CONSTANTINOPLE; AND HOW TO BECOME MAD
"Your best card," said Pappas Effendi, "is _vertige_. Melancholia and
loss of memory and nervous breakdown and all that'll be helpful, but
play up _vertige_ for all you're worth. It can mean anything. Besides,
it's impressive."
Pappas Effendi was a Roman Catholic chaplain, waiting at Psamatia (a
suburb of Constantinople) to be exchanged as a sick prisoner of war. He
and I were discussing how best I could be admitted to hospital, so as
to remain in the capital. As my injuries had healed, and I could
conjure up no physical disorder, I decided to claim, therefore, that as
a result of the aeroplane crash in Palestine I suffered from nervous
and mental troubles.
For the few British officers at Psamatia the accommodation was fair to
very fair; but for the soldiers of many nationalities in the same camp,
life must have been dreadful. Hundreds of them--Britishers, Indians,
Russians, Roumanians, and Serbs--were herded together into filthy,
crowded outhouses and sheds. They were allowed outside them only twice
a day, when they walked backward and forward, forward and backward
across the yard, by way of exercise. Most of them had done nothing else
for months. Their daily rations were the usual loaf of bread and basin
of unnourishing soup.
For the Britishers and Indians conditions were not so bad, because they
received occasional food parcels from home, and a small monthly
remittance from the Red Cross. The Russians, Roumanians, and Serbs had
neither money nor parcels. Some died of weakness, some sold half their
clothing to buy food, and in consequence died of cold during the bitter
winters. The Tommies were also better off in that they were supplied
with clothes and boots by the Dutch Legation, which administered the
Red Cross funds. Prisoners of other nationalities walked about gaunt
and in tatters. The British gave them whatever food and tobacco could
be spared on parcel-days, but even so they could often be seen
scrambling for a thrown-away stump of cigarette, or for bits of bread
or biscuit. Many seemed almost bestial in their hopeless misery. Only
the Serbs, stoic as always maintained a reserved dignity and scorned to
beg.
Two or three times a week we were allowed into Stamboul, in parties of
two or three, each with a guard. On such days the usual rendezvous for
lunch was a little restaurant near the bridge across the Golden Horn.
To pass over the bridge across the Golden Horn was forbidden; for Pera,
the European quarter, was pro-Ally almost to a man, and a British
prisoner might find many helpers there. Even in the preëminently
Turkish Stamboul one often happened upon sympathizers. There was, for
example, a young Armenian who, whenever he could, talked politics to us
on the little suburban railway between Stamboul and Psamatia, and told
us the latest false report of an imminent peace.
"_Nous sommes tous des Anglophiles acharnés_," he assured F. and me.
The threatened interrogation never happened; and one evening it was
announced that our party of seven was to return to Afion-kara-Hissar.
From every point of view it would be advisable to remain in
Constantinople. I believed it to be the only Turkish town in which one
might arrange a successful escape, and I knew that it contained
civilians who were either British themselves or willing to help British
prisoners. Moreover, it offered infinite possibilities in the way of
distraction, which were always attainable through _baksheesh_, that
lowest common denominator of the Turkish Empire. And if the
long-promised exchange of sick prisoners took place Constantinople was
obviously the place where strings must be pulled if one wanted to be
sent home on the strength of some feigned weakness.
There were at Psamatia two officers who had been told that they would
be among the first batch of prisoners to leave the country. One of
them, Flight-Lieutenant F., claimed to be suffering from some form of
tuberculosis difficult of definition and detection but strongly
supported by influential friends. The other was Father M., a Roman
Catholic padre who was among the captured garrison of Kut-el-Amara. It
was evident that thirty months of captivity had seriously affected his
well-being, mental and physical. In any case, as a non-combatant well
over military age, the white-haired priest should most certainly have
been allowed to leave Turkey. Meanwhile, he was well loved by all at
Psamatia, even by the guards, who knew him as "Pappas Effendi."
Whenever he passed down the street children from among the Catholic
Christians who lived near the prison-house would stand in his way, and
demand a blessing.
Unfortunately there was in the camp library no medical text-book to
tell how a prisoner might feign nervous disorders. I had to be content
with coaching from Pappas Effendi, and with practising before the
mirror a doleful look, tempered by a variety of twitchings. Then I
visited the camp doctor. Ever since my aeroplane smash, I complained
with mournful insistence, I had suffered terribly from _vertige_, from
periods of utter forgetfulness, from maddening melancholia, and from
nervous outbreaks. Above all from _vertige_.
Fortunately the doctor, like most Turkish medical men, was both
ignorant and lazy. His day's work was to sit in an office for two
hours, always smoking a cigarette through an absurdly long holder, and
having listened to the translated statements of would-be patients,
either to send them away with a pill or to write out a form whereby
they could be examined at a hospital.
A wound or an injury he might have treated by pill; but it was plain
that the very suggestion of mental trouble stumped him. He could not
withstand the word _vertige_, and after a second repetition of it I had
no difficulty in procuring a chit ordering me to be dealt with by a
hospital doctor.
That same afternoon I was led to Gumuch Souyou Hospital, in Péra. There
my claims to admission as a mentally afflicted person were granted
without question, so that I began to wonder whether or not I really was
in my right mind. Having heard the list of pretended symptoms, not
forgetting the _vertige_, an Armenian doctor sent me to bed for a
fortnight's rest.
W., whose wounded arm was badly inflamed, already occupied a bed in the
same room, as did Ms., who years before had ricked his right knee and,
by reason of its weakness, managed to stay in hospital, with one eye on
the possibilities of an exchange of prisoners. R., who had the same
object in view, turned up from Psamatia later in the day. He had shown
two perfectly healed bullet-wounds in the leg, received three years
earlier in Gallipoli, and bluffed the Turkish doctor into believing
that they were giving him renewed trouble.
Now clearly, if I wished to maintain a reputation for melancholia,
nervous fits, and _vertige_, I should have to prove abnormality; and
just as clearly it would be difficult to give convincing performances
before fellow-prisoners who knew me to be normal. The only solution was
to demand removal to a single-bedded room, for the sake of quiet.
"Pulse and heart normal," commented the ward doctor next morning.
Pulses, hearts, and doctors are often unaccommodating.
"Yes, _Monsieur le docteur_. For the moment nothing worries me, except
that I have forgotten all that has happened since the aeroplane smash.
Sometimes my mind is a black blank, sometimes I am unconscious of what
I do, sometimes the _vertige_ is so bad that I cannot stand on my feet.
Above all, I hate being near anybody. I desire complete rest. Will you
be so kind as to let me go to a small room where I can remain alone?"
The doctor was only half convinced; but he gave instructions for the
change, while W. turned over suddenly to hide his face, and covered his
head with a blanket so as not to laugh out loud.
Once again, as I lay in bed and racked my common-sense for ideas on the
subject of nervous fits and _vertige_, I deplored the lack of any kind
of medical text-book; for never before had I suffered from mental
derangement.
"Pulse and heart normal," the doctor said inexorably on the following
morning.
Then, some hours later, the conduct of Ibrahim, the fat orderly,
suggested the required inspiration. Disregarding instructions not to
worry me, he entered the room in the heat of early afternoon, sat down,
leaned his head on the table, and began to snore. That really did upset
my nerves, and consciously I stimulated the sense of irritation until I
was furious with the Turkish orderly. Finally, blending this anger with
the need of producing some sort of a fit, I considered how best to
attack him, and what attitude to adopt afterward.
I jumped out of bed, opened the door, seized Ibrahim round the middle,
and flung him into the corridor, while he yelled with surprise. Next I
sat down on the bed, and began tearing the sheets into long strips. The
corporal of the guard, with another Turkish soldier, half opened the
door, cautiously, and looked inside. I stared at them blankly, then got
into bed and lay down quietly, facing the wall.
Ibrahim returned presently with the doctor of the day, who entered with
a surprised and quizzical "_Qu' est-ce qu'il y'a?_"
"Doctor," I said, "I fail to remember what I've been doing during the
last five minutes. But I feel I've been through a crisis. Even now my
head swims. I suffer from acute _vertige_."
Followed a long explanation in Turkish, with gestures, from Ibrahim.
The doctor felt my pulse, which fortunately had accelerated during the
calculated excitement of heaving the orderly out of the room.
"_Calmez-vous, donc_," said the doctor. "_Tout sera bien après quelques
semaines._" I liked the suggestion of "some weeks," for anything might
happen in that time.
Before leaving me the doctor prescribed some sort of a bromide mixture,
with calming qualities. The first performance, I felt, had been rather
a success. As for the bromide mixture, I poured it out of the window
during the night. The bottle was filled again in the morning.
Next day was a fitless one; and by the evening I felt that something
must be done to maintain my reputation. Still knowing little of how a
man with my complaints must act, I thought--wrongly, as I discovered
later--that somnambulism would fit in with the general scheme of
abnormality.
I stayed awake until two A.M.; and then, wearing a nightshirt, walked
woodenly into the passage, with arms outstretched and head upheld. The
guard was dozing on a bench that faced the door, and when I passed he
took not the least notice. Feeling hurt at such disregard, I turned and
passed him again, this time taking care to nudge his knee. He rubbed
his eyes, shrilled an exclamation, and began running in the opposite
direction. When he returned with the sergeant of the guard, a quarter
of an hour later, I was in bed and apparently asleep.
During the week that followed I gave several minor performances. Soon,
however, I was ousted from my single-bedded blessedness by a more
worthy madman. A Turkish soldier passed into a violent delirium, and
ran down the corridor on all fours, calling out that he was a horse.
This was far more striking than anything I had imagined or attempted.
The delirious Turk was therefore confined apart in my little room while
I shared a ward with four Turkish officers.
I chose melancholia for the first demonstration in the new quarters.
All day I stared at the ceiling, and answered questions with a rough
"_oui_" or "_non_" without looking at the questioner. Then, at three
A.M., when the four Turks were asleep, I picked up a medicine bottle,
half filled with the bromide medicine, and flung it at the wall. It
struck, tinkled, and scattered in fragments; while three of the Turkish
officers woke and sat up in bed.
"Air-raid?" suggested one of them--for at that time British bombers
from Mudros were visiting Constantinople on most moonlit nights.
"No, a bottle," said another, switching on a light and pointing to the
splintered glass.
He proceeded to protest angrily in Turkish, and I caught the words "mad
Englishman." He turned off the light, and all lay down again. When the
night orderly arrived he found everything quiet, and dared ask no
questions for fear of disturbing the Turkish officers.
Next morning, however, the senior officer in the ward protested to the
chief doctor against being submitted to disturbance and possible
violence from a mentally afflicted Englishman. I was then moved into a
large room where were W., R., Ms., and other officer prisoners.
To sham violence before fellow-Britishers was almost impossible, I
found, even though they coöperated in casting dust into Turkish eyes. I
modified the fits into starts and twitchings whenever a sudden noise
coincided with the presence of a doctor. The melancholia and loss of
memory I retained, for these were easy of accomplishment.
In any case I should have been obliged to become normal enough for
walks outside the hospital, if my hopes were to become realities.
Staying in Constantinople when the rest of the party had returned to
Anatolia was all very well, but it availed nothing unless I could get
into touch with people who might help me to plan an escape.
Each Sunday morning such British officers as were not confined to bed
attended service at the Crimean Memorial Church, off the Grande Rue de
Péra. I wished to make use of this fact in my search for helpers.
Besides the clergyman himself there were still a few British civilians
free in Constantinople, and most of them visited the church on Sunday
mornings. Above all, there would be the chance of asking advice from
Miss Whittaker, a very plucky and noble lady who had taken great risks
upon herself in helping prisoners. Already she had managed to visit us
at Gumuch Souyou, in the company of a Dutch diplomat's wife who came
with official sanction.
A fortnight of fairly mild behaviour gained me permission to attend
divine service. With guards keeping a yard or so behind us we walked
through the Grande Rue de Péra, with its crowd of evident sympathizers,
and so to the church at the bottom of a winding side street. Then, for
an hour, I was in England. Even to such a constant absentee from church
services as myself all England was suggested by the pretty little
building, with its floor smoothly flagged in squares, its simply
compact altar, its well-ordered pews, its consciously reverent
congregation, its rippling organ, and--yes, by the great truths and
dogmatic commonplaces that were platitudinized from its pulpit. The
very sermon--dull, undistinguished, and full of the obvious levelness
that one hears in any of a thousand small churches on any
Sunday--brought joy unspeakable because of its associations.
The guards, who had been standing at the back of the church with hat on
head, refused to let us remain near the door when the congregation
dispersed. It was inadvisable to bribe them in public; so with a
friendly wave from Miss Whittaker, and sympathetic looks from unknown
British civilians, we left at once. We crossed the Golden Horn to
Stamboul, and lunched at our usual restaurant, where I met Pappas
Effendi again.
Presently, in strolled another old acquaintance--Colonel Prince
Constantine Avaloff, the Georgian. He had just arrived at Psamatia from
Afion-kara-Hissar, and brought with him the latest news from that
camp--the arrival of a new commandant who seemed quite pleasant, the
success of the latest concert, the delivery of a batch of parcels, the
increase in price of _árak_, and other of the small happenings that
filled the deadly life of a prisoner of war in Turkey. For me the most
interesting item of news was that Captain Tom White was to be sent to a
Constantinople hospital. Although he had said nothing about escaping, I
rather thought he intended to try it. If he came to Gumuch Souyou he
would be a useful companion, for I knew him to be both ingenious and
unafraid. Meanwhile, I revealed my own hopes to the prince, who
promised to help in any way possible. He was likely to be of use, for
as a result of Georgia's submission to Germany, he was now free to move
about the city without a guard. I walked back to Pera light-heartedly,
with an instinctive knowledge that opportunity was in the offing.
A tousled scarecrow of a man was sitting up in a hitherto empty bed as
we reëntered the prisoners' ward of the hospital. His long, untrimmed
hair hung over an unwashed neck, his cheeks were sunken, his hands were
clasped over the bedclothes that covered his shins. He never looked at
us, but with an expression of the most unswerving austerity continued
to read a book that lay open on his knees. As I passed I saw, from the
ruling and paragraphing of the pages, that it must be a copy of the
Bible.
I looked round for enlightenment, only to find myself face to face with
an even stranger figure. In a bed opposite the scarecrow sat a man
whose face was unnaturally white. The young forehead was divided and
sub-divided by deep wrinkles; a golden beard tufted from the chin; the
head was covered by a too-large fez made of white linen. He grinned and
waved an arm toward the Turkish orderly; but when we looked at him, he
shrank back in apparent affright, then hid under the bedclothes.
[Illustration: Captain T. W. White, Australian Flying Corps, who
accompanied Captain Alan Bott in the 1,000 mile Odyssey to Freedom,
starting from Constantinople. The clothes are the disguise worn by
Captain White in Constantinople.]
"English officers," said the orderly, "come from Haidar Pasha Hospital.
Both mad."
"I am not English," protested in Turkish the strange befezzed head as
it shot from under the bedclothes. "I am a good Turk. The English are
my enemies. I wrote to His Excellency Enver Pasha, telling him I wished
to become a Turkish officer."
"_Mulazim Heel_," continued the Turk, pointing toward the scarecrow.
Then, as he swung his hand in the direction of the man who had written
to Enver Pasha, "_Mulazim Jaw-nès_."
"My name is not Jones," the Fantastic shouted, still speaking in
Turkish, "I am Ahmed Hamdi Effendi."
Yet he was indeed Jones, just as much as the scarecrow opposite him was
Hill. We had heard stories of their extravagant doings, but this was
our first sight of the famous lunatics whose reputation had spread
through every prison-camp in Turkey. The Turks believed them to be mad,
and although there were sceptics, so did many of the British prisoners.
When, after watching the pair for several hours, we went into the
garden that evening and discussed them, we agreed that they were either
real lunatics or brilliant actors.
It had all begun months earlier at Yózgad. To pass the weary time Jones
and Hill dabbled in and experimented with hypnotism and telepathy. By
making ingenuity and the conjuror's artifice (at which Hill was an
expert) adjuncts of their seances, they nonplussed fellow-prisoners and
Turks alike; for it was impossible to tell whether trickery or
something inexplicable was the basis of their astonishing
demonstrations. By means of the Spirit of Music (a hidden lamp with the
wick turned too high), the Buried Treasure Guarded by Arms (some coins
and an old pistol that were first placed in position and then
"revealed" by digging), the Miraculous Photographs (taken with a secret
camera designed and constructed by themselves), and other devices, they
reduced the camp commandant and his staff to a state of bewildered
fear. When they had hoodwinked the commandant into the belief that they
could exchange mind-messages with local civilians, he confined them in
a small room, and allowed no communication with other prisoners.
From this time onward, moreover, Jones and Hill showed apparent dread
of their fellow-prisoners. The British officers at Yózgad wanted to
destroy them, they informed the Turkish commandant, adding a plea for
protection. Meanwhile, their hair and beards grew longer and more
untrimmed, their general appearance stranger and wilder. Perhaps their
most impressive exploit at Yózgad was when a guard found them hanging
side by side on ropes that were suspended from a beam, the chairs that
supported their weight having been kicked away just before he entered
the room. He cut down the dangling bodies, and his tale confirmed the
commandant in the belief that the spiritualistic prisoners were
altogether insane. A few days later they went under escort to
Constantinople, and were admitted to Haidar Pasha Hospital.
From this hospital their reputation spread all over Constantinople.
Long before they were transferred to Gumuch Souyou I had heard how Hill
read the Bible all day, and uttered never a word except when he prayed
aloud; and how Jones, having in two months learned to talk Turkish
perfectly, proclaimed himself a Turk, and would speak no other
language. His name, he insisted time and again, was Ahmed Hamdi
Effendi. He disregarded all Britishers in Haidar Pasha Hospital unless
it were to tell the Turkish doctor that Jones was mad, and therefore,
as the afflicted of Allah, not to be blamed.
Once he threw himself into the pond in the garden. Once, having
received the usual Red Cross monthly remittance from an official of the
Dutch Legation, he tore the bank-notes in two, threw the scraps of
paper across the room, and declared that he wanted no English money.
During an air-raid over Constantinople he ran into the open and
demanded a gun, so that he might shoot down the British aeroplanes.
At about sundown on his first evening with us Hill closed the Bible,
stepped out of bed, and knelt down, facing the east. Then, without a
pause, he recited prayers in a loud voice for twenty minutes. Several
Turks came in to listen, while Jones, tapping his befezzed head,
explained to them that the kneeling figure was mad.
Each morning and each evening Hill knelt on the floor and prayed aloud.
Sometimes during the night he would walk to another bedside, wake up
its occupant, and exhort him to prayer. For the rest he spoke never a
word other than "Yes" or "No," or "I don't know," in answer to
questions. All day he sat in bed, with eyes riveted on the Bible by
unswerving concentration, or clasped his head and appeared lost in
meditation. When the doctor examined him he paid not the slightest
attention, but when an effort was made to take away the Bible, he
clutched it desperately, and was evidently ready to use violence. His
hair and beard grew longer and more tousled, until he was forcibly
shaved; whereupon, with his hollowed cheeks and sunken, glowing eyes,
he looked more of a scarecrow than ever.
Jones kept himself quite dapper in his own peculiar fashion. His curly
golden beard and moustache seemed to be his especial pride. At first
Ms. attempted conversations with him; but as he always turned away and
showed fright, we left him alone. Yet twice he sought out the chief
doctor, and complained that the British officers wanted to murder him.
Being a Turk, he continued, why was he kept in a room with Englishmen,
who were his enemies and wanted to hurt him?
Beyond laughing and remarking how sad it was that our comrade should be
so mad, the chief doctor took no notice. Thereupon Ahmed Hamdi sat down
and wrote a letter of furious complaint to His Excellency Enver Pasha,
Minister of War in the Young Turk government, and incidentally the most
ruthless desperado in that all-desperado body, the Committee of Union
and Progress.
I still remember every detail and movement of an absurd scene. Ms. lay
asleep one hot afternoon, with a bare foot protruding through the bars
at the bottom of the bed. R. crawled across the floor, intending to
crouch beneath Ms.'s bedstead and tickle the sole of his foot with a
feather. Jones, whose bed was next to that of Ms., shrank back and made
a tentative move toward the door as R. glided nearer. R. looked up
casually from his all-fours position and found the lunatic's face
glaring at him with wide-open, rolling eyes. The pair stared at each
other surprisedly for a few seconds, then Ahmed Hamdi Jones yelled,
leaped from his bed, and ran out of the room.
If that was acting, we agreed, it was very wonderful acting. We
inclined to the theory that Hill and Jones had in the beginning merely
shammed lunacy, as a passport for England, but that under the mental
stress and nervous strain of living their abnormal rôles they had
really become insane. Another suggestion was that they lost their
reason already at Yózgad, as a result of dabbling overmuch in
spiritualism.
It was White who solved the mystery, although at the time he revealed
it only to me. With a badly marked ankle (the result of a too-hot
poultice) well in evidence, he arrived one day from Afion-kara-Hissar,
and suggested to the doctors that the said ankle was tubercular. He was
placed in the bed next to the scarecrow's.
Hill had let it be known that he was undertaking a forty-days' penance,
during which he would eat nothing but bread. All other food offered him
by the Turks he ignored. After a few days of semi-starvation his
cheek-bones were more prominent than ever, his cheeks more hollowed,
and the colour of his face was an unhealthy faint yellow.
In the middle of the night, when everybody else was asleep, White woke
him and passed over a note. In this, as a fellow-Australian, he offered
any sort of assistance that might be acceptable. Then he handed Hill
some chocolate and biscuits taken from a newly arrived parcel. These
the scarecrow accepted, and, not daring to whisper in case somebody
were listening, wrote a sanely worded message thanking White for the
offer, which he accepted. It contained also a warning that, for
safety's sake, the other Britishers must be led to believe that both he
and Jones were mad.
Thereafter White fed him secretly each night. In the daytime he
maintained his long fast, to the great astonishment of the Turks. White
also helped by complaining that the madman woke him at night-time, and
asked him to pray.
Later, having heard escape talk between White and me, Hill wrote down
an address where we might hide in Constantinople, and let me into the
secret that he was pretending lunacy, so as to be sent out of the
country as a madman.
Now that I knew the scarecrow and Ahmed Hamdi Jones to be as sane as
myself, I marvelled at their flawless presentation of different aspects
of lunacy, and at the determination which allowed them to play their
strange parts for months. Hill, in particular, had a difficult rôle,
and I wondered that his mind never gave way under it. To sit up in bed
for twelve hours a day, reading and rereading a Bible; to talk to
nobody and look at nobody, and to show no sign of interest when vital
subjects were being discussed by fellow-prisoners a few yards away; to
pray aloud for nearly half an hour each morning and evening, in the
presence of a dozen people; to maintain an expression of rigid
melancholy, and not to let even the ghost of a smile touch one's
features for many weeks--this must require almost inhuman
concentration.
Jones had a far better time, for his specialty was not studied tragedy
but spontaneous farce. He seemed to enjoy enormously the complete
fooling of all around him, the planning of a new fantasy and the
head-over-heels performance of it, without being restrained by
convention or ridicule, or a sense of the normal.
Cheerful lunacy, in fact, is great fun. Even in my own minor
assumptions of a state of unreason I had found it very stimulating and
amusing. A mental holiday from logic, custom, the consideration of
public opinion and other irksome boundaries of artificial stability is
glorious. Itself untrammelled, the mind can watch from a spectator's
point of view the patch-work restraints and littlenesses of
civilization, and take delight in tilting at them.
Often I envied Jones, with his fez, his golden beard and his rôle of
Ahmed Hamdi Effendi, as he talked to a group of Turkish officers. They
would laugh at him openly; but secretly he would laugh much more
heartily at them.
Few things in our roomful of nine British officers were not farcical.
Only one of us--old W., with his wounded arm--had any real claim to be
in hospital. R., with a healed wound scar dating back to the Gallipoli
campaign; C., with sciatica and late middle-age; and Ms., with a weak
knee dating back to before the war, were trying to build up a case for
release as exchanged prisoners of war. Jones and Hill, by means of
magnificent acting, had made everybody believe in their assumed
madness, and were also hoping to be sent home in consequence.
"Wormy"--formerly aide-de-camp to General Townsend--wanted to remain a
hospital patient because he had friends and amusements in
Constantinople, and achieved this wish by means of mythical
_hemorrhages_.
For my part, I still gave false evidence of nervous disorders, although
such efforts were dwarfed by the exploits of Jones and Hill. In any
case, it was to my interest to show only mild symptoms, such as fits of
trembling during an air-raid, or whenever a gun was fired. Had I been
more violent, I should not have been allowed into the city on Sundays,
at a time when I had made useful acquaintances and was plotting an
escape.
So the strange days passed. Hill and Jones, spurred by reports of a
near-future exchange of prisoners, gave constant and enlivening
performances. M. and R. cultivated effective limps. Wormy amused
himself. White and I discussed our plans while strolling in the garden.
Each morning the doctor walked once round the ward, said to each
patient: "_Bonjour, ça va bien?_" signed the diet sheets, and left us.
Of other medical attendance there was none, except when W's arm was
operated on, or when Jones complained to the chief doctor about our
desire to murder him.
How the madmen were included in the first batch of British prisoners to
be exchanged from Turkey, how they were led on board the Red Cross ship
that the Turks had allowed to the Gulf of Smyrna, how Ahmed Hamdi Jones
protested against being handed over to his enemies the British, and how
he and the Bible-reader miraculously recovered their sanity as soon as
the British vessel had left Turkish waters, all that is a story in
itself.