CHAPTER I

[Illustration: ALIAS FRITZ RICHTER

Photograph of Captain Alan Bott, taken in Constantinople while he was a

prisoner. Captain Bott signed it in the name of "Fritz Richter, First

Lieutenant in the German Flying Corps." While escaping, he was able, by

means of the false signature, to convince a Turkish gendarme that he

was a German officer wearing mufti.]

EASTERN NIGHTS--AND FLIGHTS

_A Record of Oriental Adventure_

BY CAPTAIN ALAN BOTT

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1919

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF

TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES,

INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

TO D. O. V.

Transcriber's Note: Inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and

hyphenation have been retained as printed.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Prologue. Through the Looking Glass 3

CHAPTER

I. Pain, Purgatory, and a Plan 13

II. The Flight That Failed 27

III. Nazareth; and the Christian Charity of a Jew 39

IV. Damascus; and the Second Failure 64

V. The Berlin-Bagdad Railway; and the Aeroplanes That

Never Flew 90

VI. Cuthbert, Alfonso, and a Mud Village 110

VII. In the Shadow of the Black Rock 124

VIII. Constantinople; and How to Become Mad 140

IX. Introducing Theodore the Greek, John Willie the

Bosnian, and David Lloyd George's Second Cousin 159

X. The Third and Fourth Failures 175

XI. A Greek Waitress, a German Beerhouse, a Turkish

Policeman, and a Russian Ship 189

XII. The Face at the Window 203

XIII. A Shipload of Rogues 213

XIV. The City of Disguises 230

XV. Stowaways, Inc. 250

XVI. A Russian Interlude 266

XVII. Sofia, Salonika, and So to Bed 281

Epilogue. A Damascus Postscript; and Some Words on the

Knights of Araby, A Crusader in Shorts, a Very Noble

Ladye, and Some Happy Endings 286

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Alias Fritz Richter _Frontispiece_

FACING PAGE

Captain T. W. White 150

Captain Yeats-Brown 236

Eastern Nights--and Flights

PROLOGUE

THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

Most of us who were at close grips with the Great War will remember the

habit of speculation about life on the far side of the front. Somewhere

beyond the frontier of trenches, we realized, were our opposite

numbers--infantrymen, gunners, aviators, staff officers, mess

orderlies, generals, captains, lance-corporals--each according to

character, rank, and duties, and to the position he occupied by reason

of ability, courage, initiative, old age, self-advertisement, or

wire-pulling. We saw them through a glass, darkly--a glass that, being

partly concave, partly convex, and almost impenetrable throughout,

showed us our opposite numbers as distorted reflections of ourselves.

We knew well that a journey through, round, or over this glass would

take us into an unnatural world where we should be negative instead of

positive, passive instead of active, useless scrap-iron instead of

working parts of a well-constructed machine. Yet we never considered

the possibility of being obliged, in that unreal world, to live a life

of impotence. Our companions, now, might have the bad luck to be

dragged there; but our sense of normality would not let us reckon with

such an unusual happening in our own case.

And then, perhaps, one fine day or night found us isolated in an

attack, or shot down in an air fight; and we would be in the

topsy-turvy country of captivity. Some of us, who passed into this

country from the curious East, tumbled head over heels upon adventures

fantastic as those of any imaginative explorer of the wonderland

Through the Looking Glass of fancy.

* * * * *

We were a small band of six scout pilots, one monkey-mascot, and a team

of Baby Nieuports, hangared in a large meadow that was the nearest

aerodrome to the then front in Palestine.

Slightly to the south was the one-time German colony of Sorona, with

houses empty but for ugly furniture and ornaments, left behind when the

routed Turco-Germans scurried up the coast-line after Allenby's victory

at Gaza. A few miles north was the trench-line, a few miles west were

row upon row of sand-dunes, a sea of that intense blue which is the

secret of the Syrian coast, and the ancient port of Jaffa, misnamed

"The Beautiful."

The particular task of our detached flight of Nieuports was always to

be ready, between dawn and sunrise, to leap into the air at a moment's

notice and climb toward whatever enemy aircraft were signalled as

approaching from the north. Usually we flew in pairs, for the work was

of the tip-and-run variety, and needed, above all things, speed in

leaving the ground and speed in climbing; and a larger party would have

been slower, because of the exigencies of formation flying.

"A A A four H.A. flying S. toward Mulebbis 10,000 feet A A A," would be

telephoned by an anti-aircraft battery. The bell (made out of a Le

Rhone cylinder) would clang, the "standing by" pilots would fasten caps

and goggles as they raced to their buses, the mechanics would swing the

propellers into position as the pilots climbed into the cockpits, the

engines would swell from a murmur to a roar; and, three minutes after

the sentinel-operator had scribbled the warning, two Nieuports would be

away across the sun-browned grass and up into the cool air. A climbing

turn, at about 100 feet, and they would streak upward, at an angle of

45 degrees, to the air country above Mulebbis. And the next two pilots

on the waiting list would come within easy reach of their flying kit.

Even with the fast-climbing Nieuport it was difficult indeed to reach a

height of 10,000 to 12,000 feet in time to get to grips with machines

which were at that height while we were reading month-old newspapers on

solid earth. But practice and coöperation with anti-aircraft gunners,

by means of directional shots, enabled us to find the black-crossed

trespassers often enough to inoculate them with a wholesome fear of

venturing any distance beyond the lines.

At the period of which I write--March to May, 1918--it was not too much

to say that enemy machines in Palestine, even when in superior force,

never fought our Bristol Fighters, S.E. 5's, or Nieuports, unless there

was no chance of keeping at a safe distance. Once, three of us were

able to chase five German scouts and one two-seater for twenty miles

over enemy country until they reached their hangars at Jenin, out-dived

us because of their heavier weight, and landed without the least

pretence of showing fight; while we relieved our feelings by looping

the loop over their aerodrome.

Those were pleasant days, in pleasant surroundings. Our tents were

pitched in an orange grove, which provided shade from the midday sun,

privacy from the midnight pilfering of Bedouins, and loveliness at all

times. The fruit had just ripened, and by stretching an arm outside the

tent-flap, one could pick full-blooded giant oranges. Passing troops

bought at the rate of five a penny the best Jaffas, stolen from our

enclosure by young imps of Arabs.

In the heat of afternoon the four of us who were not waiting for the

next call would mooch through the orange-trees for a siesta; and in the

cool of evening we would drive to the sands for a moonlight bathe in

the Mediterranean. For the rest, one could always visit Jaffa, where

were some friendly nurses, and a Syrian barber who could cut hair quite

decently. Apart from these attractions, however, and the mud hovel that

may or may not have been the house of Simon the Tanner, Jaffa was just

like any other town in the Palestine zone of occupation, with its

haphazard medley of Arabs, Jews, and Syrians, all bent on getting rich

quick by exploiting that highly exploitable person, the British

soldier.

On the evening before my capture I bathed in the company of a German

cadet; a circumstance which I thought unusually novel, not foreseeing

that my next bathe would also be in the company of a German, although

under very different conditions.

One Offizierstellvertreter Willi Hampel had been shot down and

captured, and was in the prisoners' compound at Ludd. It was decided

that before forwarding Hampel to Egypt, the best way to milk him of

information would be for another aviator to discuss aeronautics on a

basis of common interest; and I was detailed for the duty. This rather

went against the grain; but Willi knew neither French nor English, and

I was the only pilot in the brigade who could speak German, so that

there was no alternative. From his cage I motored Willi to lunch in our

mess, showed him our machines and our monkey, and even took him to tea

with an agreeable compatriot, a beautiful German Jewess who was the

landlady of some houses at Ramleh.

The information he let slip was not very illuminating--a few truthful

statements about machines, pilots, and aerodromes, and a great many

obvious lies. But his opinions on our aviators and machines were

interesting. Our pilots were splendid, but too reckless, he thought. As

for the machines, the Bristol Fighter was the work of the devil, and to

be avoided at all costs; the R.E.8 might safely be attacked unless it

were well protected; the British single-seaters were good; but the

German Flying Corps regarded the B.E. types as _sehr komisch_.

As Willi was well-behaved and occasionally informative, and as he had

been a flying contemporary of mine on the Western front in 1916 and

1917, I took him for a sea-bathe before he went back to his cage, while

taking the precaution to swim closely behind him.

Next day the heat was intense, so that I was glad indeed when the

arrival of an A.E.G. from the north gave me the chance to climb to the

cool levels of 8,000 to 10,000 feet, flying hatless and in

shirt-sleeves. The trespassing two-seater spotted us, and retired

before we could reach its height.

But the next turn of my flying partner and me, in the late afternoon,

brought us the good fortune of sending a Hun bus to earth--from sheer

fright and not out of control, unfortunately--in open country. I was

well content on landing, for the atmosphere was cooler and almost

pleasant, and my day's work should have been done.

But a pony, a monkey, and mischance conspired to send me beyond the

lines for the third time that day, and the last time for many months.

Instead of leaving the aerodrome at once I remained to play with

Bohita, the marmoset mascot. Ten minutes later the bell clanged a

warning. One of the waiting pilots raced to his machine, and was away;

but the other, mounted on an energetic little pony, was chasing a polo

ball. The pony, being jerked backward suddenly, reared up and threw its

rider. Seeing that he must be hurt, or at any rate shaken, I climbed

into his machine and sent word that I would replace him, so that no

time should be wasted. It was then about one hour before sunset.

The first Nieuport had a good start, but the pilot was new to the game,

and failed to see the white puffs from directional shots fired by the

nearest A.A. battery. The last I saw of his bus was as it climbed due

east, with the apparent intention of sniffing at a harmless R.E.8 to

see if it were a Hun, and without noticing when I continually

switch-backed my machine fore and aft, as a signal that a real Hun was

near. I therefore left what should have been my companion craft to its

own amusement, and climbed toward the British anti-aircraft bursts.

At about 9,000 feet I reached their level, and picked up the

intruder--a gray-planed two-seater of the latest Rumpler type. When I

was still some 800 yards distant its pilot swerved round, and, holding

down his machine's nose for extra speed, raced back northward rather

than be forced to fight. I streaked after it, beyond the trenches.

Now the Rumpler was faster than my Nieuport, but was slower on the

climb. My only chance of catching up, therefore, was first to gain

height and then to lose it again in a slanting dive, with engine on, in

the direction of the Boche; and to repeat the tactics. Although each

dive brought me a little closer, this method was a slow business. I

remember passing Kilkilieh and seeing Shechem, and still being outside

machine-gun range of the black-crossed bus ahead.

It was at a spot west of Shechem, and about twenty miles from the

lines, that I got my chance. By then we had nosed down to 6,000 feet.

Being able to manoeuvre twice as quickly as the big two-seater, the

little Nieuport was soon in a "blind-spot" position, and I could attack

from a sideways direction, opening fire at 80 yards. The Rumpler dived

almost vertically out of the way, and I overshot.

I was turning again, when from above came a succession of

raps--_tatatatatat, tatatat, tatatatatat_--the unmistakable tap-tapping

of aërial machine-gun fire. I looked up, and saw three scouts dropping

toward me from a cloud-bank.

Swerving right round on an Immelman turn I managed to get underneath

the nearest scout as it flattened out. I had just pulled down my

top-plane Lewis gun, and was preparing to fire a long burst upward into

the belly of the scout, when--_poop!_--my petrol tank opened with a

dull thud. The observer in the Rumpler had fired from a distance of

more than 300 yards (far outside what is the normally effective range

for aërial fighting), and some of his bullets had ripped through my

tank--the only circumstance which, at that moment, could have put my

Nieuport out of action. The petrol gushed over my trousers, and swirled

round the floor of the cockpit.

I turned south, and was ready to make a last-hope effort to reach the

trenches before all the fuel had disappeared, when I received a second

shock. On looking over the side, I was horrified to find that

underneath the tank the fuselage was black and smouldering. Next

instant some wicked-looking sparks merged into a little flame, licking

and twisting across the centre of the fuselage.

A thrill of fear that was so intense as to be almost physical went

through me as I switched off, banked the bus over to the left as far as

the joystick would allow, and, holding up its nose with opposite

rudder, went down in a vertical side-slip--the only possible chance of

getting to earth before the machine really caught fire.

The traditional "whole of my past life" certainly did not flash before

me; but I was conscious of an intense bitterness against fate for

allowing this to happen one week before I was to have returned to Cairo

the Neutral, where they dined and cocktailed, and where the local staff

officers filled the dances arranged for the poor dear lonely young

officers on leave from the front. And I shouted blasphemies into the

unhearing air.

I have no hesitation in saying that I was exquisitely afraid as the

Nieuport slid downward at a great speed, for of all deaths that of

roasting in an aeroplane, while waiting for it to break up, has always

seemed to me the least attractive. But the gods were kind, for by the

time I reached a height of 500 feet the violent rush of air--which

incidentally boxed my ear painfully--had overwhelmed the flame and

swept it out of existence. The fuselage still smouldered, however, and

after righting the bus (now completely emptied of petrol) I lost no

time in looking out for a landing-place.

This was a hopeless task. Below was rocky mountainside, contoured

unevenly, and possessing neither level nor open spaces, and scarcely

any vegetation. There was just one patch of grass, about fifteen yards

long; and although this was much too small for a landing-ground, I

chose it in preference to bouldered slopes or stony gorges.

After pancaking down to the fringe of the brown grass the Nieuport ran

uphill. It was heading for a tree trunk, when I ruddered strongly to

avoid a collision, swerved aside, and--_crash_! _crack_!

_splinter_!--banged into the face of a great rock. Of what came next

all I remember is a jarring shock, an uncontrolled dive forward against

which instinct protested in vain, an awful sick feeling that lasted a

couple of seconds, and the beginnings of what would have been a

colossal headache if unconsciousness had not brought relief.

* * * * *

Consciousness returned dimly and gradually. First of all I saw the rock

on which my head was lolling; but I had no sense of unity, nor could I

feel any bodily sensations except an oppressive want of breath. I

twisted my neck and looked up at the sky, and somehow realized that the

sun must have set. Then I noticed, quite impersonally, that a band of

ragged Arabs were climbing toward me. Most of them carried rifles, and

all had pistols or knives protruding from their sashes and ammunition

belts. The foremost had unsheathed a long blade, which he fingered

appraisingly as he advanced at a quick walk.

CHAPTER I

PAIN, PURGATORY, AND A PLAN

As my senses became clearer the feeling of oppression in my chest grew

more and more acute, and I had to struggle desperately for breath.

Yet I failed to realize that I was directly concerned in the Arabs'

intentions and actions, and looked at the motley group from the

detached point of view of a film spectator. They were an unkempt group,

with ragged robes and dirty headdresses and straggling beards and

unfriendly eyes--the sort of nomads who, during the lawless days of war

would, and did, cheerfully kill travellers for the sake of a pair of

boots, a dress, or a rifle. They had between them a strange variety of

arms--guns of every size and shape, belts of close-packed ammunition,

revolvers and bone-handled pistols, and curved knives.

And the foremost Arab continued to advance, while fingering the drawn

blade of his knife. He was only a few yards distant when another and

older man stopped him with a shout. The man with the shining blade

answered heatedly. A general argument followed, in which most of his

companions took part.

At that time my knowledge of Arabic was of the slightest, and in any

case I was not in a condition to grasp the meaning of their words. Yet

instinct and deductions from their pantomime made me certain that they

were debating a rather debatable point, namely--whether somebody should

be killed and stripped, or merely stripped, or whether it would be more

worth while to hand him over alive to the Turks, in return for

_baksheesh_.

And again I did not regard myself as interested in the deliberations,

nor was I the least bit afraid, being still under the spell of

cinematographic detachment. When the Arabs' argument was settled beyond

question by the sudden appearance, on a near-by slope, of a detachment

of Turkish soldiers, I regarded the scene much as if it had portrayed a

film sheriff, with comic sheepskin-booted posse, riding to rescue the

kidnapped maiden from the brigands.

The dozen Arabs stood sullenly aside as four mounted officers arrived,

followed by a body of running soldiers.

"_Anglais?_" said a young officer as he dismounted.

And the mental effort of asking myself if I were English brought back

most of my senses and understanding, and I discovered that I was

intensely uncomfortable. The struggle for breath was almost

insupportable, a searing pain permeated my right thigh, my head felt as

if it were disintegrating. I tried to move, but an implacable weight

held firmly everything but my head, one arm, and one leg. "_Anglais?_"

repeated the young officer. I tried to speak, but failed, and could

only nod, miserably.

The soldiers got to work behind me; and first the weight on my chest,

then that on my thigh, lifted. Two officers helped me to rise, and one

of them felt my face.

"Not so bad. I am a doctor. I will bandage it," he said, in French.

I searched to find what was not so bad, and discovered that all this

while I had been seeing through the right eye only, for the left was

screwed up tightly, with a swollen forehead overhanging it. When the

doctor let go my arm to fetch some dressing from his horse, I

collapsed, because one thigh would not perform its work.

I fell among pieces of the most completely wrecked aeroplane I have

ever seen. After hitting the rock the machine had evidently crashed to

starboard, so that I was thrown sideways over the top plane. The

starboard wings were matchwood, the struts on the port side had

snapped, and the fuselage was twisted into a wide curve, a corner of

the rock having cut through one longeron and bent another. None of the

main parts--planes, fuselage, centre-section, rudder, or elevator--was

whole, and all were intermingled with bits of wire, splinters of wood,

and tattered fabric. As for the engine, it had fallen clean out, and

was partly buried in earth. It was the engine that had weighed so

painfully on my right thigh, while the forward end of the fuselage

pinned down my chest.

I thought of burning these remains by throwing a lighted match among

them suddenly, but refrained, firstly because I had no match, and

secondly, because there was nothing worth the burning. The soldiers had

already taken the instruments from the dashboard; and one of them, I

noticed, had broken off the joystick for a souvenir.

The doctor bound up my face and helped me to mount a mule, and we left

the Arabs to their scowls of disappointment at being cheated out of

loot. All this while I had been exceptionally well treated by the

officers in Turkish uniform. Not one had spoken roughly, nothing was

taken from me, and even my pockets were not searched. Could it be that

the Turks treated their prisoners well instead of badly? Even on the

British side of the lines we heard stories of how Turkish soldiers had

killed British wounded, how Turkish officers had threatened newly taken

prisoners with death if they did not give up all they possessed, and

how everybody's money and most people's boots were stolen immediately

they were captured; although we did not hear anything like the damnable

truth of the Turks' atrocities. The mystery soon explained itself.

"_Est-ce-que les Anglais viendront bientôt?_" said the young officer

who had first spoken.

"_Qui sait?_"

"_Moi, je l'espère bien, parce que je suis Arménien. Nous sommes tous

des Anglais ou des Arabes._"

I had been lucky enough to fall among Arabs and Armenians, whose

officers were, one and all, pro-British. They were a labour unit,

explained the young Armenian, and their work was to make roads and

tracks across the hill-country. Like all the conscript Armenians,

Greeks, and Jews, and most of the Arabs, they had not been sent to the

fighting front because most of them would have deserted to the British

at the first opportunity. The doctor who had dressed my face was a Jew.

The commandant, whom I would meet at the camp, was an Arab, and had an

intense love for the British. But he would not dare pretend to show too

much friendliness, because some of the men acted as spies for the

Turks.

The camp sprawled in a hollow between two hills without any semblance

of order. The men were squatting at their evening meal, in little

parties, each man dipping his fingers into the large bowl in the centre

of his group. The Arab commandant, a fat man with a good-humoured face,

was in front of his tent, awaiting our arrival.

He looked at me with grave curiosity on learning that I was English,

and, through an interpreter, greeted me ceremoniously. He was sorry

indeed, he said, for my misfortune, and he hoped my hurts were not

serious. He had little enough hospitality to offer, but it would be a

privilege to make me as comfortable as possible. Would I honour the

officers by joining them at dinner?

Over a meal of soup, bread, rice, and raisins, I was asked guardedly

about my views on the duration of the war, the conditions of life in

that part of Palestine occupied by the British, and, above all, if the

British would advance soon. Every one seemed to take it for granted

that the British could advance when and where they liked. I explained

that the Arabs, Syrians, and Jews were very contented and on good terms

with our troops; that bread, fish, and meat were cheap and plentiful;

that local inhabitants were well paid for everything they sold to the

British armies; that the population was overjoyed at being freed from

the Turks.

Several eyes gleamed, and most of the company looked thoughtful; but no

comments were passed. Those present looked at each other with

side-glances, as if distrustful and afraid to speak.

But afterward, when we went outside the tent to drink our coffee by

moonlight, the commandant took me aside and unburdened himself while

pretending to watch the Jewish doctor rebandage my face. Was it true,

he asked (the Jew acting as interpreter), that the British intended to

give Arabia and part of Syria to the Arabs?

"Most certainly," I replied.

Was it true that the British were friendly to the Arabs, and gave their

Arab prisoners all sorts of privileges not given to the Turkish

prisoners?

"Most certainly."

The good-humoured face of the commandant grew hard as he began talking

of the Turks' misdeeds. They had massacred many of the Syrian and Arab

notables. They had starved to death scores of thousands. They had

commandeered all the crops. They had thrown many hundreds into prison,

and left them there without trial. The whole of the population hated

the Turks, and were only waiting for a British victory to rise up and

kill the grasping officials. When the British advanced they would

receive such a welcome as conquerors had never before received in

Syria.

With that he began to tell me how, after he had been taken for service

from his native town of Homs, the Turks told him that if he deserted

their lives would be forfeit. By merely talking to me he would be

suspect. Would I be kind enough to give him my word of honour not to

try to escape while in his charge? If, however, I were sent to Damascus

and thought of escaping from there, I might obtain help from an Arab

whose address he would give me.

As I could not walk five yards, and still felt deadly sick, I gave the

parole readily enough.

The young Armenian helped me across to his tent, and put me to bed. He

then wrapped himself in a blanket and lay on the floor, facing the

entrance; for, he said, if I were left to sleep alone the men would

creep into the tent, to steal my clothes and boots.

At about two o'clock in the morning, after a few hours of fitful sleep,

I was awakened and asked to dress. A German staff officer, said the

Armenian, had ridden over to see that I was sent away, fearing that the

Arabs and Armenians might help me to escape.

Outside, in the moonlight, I found a young, eye-glassed

lieutenant--correct, aloof, and immaculate. In atrocious French he

asked if I were badly shaken, and if I thought I could ride for three

hours. I did not think I could ride for three hours. He was sorry, but

I really must ride for three hours. Why, then, had he troubled to ask

my opinion if I could ride for three hours? He made no reply, but I

heard him giving instructions to the Sanitätsunteroffizier, who had

come with him, to have me put on a mule and to ride behind, while a

guide led the way to Army Group Headquarters.

A shambling, decrepit mule was commandeered; and, with many a groan, I

was helped on to its back. The Sanitätsunteroffizier mounted his pony,

drew his revolver, and cocked it with an ostentatious click. An Arab

guide took hold of my mule's reins. I said goodbye to the Arab and

Armenian officers, and we moved off down a straggling track. The

commandant had had no chance to give me the address of his friend in

Damascus.

About fifty yards ahead I saw what looked like a Bedouin, galloping

across a stretch of grass and disappearing behind a mound. And then,

from the camp behind us, came a startled and furious shout: "_Mein

Pferd! Teufel! Wo ist mein Pferd?_" The Sanitätsunteroffizier motioned

our guide to turn round, and we retraced our path. The young staff

officer--no longer correct, aloof, and immaculate, and with eye-glass

dangling unheeded in front of his tunic--was in a loud-voiced rage. He

had told "one of these brutes," said he to the Sanitätsunteroffizier,

to hold his horse, and he now found that both the horse and the brute

had disappeared.

I remembered the Bedouin whom I had seen riding across the patch of

grass, and was infinitely amused. It appeared that the man who held the

horse had already deserted twice and been recaptured. For his third

attempt, who could blame him for taking as companion a German officer's

horse, since Allah had sent such a wonderful gift?

And the young German raged and cursed and shouted verbal contempt for

all these Asiatic "cattle," among whom it was his misfortune to live.

Finally, after promising the commandant all sorts of penalties, he said

he would take the best horse from the Arab officers' stable.

The Sanitätsunteroffizier and I again walked our mules along the narrow

track. It was a ride that will live always vividly in my memory. The

guide dragged my mule up impossible slopes, pulled it over slippery

rocks that ended in an almost vertical drop of several feet, and beat

it unmercifully on the several occasions when it fell forward on to its

knees. Each small jolt sent an exquisite pain through my contused

thigh, and my head felt as if it were being beaten by hammers.

Everything seemed unreal. The piles of heaped-up stones, so common in

this country of nomad Arabs, looked like monstrous gargoyles in the

half-light of the moon.

After about an hour I became light-headed again, forgot I was a

prisoner, forgot I was on muleback, and almost forgot that I existed. I

lost consciousness of everything but the light of the moon, which

appeared as a great white hanging sheet, from the other side of which

sounded, far away and unnatural, the voice of the Unteroffizier, like

the trickling of hidden water. Finally I fainted, and must have fallen

from the mule, for when I recovered consciousness my head and arms were

sore, and the German was arranging my bandages.

Refreshed by a short drink of water, I was once more pushed on to the

mule's back, and continued the purgatorial journey over the rocky

hillside. It was four hours after we had started when the Unteroffizier

announced that a village in a small valley some quarter of a mile ahead

was Arsun, the site of Group Headquarters.

I was taken to the officers' mess, where I found the eye-glassed young

officer relating to two early risers--a colonel and a major--how the

dirty pig-dog of an Arab had stolen his best horse. The colonel

received me kindly enough; but a major, to whom I took an instant

dislike, looked at my torn clothes and swollen face and laughed.

The colonel gave me wine, and offered his sympathy. He fought, he said,

side by side with the British in the Boxer War, and he had the greatest

regard for the English infantryman. Finding that I had flown in the

battle of the Somme, he launched into reminiscences of that epic

struggle, and told me how desperately hard put were the Germans not to

let their retreat degenerate into a rout. Now, however (this was the

period of Hindenburg's whirlwind advance toward Amiens), things were

better. He believed that Hindenburg, having bled the French white,

would bring about a German peace by the coming autumn. I remarked that

the French were by no means bled white, and, moreover, that there were

plenty of Englishmen and Americans in the world. Here the major

interposed with a sneer--

"American! All through the war the Allies have clutched at straws and

men of straw. First it was the Russians, then the blockade, then the

British, and now that all these three have failed it is the Americans!

I know the Americans well. They are all talk, bluff, and self-interest.

They will make not the least difference to German invincibility."

And he began a long, boastful account of how he had outwitted the

Americans and the English. In August, 1914, he said, he was on special

duty in Japan. He slipped across to America, and for a time worked in

the United States with Boy-Ed and Von Papen. Afterward, with Dutch

papers, he shipped to Holland. When the boat was held up by a British

cruiser, he convinced the stupid examining officer that he was a

Dutchman.

The major proceeded to draw offensive comparisons between the Germans

and the English. The German nation was magnificently organized, whereas

the British leaders could scarcely be more stupid. But it was not only

a question of organization. From every point of view the German was

superior to the Englishman. He was braver, more intelligent, more

obedient, and had a higher sense of honour. When it was a question of

equal conditions the German invariably beat the Englishman. He turned

to the colonel, and, speaking in German, pointed out as a proof of his

contentions that I myself had been shot down by a German. Also speaking

in German, which appeared to surprise the major, I mentioned that I had

been fighting with not one but four German machines after a German

pilot had run away over twenty miles of his own territory, that the

German aviators on the Palestine front invariably fled from the British

unless in greatly superior force, that the proportion of machines shot

down in Palestine was about five Germans to one British, and, moreover,

that when a German officer had the misfortune to be captured he was

treated as a gentleman, and was not made a target for uncivil taunts.

The major rang the bell, and ordered me to be taken to a tent by the

cookhouse.

Once more I lay down. This time I was allowed to sleep until awakened

by the myriads of flies that swarmed round the cookhouse while lunch

was being prepared. I hung about the tent, miserably and dejectedly,

for two hours. Then a lieutenant arrived and announced that the major

would be graciously pleased to accept an apology for my lack of

respect.

If, I replied, the major would express his regrets for having spoken

offensively of the English, I would be delighted to exchange apologies

with him. The lieutenant and I treated each other to punctilious

salutes, and he withdrew; and that was the last I heard of the

ill-mannered major.

In the afternoon, after receiving some bread and coffee, I was sent

away on ponyback, with a German cavalryman as escort. This trooper was

friendly and garrulous. He pronounced himself a Social Democrat and an

Internationalist. He was a good German, he claimed, and had fought for

Germany since 1914; but he had neither hatred nor contempt for

Germany's enemies. It was the Ministers, the politicians, the

professors, the journalists, and the general staffs who had

manufactured hatred. The German civilians and non-combatant troops were

blinded by racial feeling; but, according to my Social Democrat guard,

not so the fighting man. He liked and respected many of his officers,

especially the colonel whom I had met; but after the war the

proletariat would see that they, and the class they represented,

discarded their arrogance and ascendancy. And, either ignorant or

unmindful of Germany's crimes, this half-baked idealist looked forward

with confidence to a wonderful peace that would send him back to his

trade of printing, and would bring about an immediate heart-to-heart

reconciliation of Germany and the rest of the world.

With such debating-society talk I was distracted from the dull ache in

my thigh and the spasmodic pains that came with every jolt from the

pony. The heat was intense on my uncovered head, and the flies

collected in their hundreds each time we halted to allow a party of

ragged Arabs, mounted on camels or donkeys, to pass round some bend of

the track ahead of us.

The country was fairly level, however, and it was not long before we

reached my next stage--a field hospital corresponding approximately to

the British casualty clearing station. There my face and thigh were

dressed, and for the first time since capture I could indulge in the

glorious luxury of a wash. The doctor in charge complained that the

hospital had been machine gunned by a British aeroplane, but he seemed

surprised when I told him that the red crescent painted on the _side_

of the building could not be seen by an aviator. He agreed to mark a

large red crescent on the ground.

My destination, it appeared, was the Austrian hospital at Tul-Keran,

whither I was forwarded by motor-ambulance, with several wounded Turks.

It proved to be a dirty, insanitary building, such as the British would

scarcely have used as a billet; but at all events it provided a

much-needed place of rest.

Most ex-prisoners will agree that the interval when they were first

left alone for any length of time was a first-class substitute for

purgatory. All at once the realization of being cut off and under most

galling restraint becomes vivid and intense. The thought of irrevocable

separation from one's fighting companions, and of what they must now be

doing, leaves one utterly miserable and dejected.

Fifteen miles to the south our Nieuports would be waiting for the next

tip-and-run call to flight. It would, perhaps, be the turn of Daddy and

the Babe, who were waiting around the hangars, while the rest trooped

across to tea in the orange grove. Soon all of them would be driving

along the wired-over, sandy road to the coast. And here was I, herded

with unclean Turks in a crowded, unclean room, while the hot sun

streamed through the window and made one glad to get protection from it

by hiding under an unclean blanket.

Only fifteen miles to the south. And the coast was fifteen miles to the

west. The coast? Why, a friend of mine, after he was forced to land in

the sea, had effected a marvellous escape by hiding among the

sand-dunes during the daytime, and during the night alternately

swimming, walking, and rolling through the shallow water on the fringe

of the sands, until he had passed the Turkish trench-line. Only fifteen

miles; and from aërial observation I knew that the country between

Tul-Keran and the sea was more or less flat.

I resolved that when my leg allowed me to walk, I would somehow leave

the hospital early one night, try to reach the shore before dawn, hide

during the following day, and then run or swim to the British

out-posts.