THE FLIGHT THAT FAILED
Tul-Keran hospital was altogether beastly. After my head had been
shaved until it looked like a door-knob, I was taken to a sheetless,
dirty-blanketed bed, in an overcrowded ward that reeked of unwashed
flesh. The beds were so close that one had to climb into them from the
foot.
On my right was a Syrian doctor with a smashed leg; and on my left, not
two feet away, was a young Turkish officer with aggravated syphilis,
who groaned and complained all day long. When not in pain he read
pamphlets, which had been distributed to all the patients, explaining
just how England had shamefully attacked the peace-loving Turks and
Germans without warning.
The two windows were both broken, and through them the scorching sun of
Samaria poured all day long. Tul-Keran, being in low-lying country, is
infested throughout the hot summer by legions of flies. In the hospital
they settled in swarms on beds, faces, food, hands, and arms, and flew
at random from one diseased patient to another. At night they gave
place to hordes of mosquitoes, which pounced upon and bit every
particle of a man's body left exposed. The sole relief, by day or by
night, was to hide one's head under the filthy blankets; and then the
closeness and the reek made one gasp for breath.
But worst of all was my intense agony of mind. As I lay in bed, I
thought of my squadron going through its daily round a few miles
southwest of me; of my last air fight, and whether I might not have
avoided capture by adopting different tactics; of what the sinister
word "missing" would convey to various people in England and France; of
whether I was destined to spend months or years in captivity; and of
the general beastliness of everything. Above all, I railed, uselessly
and illogically, against Fate.
The Austrian Staff in the hospital offered whatever kindnesses they
could, and treated me rather better than they treated the Turks. Each
morning the doctor brought the Vienna _Reichspost_, and, after a
passing glance at my distorted features (I was known as "the Englishman
with the face"), stayed to chat for several minutes. He was charming
and decorative, with his light blue uniform, his curled moustache, and
his medals; but I never once saw him give medical attention to patients
beyond ordering medicine or saying invariably that each man was
progressing wonderfully well.
A good-hearted but race-proud Austrian priest often stopped by my
bedside for a friendly argument. He performed several services for me,
such as changing Egyptian notes almost at their full value, instead of
at the ruinous rate of exchange offered by Turkish banks and traders.
He was, however, a rabid hater in one connection--he could find no
words bad enough for the Czechs and other subject-races of
Austria-Hungary. To him it seemed a crime that they should be
discontented with the suppression of racial sentiments and
institutions, and should agitate for self-expression.
"They must either be loyal to us or cease to exist," he said.
Once I mentioned inadvertently that I had met Másaryk in London and
admired him; and that was the end of my friendly relations with this
otherwise kind-hearted padre, who afterward was polite but distant.
One morning there came a German officer, very tall, very correct, and
wearing the badge of an observer in the German Flying Corps. He clicked
his heels, bowed from the waist upward, and inquired: "Hauptmann Bott?"
I admitted to the name and rank, whereupon the visitor introduced
himself as Oberleutnant Wolff, the man whose shots had punctured my
petrol tank and brought my machine down in the mountains.
Having apologized for the state of my face, he offered to drop over
some British aerodrome a letter announcing that I was alive and would
like some clothes. In accordance with the polite relations between
British and German aviators in Palestine, I was visited by several
other flying officers, each of whom--out of pure kindness of heart as I
thought--made the same suggestion.
When I had written the note, and addressed it to "British Air Force,
Palestine," I was told that it could not be sent unless I addressed it
by name to my late squadron commander, giving the number of the
squadron and the situation of the aerodrome--all of which would have
been highly useful information. I refused to write such an address, and
said I would do without my kit.
The stipulation must have been a bluff, however, for Oberleutnant Wolff
finally took the original letter, and dropped it upon the British
aerodrome at Ramleh, which was well known to them.
Every few days British aeroplanes flew low over Tul-Keran, and bombed
either the railway station or local encampments. When this happened
Turks and Arabs would scurry from the road while the anti-aircraft guns
were firing, and all our orderlies would disappear until the
bombardment had ended. Soon after Oberleutnant Wolff's last visit an
aeroplane, instead of making for the railway, hovered above a large
meadow used as a landing ground, and dropped what must have looked like
an enormous bomb. It whirled down slowly, by reason of long streamers
attached to the head of it. It did not explode, and the aeroplane left
without troubling Tul-Keran any further.
The "bomb" was a sack containing kit for myself and Major Evans
(captured three weeks earlier) which a British pilot had risked his
neck to bring. A German Unteroffizier opened it before me. He searched
nearly everything--boots, underclothes, and trousers, and actually
ripped open the lining of a tunic in a hunt for hidden papers. But what
he did not find, and I did, was a tiny slip of tissue, sewn into the
corner of a collar, with this message scribbled on it: "Dear Bottle--so
glad you're alive. Never say die. Dine with me at the Savoy when we
meet after the war. The Babe."
Six months later (before the end of the war), when I had escaped from
Turkey, I did dine with "The Babe"; but at Floca's, in Salonika, and
not the Savoy.
The kit was very welcome, for I had been flying in my shirt-sleeves
when shot down; but still more welcome was the knowledge that people at
home would know that I lived. With this worry removed I now had a
clearer mind for preparing an escape. Moreover, my leg was feeling
stronger every day, so that I hoped to make the attempt soon.
While thinking over my plan one morning I was interrupted by a
soft-spoken sentence in French from the Syrian doctor with the smashed
leg:
"_M. le Capitaine_, both of us would like to be away from these Turks."
At the time I did not know to what a state of revolt the Syrians had
been brought by misery and oppression; and in any case it seemed unwise
to let a stranger know that I hoped to escape.
"Naturally," I replied, "I should like to be out of the hands of the
Turks, although I suppose they will keep me till the end of the war.
For me it is damnable here. But you----"
"For you it is a thousand times better than for me," he said, with
intensity, though still speaking in a low voice. "For two years I have
been living among people who are half savage and wholly ignorant.
Because I am a Christian, they try to treat me like a dog. All the time
I was with my infantry regiment I never knew when one of those Turkish
beasts would shoot me. Nothing would be done to a Turkish soldier who
did shoot me. I am certain I have remained untouched only because
doctors are scarce. Several other doctors--Syrians and Jews--ran away
and managed to reach the British lines; but I had no chance."
He continued to tell of the disgusting conditions which he had to share
with Turkish soldiers, who lived more like animals than human beings. I
happened to have met a Syrian doctor who, after escaping from the
Turkish army, was practising in Alexandria; at which my bed neighbour
was envious and interested. His own intention, if the Turks allowed him
to go to his home at Damascus until the broken leg healed, was to slip
out of the city with one of the secret caravans, and trek to Akaba,
where were the Hedjaz Arabs, allied to the British. He suggested that
if he and I were sent to the same hospital in Damascus we might make
the attempt together.
So we talked on in the heat of the afternoon, keeping silent for long
intervals so as not to excite suspicion. All this while the diseased
Turk on my left, who could speak nothing but Turkish and Arabic, was
moaning and tossing.
That evening, after thinking matters over, I decided that my slight
chances of getting back to the British lines by swimming down the coast
could scarcely be lessened, and might be improved, if I asked the
Syrian for advice.
He was very sympathetic and quite unsurprised, but he did not think the
possibility of success were great, because of the thousands of soldiers
in the district through which I should have to pass. Nevertheless, if
my leg became stronger I might possibly scrape through, he said. As for
him, he would like enormously to come with me, but his leg made him
helpless.
My thigh improved very rapidly, and I began to make final preparations.
Each day the Syrian and I saved pieces of bread, so that I might have a
store to take with me. The supply of water would be more difficult, as
I had nothing in which to carry it.
A Turkish general solved the problem for me. One morning the orderlies
tidied the room feverishly until it looked almost clean, while
announcing that "The Pasha" was coming. General Djouad Pasha,
commanding the Turkish Eighth Army, arrived soon afterward, attended by
a mixed collection of Turkish, German, and Austrian officers--each of
which national groups kept itself separate, and tried to look as if it
had no connection with the others. He talked amiably to the Turkish
patients--amid a chorus of "Yes, Excellency," and "No, Excellency"--and
more than amiably to me. Was I getting better and would I like some
wine sent to me? The answer in each case was a truthful "yes."
To the doctor with the smashed leg he was abrupt and aloof when he
discovered him to be a Syrian Christian; and a request to be sent home
until convalescent was curtly refused.
The general left, with his ill-assorted staff elbowing each other in
the doorway for precedence; and I heard the Syrian swearing softly to
himself for many minutes.
From Djouad Pasha came, that same afternoon, two bottles of Moselle and
a flask of eau-de-cologne, addressed to "The English guest of Turkey."
In that house of a thousand and one stenches the eau-de-cologne was as
welcome as a well in a pathless desert. The Syrian and I drank the
wine, leaving a little in one of the bottles to mix with the water I
should take to the coast.
The only remaining preparation was as regarded clothes. I decided to
wear, over a night-shirt, one of the smock dressing-gowns provided by
the hospital. In this and a pair of slippers, and with a towel arranged
as a headdress, I should not look so very different from an Arab at
night-time so long as I kept moving.
Came the day when I walked without the least pain or trouble; and
although I still could scarcely see with the left eye, I determined to
leave without delay, as I was in danger of being moved from Tul-Keran.
I kept awake from sunset until three A.M. hoping that the Austrian
night orderly would follow his usual custom of dozing; whereupon I
would slip by him into the yard and thence climb a drainpipe to the
wall that rimmed the hospital roof. But the orderly remained
obstinately alert until it was too late for my attempt; for I should
have to leave early, if I wanted to put a sufficient distance between
myself and the hospital before choosing a hiding-place in which to pass
the following day.
Having slept through the afternoon I again watched during the night;
and again the Austrian kept awake. On the next night I fell asleep at
two A.M., disappointed and almost hopeless when, for the third time,
the orderly gave me no chance.
It must have been about half an hour later when I was awakened by loud
reports and by the chatter of the Turks near me. Guns were firing all
around the town, one of them from a field fronting the hospital. I knew
that they must be anti-aircraft guns. Either Tul-Keran itself was being
raided, or machines were passing from some other place.
Inside the hospital all was disorder. Turkish patients talked
excitedly, and crowded into the lower rooms. In the ward opposite mine
a man who, some hours earlier, had undergone an operation, called
loudly for help. The orderly himself, almost helpless from fright, ran
across in answer to the cries.
Now--while everything and everybody were in confusion--or never was my
chance to escape from the hospital. I rolled up my blanket and placed
it under the quilt so as to give the appearance of a man asleep, donned
my dressing-gown, shook hands silently with the Syrian, and went out
into the yard.
Somebody passed close by me, and entered the back door. I dodged, and
locked myself in the lavatory until he was in the house. When all was
quiet I went into the open yard, gripped my parcel (the bottle of water
and the store of dry bread tied up in a towel) between my teeth, and
began climbing up the drain pipe.
It was a more difficult task than I expected. The wall was flat, and
showed few cracks that could be used as footholes. I scraped the skin
from face, arms, and legs as I struggled upward, a few feet at a time.
At last I was high enough to touch the gutter and haul myself, with
many a gasp, on to the roofs edge. While I was doing this the first
disaster happened--the package fell from my mouth.
I kept perfectly still, expecting a loud noise; but the parcel fell
with nothing worse than a dull thud, the bottle being saved from
breaking by the bread around it.
Although nobody came into the yard I did not go down again, for every
minute counted; and, moreover I was certain that I should not have the
strength to climb that drain pipe a second time. I determined to make
the attempt without bread and water and the towel, which was to have
served as headdress.
I clambered along the side of the low roof, keeping in the shadow,
until I reached the front of the building. All was clear for me; the
guns were still firing, the street was deserted, and the sentry, who
should have been below, had gone into the hospital for safety.
I caught hold of the right-hand corner of the gutter with both hands,
lowered myself until my body was hanging down with arms fully extended,
and dropped.
Then came the second disaster. Although the roof was low, and the
length of my body deducted five and three-quarter feet from the total
drop, yet the shock when I touched earth was considerable. I landed
purposely on my left foot, since the left leg was uninjured, but I
toppled over, and again hurt the bruised thigh, which throbbed with
pain.
I lay in the shadow of the wall for a few seconds. Then, knowing that I
could not remain undiscovered for long if I stayed there, I looked
around to see if the streets were clear.
Not a soul was about, for the anti-aircraft guns were still barking,
seemingly at nothing. I went out into the vague light of the
quarter-moon and began walking in the direction of the coast.
A hundred yards to westward I was past the straggling line of
buildings, and on the open road. Then came several groups of tents by
the roadside. After I had left these behind I cut away to the left,
across open country.
All this while I was in such a tense and exalted state of mind that I
did not sense whether the night air was warm or cold, nor whether the
ground was smooth or rough. Pain, however, was a sensation that could
not be buried by abnormal mental tension. My thigh throbbed
relentlessly and maddeningly as I stumbled on, taking my direction as
best I could from the stars.
By now the guns were silent, and people came from their hiding-places.
A small band of Bedouins approached out of the dimness. I sank to the
ground until they had ridden by and were on the road.
Again I began to walk; but a few minutes later I had to halt a second
time. Two Turkish soldiers, their cloth helmets outlined against a
tree, passed some distance to my right, whining an unmusical chant.
I staggered forward for about another hundred yards; and then, weak and
half-mad with the persistent, ever-increasing ache in my thigh, I lay
down in a small hollow.
The next half hour was perhaps the most bitter period through which I
have lived. I should never reach the coast with my injured leg, I
realized. Yet here I was, wearing but a night-shirt and a
dressing-gown, and helpless in Turkish territory, only a quarter of an
hour's walk from the hospital whence I had tried to escape. I could go
no farther--or very little farther; and if I remained in the hollow
until morning I should inevitably be caught. And if I were caught,
Heaven only knows what would happen. And I suddenly realized that it
was cold, and that scores of mosquitoes were biting my face, arms, and
legs. And the throb, throb, throbbing in the right leg continued.
Then the crescent moon disappeared, and the dark gray light faded into
a blackness that covered the crops and countryside and, above all,
myself.
I felt suicidal, and remained inert for half an hour longer. Finally, I
decided that my best plan was to return to the hospital and try to
reenter it unobserved.
I staggered back through the darkness, and, more by luck than judgment,
hit the road. Slowly and very painfully I made my way into Tul-Keran. I
passed the tents and houses without taking any precaution against being
stopped and questioned; but nobody took the least notice, possibly
because, in the dark, my dressing-gown would look like the robe of an
Arab.
I came within sight of the hospital, and found the sentry strolling
aimlessly in front of it, from the main gate to the side entrance
around the corner. When he had turned the corner I slipped up the
pathway to the front door, which, from past observation, I knew would
not be locked. I had been absent for two hours, and already the first
glimmer of an eastern dawn had lassoed the countryside.
I unlatched the door, entered the passage--and found myself face to
face with the Austrian night orderly. Open-eyed with wonder he stared
at my dusty and dirty dressing-gown, my muddied legs and slippers; then
grabbed me by the arm, and called out: "_Der Englander!_"