Maurice Farman biplane?
Desperate needs need desperate measures. The attempt to take Baghdad was
desperate--futile perhaps--and contrary to the advice of the great
soldier who led the attack in the glorious but unsuccessful action of
Ctesiphon. And so also, in a small way, ours was a desperate mission.
Our machine could carry neither oil nor petrol enough for the journey,
and special arrangements had to be made for carrying spare tins of
lubricant and fuel. With these we were to refill at our first halt.
While I was destroying the telegraph line, my pilot was to replenish the
tanks of his machine. According to the map this should have been
feasible, for the telegraph lines at the place we had selected for our
demolition ran through a blank desert, two miles from the nearest track.
That the map was wrong we did not know.
All seemed quite hopeful therefore. We had got off "according to plan,"
and the engine was running beautifully.
It was stimulating to see the stir of El Kutunieh as we sailed over the
Turks at a thousand feet. They ran to take cover from the bombs which
had so often greeted them at sunrise; but for once we sailed placidly
on, having other fish to fry, and left them to the pleasures of
anticipation. Far behind us a few puffs from their ridiculous apology
for an anti-aircraft gun blossomed like sudden flowers and then melted
in the sunlight above the world. Below, in the desert, it was still
dark. Men were rubbing their eyes in El Kutunieh and cursing us.
But for us day had dawned. As we rose, there rose behind us a round
cheerful sun, whose rays caught our trail and spangled it with light,
and danced in my eyes as I looked back through the propeller, and lit up
the celluloid floor of the nacelle as if to help me see my implements.
That dawn was jubilant with hope--I felt inclined to dance. And I sang
from sheer exhilaration--a sort of swan song (as I see it now) before
captivity. The desert seemed barren no longer. Transmuted by the sunrise
those "miles and miles of nothing at all" became a limitless expanse
where all the kingdoms of the world were spread out before our eyes.
Away to the east the Tigris wound like a snake among the sands; to
westward, a huddle of houses and date-palms with an occasional gleam
from the gold domes of Kazimain, lay the city of the Arabian Nights,
where Haroun al Raschid once reigned, and where now there is hope his
spirit may reign again. Baghdad nestled among its date-palms, with
little wisps of cloud still shrouding its sleep, all unconscious of the
great demonstration it was to give before noon to two forlorn and
captive airmen. To the north lay the Great Desert with a hint of violet
hills on the far horizon. To the south also lay the Great Desert, with
no feature on its yellow face save the scar of some irrigation cut made
in the twilight time of history.
But the beauties of Nature were not for us: we were intent on the works
of man. There was unwonted traffic across the bridge over the great Arch
of Ctesiphon. The enemy river craft were early astir, and so were their
antediluvian Archies. These latter troubled us no more than was their
wont, but the activity at Qusaibah and Sulman Pak was disquieting.
Trains of carts were moving across the river from the right to the left
bank. Tugs, gravid with troops, were on their way from Baghdad. In
trenches and gun emplacements feverish work was in progress. Like ants
at a burrow, men were dragging overhead cover into place. Lines of
fatigue parties were marching hither and thither. New support trenches
were being dug.
As always, when one saw these things, one longed for more eyes, better
eyes, an abler pencil, to record them for our staff. An observer has
great responsibilities at times: one cannot help remembering that a
missed obstruction, a forgotten emplacement may mean a terrible toll of
suffering. Our men would soon attack these trenches, relying largely on
our photographs and information. . . . When, a week later, there rose
above the battle the souls of all the brave men dead at Ctesiphon,
seeing then with clearer eyes than mine, I pray they forgave our
shortcomings and remembered we did our best.
We could not circle over Ctesiphon, in spite of the interest we saw
there, until our duty was performed, and had to fly on, leaving it to
eastward.
On the return journey, however, we promised ourselves as full an
investigation as our petrol supply allowed, and had we returned with our
report on what we had seen and done that day, things might have been
very different. But what's the use of might-have-beens?
After an hour's flying we sighted the telegraph line that was our
objective, but when we approached it more closely a sad surprise awaited
us, for instead of the blank surface which the map portrayed, we found
that the line ran along a busy thoroughfare leading to Baghdad. Some ten
thousand camels, it seemed to my disappointed eyes, were swaying and
slouching towards the markets of the capital. We came low to observe the
traffic better, and the camels craned their long necks upwards, burbling
with surprise at this great new bird they had never seen. The ships of
the desert, it seemed to me, disliked the ship of the air as much as we
disapproved of them.
Besides the camels, there were ammunition carts and armed soldiers along
the road, making a landing impossible. Our demolition would only take
three minutes under favourable conditions, but in three minutes even an
Arab soldier can be trusted to hit an aeroplane and two airmen at
point-blank range.
So we flew westward down the road, looking for a landing ground. Baghdad
was behind us now. On our right lay a great lake, and ahead we got an
occasional glimpse of the Euphrates in the morning sun. At last--near a
mound, which we afterwards heard was Nimrod's tomb--we saw that the
telegraph line took a turn to northward, leaving the road by a mile or
more. Here we decided to land. Nimrod's tomb was to be the tomb of our
activities.
While we were circling down I felt exactly as one feels at the start of
a race, watching for the starting gate to rise. It was a tense but
delightful moment.
We made a perfect landing, and ran straight and evenly towards the
telegraph posts. I had already stripped myself of my coat and all
unnecessary gear, and wore sandshoes in case I had to climb a post to
get at the insulators. The detonators were in my pocket, the wire
clippers hung at my belt. I stooped down to take a necklace of
gun-cotton from the floor of the 'bus, and as I did so, I felt a slight
bump and a slight splintering of wood.
We had stopped.
I jumped out of the machine, still sure that all was well. And then----
Then I saw that our left wing tip had crashed into a telegraph post.
Even so the full extent of our disaster dawned slowly on me. I could not
believe that we had broken something vital. Yet the pilot was quite
sure.
The leading edge of the plane was broken. Our flying days were finished.
It had been my pilot's misfortune, far more than his fault, that we had
crashed. The unexpected smoothness of the landing ground, and a rear
wind that no one could have foreseen, had brought about disaster.
Nothing could be done. I stood silent--while hope sank from its zenith,
to the nadir of disappointment. Nothing remained--except to do our job.
With light feet but heart of lead, I ran across to another telegraph
post, leaving the pilot to ascertain whether by some miracle we might
not be able to get our machine to safety. But even as I left him I knew
that there was no hope; the only thing that remained was to destroy the
line and then take our chance with the Arabs.
By the time I had fixed the explosive necklace round the post, a few
stray Arabs, who had been watching our descent, fired at us from
horseback. I set the fuse and lit it, then strolled back to the machine,
where the pilot confirmed my worst fears. The machine was unflyable.
Presently there was a loud bang. The charge had done its work and the
post was neatly cut in two.
Horsemen were now appearing from the four quarters of the desert. On
hearing the explosion the mounted men instantly wheeled about and
galloped off in the opposite direction, while those on foot took cover,
lying flat on their faces. To encourage the belief in our aggressive
force, the pilot stood on the seat of the 'bus and treated them to
several bursts of rapid fire.
Meanwhile, I took another necklace of gun-cotton and returned to my
demolition. This second charge I affixed to the wires and insulators of
the fallen post, so as to render repair more difficult. While I was thus
engaged, I noticed that spurts of sand were kicking up all about me. The
fire had increased in accuracy and intensity. So accurate indeed had it
become that I guessed that the Arabs (who cannot hit a haystack) had
been reinforced by regulars. I lit the fuse and covered the hundred
yards back to the machine in my very best time (which is about fifteen
seconds) to get cover and companionship. A hot fire was being directed
on to the machine now, at ranges varying from fifty to five hundred
yards. It was not a pleasant situation, and I experienced a curious
mixed feeling of regret and relief: regret that there was nothing more
to do, relief that something at least had been accomplished to earn the
long repose before us. On the nature of this repose I had never
speculated, and even now the fate that awaited us seemed immaterial so
long as something happened quickly. One wanted to get it over. I was
very frightened, I suppose.
Bang!
The second charge had exploded, and the telegraph wires whipped back and
festooned themselves round our machine. The insulators were dust, no
doubt, and the damage would probably take some days to repair. So far so
good. Our job was done in so far as it lay in our power to do it.
"Do you see that fellow in blue?" said the pilot to me, pointing to a
ferocious individual about a hundred yards away who was brandishing a
curved cutlass. "I think it must be an officer. We had better give
ourselves up to him when the time comes."
I cordially agreed, but rather doubted that the time would ever come. It
speaks volumes for Arab marksmanship that they missed our machine about
as often as they hit it.
I destroyed a few private papers, and then, as it was obviously useless
to return the fire of two hundred men with a single rifle, we started up
the engine again, more with the idea of doing something than with any
hope of getting away.
The machine, it may be mentioned, was not to be destroyed in the event
of a breakdown such as this, because our army hoped to be in Baghdad
within a week, and it would have been impossible for the Turks to carry
it with them in the case of a retreat.
The Arabs hesitated to advance, and still continued to pour in a hot
fire. Feeling the situation was becoming ridiculous, I got into the
aeroplane and determined to attempt flying it. Now I am not a pilot, and
know little of machines. The pilot had pronounced the aeroplane to be
unflyable, and very rightly did not accompany me.
But I was pigheaded and determined "to have one more flip in the old
'bus." After disentangling the wires that had whipped round the king
posts, I got into the pilot's seat and taxied away down wind. Then I
turned, managing the operation with fair success, and skimmed back
towards the pilot with greatly increasing speed. But all my efforts did
not succeed in making the machine lift clear of the ground. Some Arabs
were now rushing towards the pilot, and a troop of mounted gendarmes
were galloping in my direction. I tried to swerve to avoid these men,
but could not make the machine answer to her controls. Then I pulled the
stick back frantically in a last effort to rise above them. She gave a
little hop, then floundered down in the middle of the cavalry.
Somehow or other the 'bus was standing still, and I was on the ground
beside it.
Mounted gendarmes surrounded me with rifles levelled, not at me, but at
the machine. I cocked my revolver and put it behind my back, hesitating.
Then an old gendarme spurred his horse up to me and held out his right
hand in the friendliest possible fashion. I grasped it in surprise, for
the grip he gave me was a grip I knew, proving that even here in the
desert men are sometimes brothers. Then, emptying out the cartridges
from my revolver in case of accidents, I handed it to him. Not very
heroic certainly--but then surrendering is a sorry business: the best
that can be said for it is that it is sometimes common sense.
At that moment the gentleman in blue, whose appearance we had previously
discussed, suddenly appeared behind me and swinging up his scimitar with
both hands, struck me a violent blow where neck joins shoulder. This
blow deprived me of all feeling for a moment. On coming-to I discovered
that my aggressor was not dressed in blue at all; he wore no stitch of
raiment of any description, but whether he was painted with woad or only
tanned by the sun I had no opportunity of enquiring. Whether, again, the
kindly gendarme had turned the blow or whether the _ghazi_ had purposely
hit me with the flat of his weapon, I never discovered; but of this much
I am certain, that except for that kindly gendarme--to whom may Allah
bring blessings--this story would not have been written.
I made my way to the pilot as soon as I was able to do so, and found him
bleeding profusely from a wound in the head, surrounded by a hundred
tearing, screaming Arabs. Every minute, the number of the Arabs was
increasing, and the gendarmes had the greatest difficulty in protecting
us. All round us excited horsemen circled, firing _feux de joie_ and
uttering hoarse cries of exultation. We were making slow progress
towards the police post about a mile distant, but at times, so fiercely
did the throng press round us, I doubted if we should ever come through.
Once, yielding to popular clamour, the police stopped and parleyed with
some Arab chiefs who had arrived upon the scene. After a heated colloquy
of which we did not understand one word, in spite of our not unnatural
interest, the Turkish gendarmes shrugged their shoulders and appeared to
accede to the Arabs' demands. Several of the more ruffianly among them
seized the pilot and pulled his flying coat over his head. The memory of
that moment is the most unpleasant in my life, and I cannot, try as I
will, entirely dissociate myself from the horror of what I thought would
happen. Even now it often holds sleep at arm's length. Not the fact of
death, but the imagined manner of it, dismayed me. I bitterly regretted
having surrendered my revolver only to be thus tamely murdered.
Meanwhile I had been also seized and borne down under a crowd of Arabs.
We fought for some time, and I had a glimpse of the pilot, who is a very
clever boxer, upholding British traditions with his fists. . . .
Suddenly the scene changed from tragedy to farce. We were not going to
be murdered at all, but only robbed. And the pilot had given our _ghazi_
friend a black eye--blacker than his skin.
At length I got free, minus all my possessions except my wrist watch,
which they did not see, and saw that the pilot also had his head above
the scrimmage, still "bloody but unbowed." The worst was over. That had
been the climax of my capture.
All that happened thereafter, until chances of escape occurred, was in a
_diminuendo_ of emotion.
All I really longed for now was for something to smoke. My cigarette
case had gone.
The gendarmes, who had stood aside through these proceedings, now
returned and hurried us towards the police post, while most of the
captors remained behind disputing about our loot. All this time the
machine had been absolutely neglected, but now I saw some Arabs stalking
cautiously up to it and discharging their firearms. Feeling the machine
would be damaged beyond repair if they continued firing at it, and so
rendered useless to us after our imminent capture of Baghdad, I tried to
explain to the gendarmes that it was quite unnecessary to waste good
lead on it, its potentiality for evil having vanished with our
surrender. The impression I conveyed, however, was that there was a
third officer in the machine, and a large party adjourned to
investigate. During this diversion I tried to jump on to a white mare,
whose owner had left her to go towards the machine, but received a
second nasty blow on the spine for my pains. Again the kindly gendarme
came to my rescue, seeing, I suppose, that I was looking pretty blue. He
addressed me as "Baba," and--may Allah give him increase!--gave me a
cigarette.
At last we got to the police post, and, as we entered and passed through
a dark stable passage, the gendarme on my left side, noticing my wrist
watch, slyly detached it and pocketed it with a meaning smile. As the
price of police protection I did not grudge it.
Big doors clanged behind us and our captivity proper had begun: what had
gone before had been more like a scrum at Rugger, with ourselves as the
ball.
We examined our injuries and bruises, and I tried to dress the wounds on
the pilot's head, with little success, however, for our guardians could
provide nothing but the most brackish water, and disinfectants were
undreamed of. We discussed our future at some length, and agreed that
our best plan was to be recaptured in Baghdad on the taking of that
city. To this end we decided that it would be advisable to make the most
of our injuries, so that when the Turkish retreat took place we would
not be in a fit condition to accompany it. To feign sickness would not,
indeed, be difficult. I felt that every bone in my body was broken, and
my pilot was in an even worse condition.
Meanwhile there was a great clamour and "confused noises without," which
seemed to refer insistently and unpleasantly to us. On asking what the
people were saying, we were informed that the Arabs wanted to take our
heads to the Turkish Commander-in-Chief at Suleiman Pak, whereas the
gendarmes pointed out that there would be far greater profit and
pleasure in taking us there alive. We cordially agreed, and did not join
the discussion, feeling it to be more academic than practical, as we
were quite safe in the police post.
We had neither hats nor overcoats, but we each still retained our
jackets and breeches, though in a very torn condition. I was still in
possession of my sandshoes, probably because the Arabs did not think
them worth the taking.
Considering things calmly, we felt that we were lucky. This bondage
would not last. We would surely fly again, perhaps soon. But for a week
or so we must accustom ourselves to new conditions. Everything was
strange about us, and it struck me at once how close a parallel there is
between the drama of Captivity and the drama of Life. In each case there
is a "curtain," and in each case a man enters into a new world whose
language and customs he does not know. Almost naked we came to our
bondage, dumb, bloody, disconcerted by the whole business. So, perhaps,
do infants feel at the world awaiting their ken: it is taken for
granted that they enjoy life, and so also our captors were convinced
that we should feel delighted at our situation.
"We saved you from the Arabs," we understood them to say, "and now you
are safe until the war is over. You need do no more work."
Such at any rate was my estimate of what they said, but being in an
unknown tongue, it was only necessary to nod in answer.
Tea was brought to us, sweet, weak tea in little glasses, and we made
appreciative noises. Then the kindly gendarme--may he be rewarded in
both worlds--brought each of us some cigarettes, in return for which we
gave him our brightest smiles, having nothing else to give.
But one could not smile for long in that little room, thinking of the
sun and air outside and the old 'bus lying wrecked in the desert. We
would have been flying back now; we would have reconnoitred the Turkish
lines; we would have been back by nine o'clock to breakfast, bath, and
glory. . . .
"It's the thirteenth of the month," groaned the pilot, whose thoughts
were similar to mine.
For a long time I sulked in silence, while the pilot, with better
manners or more vitality than I, engaged the gendarmes in light
conversation, conducted chiefly by gesture. About an hour later (a "day"
of the Creation, it seemed to me--and it was indeed a formative time,
when the mind, so long accustomed to range free, seeks to adjust its
processes to captivity and adapt itself to new conditions of time and
space) there occurred at last a diversion to interrupt my gloom.
The Turkish District Governor arrived with two carriages to take us to
Baghdad. He spoke English and was agreeable in a mild sort of way,
except for his unfortunate habit of asking questions which we could not
answer. He told us that news of our descent and capture had been sent to
Baghdad by gallopers (not by telegram, I noted parenthetically) and that
the population was awaiting our arrival. I said that I hoped the
population would not be disappointed, and he assured us with a
significant smile that they certainly would not.
"Whatever happens," he was kind enough to add, "I will be responsible
for your lives myself."
His meaning became apparent a little later, when we approached the
suburbs of Baghdad and found an ugly crowd awaiting our arrival, armed
with sticks and stones. When we reached the city itself the streets were
lined as if for a royal procession. Shops had put up their shutters, the
markets were closed, the streets were thronged, and every window held
its quota of heads. The word had gone out that there was to be a
demonstration, and the hysteria which lurks in every city in a time of
crisis found its fullest scope. Our downfall was taken as an omen of
British defeat, and the inhabitants of Baghdad held high holiday at the
sight of captive British airmen.
Elderly merchants wagged their white beards and cursed us as we passed;
children danced with rage, and threw mud; lines of Turkish women pulled
back their veils in scorn, and putting out their tongues at us cried
"La, la, la," in a curious note of derision; boys brandished knives;
babies shook their little fists. No hated Tarquins could have had a more
hostile demonstration. We were both spat upon. A man with a heavy cudgel
aimed a blow at my pilot which narrowly missed him, another with a long
dagger stabbed through the back of the carriage and was dragged away
with difficulty: I can still see his snarling face and _hashish_-haunted
eyes. Our escort could hardly force a way for our carriage through the
narrow streets. All this time we sat trying to look dignified and
smoking constant cigarettes. . . . State arrival of British prisoners in
Baghdad--what a scene it would have been for the cinematograph!
Arrived at the river, a space was cleared round us, and we were embarked
with a great deal of fuss in a boat to take us across to the Governor's
palace. Before leaving, I said goodbye to the kindly gendarme who had
helped a brother in distress, and once more now, across the wasted years
of captivity and the turmoil of my life to-day, I grasp his hand in
gratitude.
Our first interview in Baghdad was with a journalist. He was very polite
and anxious for our impressions, but I told him that the Arabs had given
us quite enough impressions for the day, and that words could not
adequately express what we felt at our arrival in Baghdad. We chiefly
wanted a wash.
That afternoon we were taken to hospital, and to our surprise (for,
being new to the conditions of captivity, we were still susceptible to
surprise) we found that we were very well treated there. Two sentries,
however, stood at our open door day and night to watch our every
movement. When the Governor of Baghdad came to see us that evening
(thoughtfully bringing with him a bottle of whisky) I politely told him
(in French, a language he spoke fluently) that so much consideration had
been shown to us that I hoped he would not mind my asking whether we
could not have a little more privacy. The continual presence of the
sentries was a little irksome. He understood my point perfectly--much
too perfectly. Taking me to the window, he spoke smoothly, as follows:
"I am so sorry the sentries disturb you, but I feel responsible for your
safety, and should you by any chance fall out of that window--it is not
so very far from the ground, you see--you might get into bad hands. I
assure you that Baghdad is full of wicked men."
The Governor was too clever. There was no chance with him of securing
more favourable conditions for escape, so we turned to the discussion of
the whisky bottle. As in all else he did, he had an object, I soon
discovered, in bringing this forbidden fluid. His purpose, of course,
was to make us talk, and talk we did, under its generous and
unaccustomed influence, for it had been some time since we had seen
spirits in our own mess at Azizieh. I would much like to see the report
that the Turkish Intelligence Staff made of that wonderful conversation.
Several officers had dropped in--casually--to join in the talk, and we
told them we had lost our way; then our engine had stopped, and we
landed as near to some village as we could. We knew nothing of an attack
on Baghdad, we did not know General Townshend, but had certainly heard
of him. We had heard a rumour that he had defeated the Turks at Es-sinn
a month previously, and would like to know the truth of the matter.
Eventually the bottle was exhausted, and so were our imaginations. We
parted with the utmost cordiality and a firm intention of seeing as
little of each other as possible in the future.
In the street below our window were some large earthenware jars, like
those in which the Forty Thieves had hidden aforetime in this very city,
and for about a day we considered the story of Aladdin, in regard to the
possibility of escape by getting into these jars; but just as we had
made our plans the jars were removed, being taken no doubt to the
support trenches, which were found by our troops excellently provided
with water.
As the day grew near for our attack, we saw many thousand Arabs being
marched down to Ctesiphon. It was no conquering army this, no freemen
going to defend their native land, but miserable bands of slaves being
sent into subjection. Down to the river bank, where they were embarked
on lighters, they were followed by their weeping relatives. There was no
pretence at heroism. They would have escaped if they could, but the
Turks had taken care of that. They were tied together by fours, their
right hand being lashed to a wooden yoke, while their left was employed
in carrying a rifle. These unfortunate creatures were taken to a spot
near the trenches and were then transferred, still securely tied
together, to the worst dug and most-exposed part of the line. Machine
guns were then posted behind them to block all possible lines of
retreat. In addition to minor discomforts such as bearing the brunt of
our attack, the Arabs, so I was told, were frequently unprovided with
provisions and water, so it is small wonder that their demeanour did not
show the fire of battle. But _Kannonen-futter_ was required for
Ctesiphon, and down the river this pageant of dejected pacifists had to
go.
After the attack had begun, shiploads of these same men returned
wounded, and arrived in our hospital in an indescribably pitiable
condition. There were no stretchers, and the wounded were left to shift
for themselves, relying on charity and the providence of Allah. The
blind led the blind, the halt helped the lame.
Later, wounded Anatolian soldiers began also to arrive, and their plight
was no less wretched than that of the Arabs, though their behaviour was
incomparably better. One could not help admiring their stoicism in the
face of terrible and often unnecessary suffering. The utter lack of
system in dealing with casualties was hardly more remarkable than the
fortitude of the casualties themselves. When a proclamation was read to
the sufferers in our hospital, announcing the success of the Turkish
arms at Ctesiphon, the wounded seemed to forget their pain and the dying
acquired a new lease of life. I actually saw a man with a mortal wound
in the head, who a few minutes previously had been choking and literally
at his last gasp, rally all his forces to utter thanks to God, and then
die.
Never for a moment had we thought that the attack on Ctesiphon could
fail. The odds, we knew, were heavily against us, but we firmly believed
that General Townshend would achieve the impossible. That he did not do
so was not his fault nor the fault of the gallant men he led. But this
is a record of my personal experiences only, and I will spare the reader
all the long reflections and alternations of anxiety and hope which held
our thoughts while the guns boomed down the Tigris and the fate of
Baghdad--and our fate--was poised in the balance.
At six o'clock one morning we were suddenly awakened and told that we
must leave for Mosul immediately. By every possible means in our power
we delayed the start, thinking our troops might come at any moment. But
the Turkish sergeant who commanded our escort had definite orders that
we were to be out of the city by nine o'clock. We drove in a carriage
through mean streets, attracting no attention, for now the Baghdadis
realised their danger. Before leaving, our sergeant paid a visit to his
house, in order to collect his kit, leaving us at the door, guarded by
four soldiers. His sisters came down to see him off and (being of
progressive tendencies, I suppose) they were not veiled. It were crime
indeed to have hidden such lustrous eyes and skin so fair.