MORE IMPRESSIONS—“SITTING AMIDST AN ARMY OF SUPPOSED SAVAGE FANATICS,
DEBATING THE GREATNESS OF GOD”
THE train is slowly crawling up the heights, the air grows colder and
colder, we put on wrap after wrap, and, all of a sudden, not a fly to be
seen!
The scenery, meanwhile, seems more desolate at every mile we pass. The
horribly systematic destruction has overlooked nothing, and every
village is in ruins. The corn, so carefully hidden in pits, has been
burned; the water, on which life itself depends, has been polluted; the
peasants are vainly digging in search of the hard-earned paper money,
savings which they had buried beneath the soil, only to turn up a few
black cinders! Even the trees have been nearly all razed to the ground.
There is nothing you can tell me about the “devastated areas” in France,
for I have visited every inch of the ground; but there the people could
move on to the next villages, and were not imprisoned among the ruins. I
would not minimise German atrocities, but they did not fill the churches
with women and children before firing them! The wholesale destruction of
villages and of cattle is not “legitimate warfare,” but this butchering
of women has put the Greek outside the pale of civilisation.
“They have left us the sunset,” I could only murmur, “this marvellous
panorama of which one never tires.” The desolation, indeed, lends it a
double wonder. Why cannot men, too, die in glory?
The railway line has been cut at Gunhani. Here, no doubt, the Governor
has been instructed not only to welcome us with every comfort—tea,
coffee, and statistics—but to find us beds which do not exist!
We are travelling in the dark, since the sun has deserted us. Every now
and again the officer flashes out his little electric lamp to see that
all is well. The feelings of my fellow-passengers must be murderous, for
have I not kept the train waiting all along the line, so that we are
even later than normal Turkish management would have made us? But I can
detect no black looks.
In the pitchy darkness, as the train slows down for the last time,
before its immediate “return” journey, ragged figures are seen crowding
the station. Their turbans are brightly coloured, despite the dirt and
rain to which they have been exposed; their clothes are mere “shreds and
patches”; they have fashioned themselves picturesque slippers of straw.
Like the grotesque figures of some stage chorus from no man’s land, they
dart about us on every side, each man seizing upon some one article of
luggage. If I express anxiety about my possessions, the cheik bids me
“fear not. God is with us. All is well, and in a short while we shall
remember this discomfort but as a page of history.” It was a lesson
against worry I never forgot—the secret of Islam’s suffering in silence!
Stumbling over a stony and dangerous roadway, we at last reach a tent on
the side of the mountains, which has been prepared for us by the reserve
officers. We must sit on the cheik’s trunks and prayer-carpets, for the
ground is damp and mists enfold us. My chivalrous friend insists on
wrapping about me his shawl, his scarf, finally his long coat. “I do not
feel the cold as you do,” he declares as I try to protest; but the touch
of his hand contradicts the kind words.
In the distance we could see a few hill-fires and the torches of
night-wanderers as we enjoyed our evening meal. But no sooner had I
begun to wonder how many hours must pass before our experience became
history, than, behold, a gust of wind tore up the prop of our tent and
buried us in confused _débris_.
There was nothing for it but to extract ourselves and sit _upon_ instead
of _beneath_ the shelter that had been found for us. The cheik bravely
proceeded to delight me with all the wisdom of his religious philosophy
while the officer went in search of help. I have done strange things in
strange lands, but I wonder what would British “authority” say to this?
An unarmed, but fearless, Englishwoman in the damp, cold mists, waiting
through the dark night for her “discomfort to become history,” amidst an
army of supposed savage fanatics, and debating the greatness of God!
Truly, the Unknown bears strange offspring.
Little darts of light, no bigger than glowworms, are now everywhere
moving up and down the steep paths through the black mist.
It is not easy for the swiftest of native messengers to track the
“hidden” official of the mountains. Yet they seem to slip over the dark
ways like birds, carrying their message and returning while you are
wondering if they have yet started upon the road. Men have been
despatched, like carrier-pigeons, in all directions, and we soon hear
that the commandant, two hours away, has set out to find us, and we are
to walk as far as we can to meet him.
Once more the long procession, carrying its shawls and cushions, bags
and water-pots, is marching in hope of a night’s repose. In a little,
however, from somewhere, “orders” come in to “halt, and prepare the lady
a bed.”
Behold, it is done. Two boxes are found to support a wooden plank,
_beneath_ which the cheik will find some measure of rest for his weary
limbs, though he has given me his prayer-mat for mattress, his
attaché-case for a pillow and, against my express command, nearly all
the wraps in his possession. Under such conditions one does not
“undress” for the night; but rather contrives every possible addition to
the number of thick woollen garments normally required in these climes.
The officer has not even a rug to protect him from the damp earth, and I
find words strong enough to resist the loan of his coat.
Alas! I am not, after all, a true Eastern. My philosophy will not bring
sleep. Never since the days when the awful stream of gassed men were
being carried into the hospital, have I listened to such a terrible
chorus of coughs. There is little enough “quiet in sleep” on these
saturated clay mounds, although I no longer hear the Nationalist Anthem
and other patriotic strains, to the accompaniment of a piping flute,
which had been rising about me in the evening air.
Probably the cold that seemed almost beyond endurance, did not really
master me for long, as all these numbing horrors were lost in
unconsciousness before the dawn.
I am awakened at last by the officer who ventures to “shake the
sleeper,” being seriously alarmed, he tells me, by my pale looks. There
is a most welcome glass of hot tea, and a fire! A mingling of German and
Turkish assail my ears, while from the distance I hear a silver voice
calling the “faithful” to prayer. Here is a free translation from the
cheik, of the muezzin’s words: “Get up, you lazy fellows, rise, make
your ablutions, and praise God for His goodness.”
I can only repeat “praise God,” though in face of what we have seen even
these words seem almost mockery.
“God is great,” said the holy man, “but man will not understand His
greatness. God loves the East, whence came thought, philosophy, and
faith. The Christ we, too, venerate, came from the East. Yet the West
has given us nought but injustice. You who love the East, pray for
tolerance and understanding between all peoples.”
The muezzin has awakened all the soldiers in the mountains. One could
fancy a scurry of rabbits from the hidden tents. They are fetching water
for the ablutions, and I, too, must wash me—in eau de Cologne. The blood
flowing into my numbed limbs forces a cry I cannot stifle. “That is what
happens when a woman goes out to war,” I said with a laugh, for the
officer confessed that I had given him some anxious moments.
Yet another cup of tea outside the now stifling tent, over the exquisite
violet-tinted fumes of a charcoal fire—deadly poison, maybe, but
harmless so long as you do not _know_.
The ablutions, a religious rite, are performed here in couples—one
pouring the water into the other’s hands, that he may wash his face
three times, carefully going over the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. When
he, in his turn, pours the water for his companion.
The cheik tells me Moslem custom demands the body _must_ be clean,
though the clothes may not be free from dirt. If only the morning
“ablutions” were part of our Christian creed, what a difference they
would make to the comfort, _par exemple_, of Naples!
All now lay down their “carpets,” and proceed to prayer. To-day, indeed,
many must manage with the bare earth. What an inspiring picture it
is—the absolutely unselfconscious absorption of the humble and prostrate
Turk before his God! There is, surely, a sense of shame to the true
Christian for some of his own brethren in the sight of reverence so
natural and so devout.
* * * * *
My enthusiasm, unfortunately, does not extend to the steaming dish of
most sustaining breakfast-soup, compounded of flour and vinegar and egg.
One or two sips of the tonic are enough a send me to dry bread and a
glass of tea—about my tenth since dawn!
All around us, though not yet in their uniforms, are scattered the
future soldiers of the new Citizen State, ready and eager, poor fellows,
for their fifty miles march a day, on coffee and bread, or even on bread
and water!
By what right do we ask such things from the sons of women? That, cut
off from every pleasure, all joy in God’s world, they should spend their
days in war and prayer! They seem happier, somehow, than those of us who
have travelled and seen the world, who must think and judge for
ourselves, wondering at last what is Truth or Justice, where are the
profits of self-sacrifice? Love and joy are, after all, but the
“negatives” of grief and hate. Abolish the dark couple, and you will
gain the light.
For the moment, however, the soldiers of to-morrow are content. They
have never tasted alcohol; miserably clad, without proper clothing or
shelter, they sit about us expressionless and resigned—singing hymns of
joy that sound far more like a funeral dirge. There is no need for
thought, since they are ready to die for their fatherland, their leader,
their faith.
Yet, though they know I come from an “enemy” country, there is no
kindness and consideration they will not extend to a woman who trusts
them. Where is the Bolshevism of those who have lifted me over every
step of mud, and are even now girding their loins to carry me onwards
for forty miles? Will _they_ massacre, who, at my bidding, would lay
them down for me to walk over were I to make such an idle request? Fear
belongs to those _responsible_ for England’s injustice. They, indeed,
among these people, _would_ be torn limb from limb and trampled on unto
death.
We have no horses or anything on four legs to draw the loaded wagonette,
that must now carry the cheik and myself, in addition to its usual cargo
of food and varied wrappings. I have, certainly, had “smarter” escorts
than the men now drawing our “equipage,” but never any with kinder
hearts.
There is no thought here of payment for service. Money is firmly
refused; and from those who have, and seek, absolutely nothing for
themselves, such a welcome could not fail to touch the most callous of
human beings. How is it that all Europe declares no one can “manage”
these simple folk? My own receipt for life with the Moslem—of mere
courteous consideration and unquestioning trust—has been repaid with
compound interest a thousand times!
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