INTRODUCING THEODORE THE GREEK, JOHN WILLIE THE BOSNIAN, AND DAVID
LLOYD GEORGE'S SECOND COUSIN
The Maritza is a little restaurant near Stamboul station. Coming toward
it from the bridge across the Golden Horn one passed along a side
street so narrow that the bodies of passengers clinging to the rails of
the swaying and much-loaded tram-cars often collided with pedestrians.
With a guard at our heels, we would disappear through a doorway, and
find ourselves in a low room that reeked of sausages and intrigue.
Whenever the captive officers at Psamatia came to Stamboul they lunched
at the Maritza, where they could hear the latest rumours from the
bazaars. On Sundays they were joined there by not-too-sick officers
from our hospital and that of Haidar Pasha.
Theodore, the Greek waiter, looked exactly what he was--a born
conspirator who had strayed from melodrama into real life. In the whole
of Turkey there was no greater expert in the science of throwing dust
into the eyes of soldiers and gendarmes. He not only lived by plotting,
but, next to money, seemed to like it better than anything in the
world.
He was also a first-rate gossip. Having seated the guards in a corner
where they could see but not hear us, the little Greek, with his bent
shoulders and blue-glassed spectacles, would sidle up to our table, and
producing a menu-card, say:
"_Bonjour!_ What would you like, gentlemen?" Then, running his finger
down the list as if suggesting something to eat, he would continue: "I
heard to-day that the Grand Vizier had quarrelled once more with the
Sultan"; or, "Enver Pasha was shot at in Galata yesterday, and is
wounded in the chest. It is said that he will not recover." He never
failed to produce at least one such rumour as these. Most often he
would announce that Bulgaria was about to make a separate peace, which
possibility was reported in Constantinople at least a dozen times
before it really happened.
I always found him trustworthy, for his hatred of the Turks was
stronger even than his greed for money, and no sum could have tempted
him to become a spy in the service of the Turkish police--a position
once offered to him. In any case, he was always convinced that the
British would win the war; and, therefore, knowing which side his bread
was buttered, would never have dared to betray the Britishers who
employed him.
As an intermediary for correspondence he was reliable but expensive,
his charge being twenty piastres for each letter delivered.
"Theodore, my friend," one would say, "I want you to go to Pera for
me."
"Good. If you have not written the letter I will engage the guards
while you prepare it."
He would then stroll across to the guards' table with the news that the
British officers would be pleased to buy them whatever they wanted to
eat; and the prisoner scribbled his note, a slip of paper resting on
his lap and the body of Theodore screening him from the guards in the
far corner. Later the letter would be handed to Theodore, in the middle
of the banknotes with which one paid the bill.
If a reply were brought, Theodore delivered it under cover of a
menu-card, always with a whispered reminder, "Twenty piastres." During
the last six months of the war the Greek waiter must have been the
messenger for scores of secret communications.
It was early in July when we heard of the arrival in Haidar Pasha
Hospital--across the Sea of Marmora--of Captain Yeats-Brown and Captain
Sir Robert Paul. Yeats-Brown was demanding attention for his nose and
Paul for his ear. With vivid memories of conversations in Afion, I had
sympathy for neither the nose nor the ear, but a great deal for the
schemes of escape which I knew them to be planning. I sent Yeats-Brown
a note, through the agency of Theodore, suggesting an appointment for
lunch on the following Sunday.
As a matter of fact, I met him before lunch-time. With the rest of the
congregation we were leaving for the little English church off the
Grande Rue de Péra, when the pair approached the vestry door with
guards at their heels. Since I last saw them both had grown moustaches,
and an appearance of dishevelled untidiness was given to Paul by a
short, stubby tuft of beard. At the time I was talking to Miss
Whittaker, and I took the opportunity of introducing the new arrivals.
Paul drew Miss Whittaker aside, and began talking earnestly, while
Yeats-Brown told me that the guards' orders were to take him direct to
Haidar Pasha, and that we should have to wait a week longer before
meeting at the Maritza.
Next Sunday afternoon, on entering the little restaurant, I heard
Yeats-Brown asking Theodore to show him where a special brand of
cigarettes might be bought. This he did in a loud voice, speaking
Turkish, as if he wished the guards to overhear. The pair left the
doorway, and disappeared into a tobacco shop. Both departed
bare-headed, so that the guards remained in their seats and were
unsuspicious. Paul was at a table near them, taking great care to
appear unconcerned. His beard had grown longer during the past seven
days, and he looked stranger and more dishevelled than ever.
Five minutes later he and I were joined by Yeats-Brown, who, as he
returned with Theodore, took care to flaunt a newly bought box of
cigarettes before the eyes of his guard. He had been to look at the
outside of Theodore's own house, so that he might recognize it.
He and Paul were to be turned out of hospital in two days' time. They
had had no time to arrange a definite scheme, but as they were to be
sent to Asia Minor very shortly, it would be necessary for them to
escape almost immediately. I did not seek to join them, for White and I
were still safe in Gumuch Souyou and had hopes of stealing an
aeroplane. I therefore wished Yeats-Brown the best of luck, and after
returning to hospital, waited anxiously for news.
Our first intimation of what had happened came when the chief doctor
announced that no Britishers were to be allowed into the city, because
two prisoners had escaped. Soon afterward a Russian, who arrived from
Psamatia with influenza, brought details. With their bank-notes
(obtained from Mr. S., a British civilian living in Pera) sewn up in
suspenders and braces, with faces and hands stained brown, and each
wearing a fez, the pair had climbed out of their window at Psamatia in
the middle of the night, crept along a ledge, tied a rope to the gutter
of the roof, and let themselves down into a dark doorway. The rope was
found in the morning, still dangling from the roof. Since then--three
days ago--nothing had been heard of them.
Meanwhile the hopes of White and myself revolved round John Willie the
Bosnian. This man, an Austrian aviator who was a lieutenant in the
Turkish Flying Corps, had been shot down in Palestine, and in the ward
next to ours was receiving treatment for minor injuries. He told Ms.
that in a few weeks' time he would desert from Turkey by aeroplane, and
said he wanted a letter of recommendation, to be presented to the
British when he landed at Mudros. Ms. refused to write such a
compromising letter, and, not trusting the Bosnian, disregarded a
suggestion that he should be taken as passenger in the proposed flight
to Mudros.
Next, Ms. having left the hospital, the Bosnian approached me. Finding
that I was a fellow-aviator, his first overtures dealt, innocuously
enough, with war-flying in general and his own experiences in
particular.
Then, one evening, he announced, with the air of a conspirator, that he
was about to tell me an important secret. I knew what was coming, but
was careful to pretend ignorance. John Willie--the name by which he
became known to us, for we dared not risk suspicion by mentioning his
real name when we talked among ourselves in the presence of
Turks--thereupon produced an English grammar, and said I must make
pretence of teaching him English, so that we might meet each day. He
would tell the Turkish doctors that I had become his schoolmaster.
His first suggestion, as we sat down on a shady bench, was that I
should write him a letter to take to Mudros. Like Ms., I declined, not
knowing what was at the back of his mind. A Turkish corporal passed the
bench, whereupon John Willie began mispronouncing some English words,
taken at random from the page of the grammar which lay open on his lap.
"If," I said, "you can get me an aeroplane to fly to Mudros myself I
will. The book is on the table, _das Buch liegt auf dem Tische_." This
last when the Turkish corporal turned back and glanced at us as he
passed a second time.
"Ze book eez on tâbel," repeated John Willie. Then in German, "I was
going to suggest the same thing myself."
John Willie proceeded to reveal the reasons why he was so anxious to
desert. As a Bosnian, he said, he hated the Austrians, and it was
because of this that he entered the Turkish and not the Austrian army.
In any case, his mother was of American birth and was now in the United
States, while his brother, so he learned, had enlisted in the American
army.
His own sympathies were pro-British and pro-American, and it was his
earnest desire to join his mother and become naturalized as an American
citizen. If, however, he landed at Mudros in Turkish uniform, he would
be made a prisoner of war; whereas if, as a guarantee of good faith, he
took with him a British prisoner or a letter from a British prisoner,
all would be well.
Next he proceeded to give details of his plan, while running his finger
over the open page of the English grammar, as if reading from it. In
about a fortnight's time he would be discharged from hospital, and
through the influence of a friendly staff officer he would be posted to
the aerodrome at San Stefano. This aerodrome, situated about twenty
miles from Stamboul, was the headquarters of the German pilots who made
a pretence of defending Constantinople from British air-raids.
Having got himself appointed orderly officer for the night, and being
the only pilot in the neighbourhood of the hangars (for the officers'
billets were in San Stefano itself, half a mile from the aerodrome), it
would be easy for him to take a petrol-loaded machine into the air,
head westward, fly over the Dardanelles to the open sea, and so to
Mudros.
"If," continued John Willie, "you can make your way to San Stefano, it
will be a simple matter to pick you up near the aerodrome, and to take
you as passenger in the back seat."
"But," I objected, "there would be a friend with me. If I fly to
Mudros, he also must come."
The Bosnian showed his eagerness by an evident determination to
override all suggested difficulties. A two-seated Rumpler, he pointed
out, could take, besides the pilot, two men in the observer's cockpit,
as had been proven many times. The only drawback was that if three of
us travelled in the same machine our combined weight would add at least
three-quarters of an hour to the flight for freedom, and if we were
chased and attacked an adequate defence would be made difficult. He
proposed that I might pilot the two-seater while he followed and
pretended to give chase in an Albatross scout. He was more than willing
to escort two of us to Mudros if only we would sponsor him with the
British authorities, and pay his passage to America.
Several times during the days that followed I plotted with the Bosnian
in the garden, always with the English grammar as camouflage for
earnest talks. Finally, after discussing every detail, we evolved a
plan which seemed workable. When John Willie should have been posted to
San Stefano, White and I were to claim that we were cured. We should
then be transferred to Psamatia, which was already half-way between
Stamboul and San Stefano. He refused to take the risk of helping us to
escape from Psamatia, but he would meet us after we should have reached
the neighbourhood of the aerodrome. He could arrange to be night
orderly officer between two given dates, and during this period he
would seek us at the place of rendezvous, at three o'clock each
morning.
His plan, having found us, was to go to the hangars, and on the
pretence of testing a Rumpler two-seater, take it into the air. He
would land in a field near us, keeping his engine ticking over. White
and I must run toward him and climb into the rear cockpit. He would
leave the ground again immediately, and head for the Dardanelles.
Even taking into account the heavy load of three men, pursuit seemed
unlikely, because all the other pilots would be asleep in their
billets. In any case, it was improbable that the mechanics from the
aerodrome would see us climbing into the Rumpler. We abandoned the
suggestion that I should fly the two-seater while the Bosnian gave
chase in an Albatross, as we failed to think of a plausible tale for
John Willie to tell his mechanics, by way of explaining how the Rumpler
could have been stolen from him by strangers.
The Bosnian drew detailed maps, giving the position of the aerodrome in
relation to San Stefano station, with the hangars, the officers' mess,
and other buildings marked on it. The place of rendezvous was to be the
fringe of a small wood that bordered a field southwest of the
aerodrome, on the left-hand side of the road to Bulgaria.
John Willie also procured for us a German staff-map, which included the
countryside between Psamatia and San Stefano. White and I had decided,
however, that our best plan would be to give the guards the slip during
the daytime in one of the winding side streets of Stamboul, to buy
tickets openly at the railway station, and to travel to San Stefano as
ordinary passengers. Using John Willie's pencilled map, we could then
find the place of rendezvous and lie low in the wood until the
following morning.
Meanwhile, now that Sunday visits to the city were forbidden, I
employed the Bosnian as messenger for letters to Theodore. We had in
mind the alternative plan of a stowaway voyage from Constantinople
across the Black Sea, and we intended to carry it out if John Willie
failed us. We could not altogether trust him, for he continued to
demand small loans for preliminary expenses. He showed himself,
besides, to be both careless and heedless, so that he seemed a far from
desirable companion for a desperate adventure. We found that in
conversation with some English Tommies, who were patients in another
ward, he had boasted of his plan to take White and myself to Mudros;
and we feared that any day, with so many people discussing it, the
story might be overheard by an English-speaking doctor.
Possibly that is what happened, for I noticed that each time the
Bosnian and I met in the garden we were watched closely. One of the
patients--a bearded, shifty-looking Turk with one arm in a sling--made
it his business to sit on the same bench, and to listen while I
pretended to give instruction in the proper pronunciation of English.
Although I warned John Willie to be very careful, he failed to realize
the danger, and continued to make us all the more conspicuous by
talking in a low voice.
One afternoon he approached me with the English grammar open in his
hand, and pointed to a folded note which lay on one of its pages. Two
Turkish nurses were passing. Seeing that they looked at the book, I
turned the page quickly to hide the note. But the nurses had apparently
seen everything, for as they entered the door of the hospital they
whispered and turned back. A few minutes later the doctor on duty
joined us in the garden, and told John Willie that in future it would
be forbidden to talk with British prisoners.
Yet we managed three further meetings, which took place at the
wash-house in the evening. Then John Willie disappeared suddenly from
the hospital, and we were left to our own resources.
We still had his maps of San Stefano; and when the period set for the
escape arrived we should know by means of a pre-arranged signal if he
was still prepared to take us to Mudros. This was that on the Sunday
morning preceding the first date of rendezvous he was to fly over
Psamatia in a Nieuport scout, and perform stunts.
Meanwhile, White and I now lacked a go-between. More than ever it was
necessary that one or both of us should see Theodore, and try to get
into touch with somebody on the Ukranian steamer _Batoum_, which I
could see from our ward window, moored opposite the Sultan's Palace of
Dolma Bagtché.
Every request that we might be permitted to visit the shops was
refused, and when White asked to see a dentist in Constantinople he was
referred to the military dentist in the hospital. We had almost decided
to leave for Psamatia before our time, when chance provided a way out.
My fame as a teacher of English had spread through the hospital. Aziz
Bey, a young Turkish doctor, arrived at my bedside one morning, with
text-books and a request for lessons. I agreed willingly, and in a few
days became quite friendly with him over conjugations, and references
to the green socks worn by the son of the gardener.
At that time intelligent Turks, many of whom hated the Germans worse
even than they hated the Armenians, were just beginning to realize that
the Allies might well win the war. In a conversation Aziz Bey referred
to this possibility, and expressed admiration for the British. In
particular he praised a man named Meester Djavid Loijorge, who, it
appeared, was the principal leader of the Allies. Djavid Loijorge,
declared Aziz Bey, was a very great man indeed.
It was then that, without any forethought, an inspiration came to me.
Remembering the fear inspired in all Turks by such despotic ministers
as Talaat Pasha and Enver Pasha, and realizing the consideration that
would be paid to any connection of the British Prime Minister, whom
Aziz Bey would regard as a kind of western Talaat Pasha, I announced:
"Mr. David Lloyd George is a very great man indeed, and I am his second
cousin."
"Really?" said Aziz after a taken-aback pause, with credulity and
obvious respect. "I never expected to learn English from a relative of
Meester Loijorge."
I hastened to explain that the matter was confidential, and must not be
talked about, as I did not wish the Turkish Ministry of War to know it.
I relied upon him, as a friend, to keep the relationship secret. He
promised, and as far as I know only broke the promise to the extent of
telling four or five or ten or twelve friends of his, all of whom
treated me with the greatest consideration.
Now I am neither a second cousin of Mr. David Lloyd George nor anxious
for such relationship. But in view of the curious circumstances, I was
bold enough to believe that the statesman would not have objected to
the claim. It needed little persuasion to induce Aziz Bey to take Mr.
Lloyd George's second cousin into Constantinople whenever he had a free
afternoon; and the chief doctor, who was let into the secret, gave the
required permission readily enough.
Aziz and another doctor, whose name I forget, invited me to tea at the
Tokatlian Hotel and the Petits Champs Gardens, took me for sails on the
Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmora, and introduced me, after preliminary
whisperings, to several of their friends.
Fortunately for me the news from the Western front was then taking a
turn for the better. Hindenburg's great drive was expended, the Germans
had been thrown back across the Marne. With each day's telegrams Mr.
Lloyd George's second cousin gained further respect; and finally he was
given permission to visit the shops of Pera, escorted only by a guard.
I walked over the bridge across the Golden Horn to the Maritza
restaurant, and there was fortunate enough to find Prince Constantine
Avaloff. He was making inquiries, he said, among the officers of the
_Batoum_, and he thought that, for a suitable bribe, they would be
quite willing, when the ship left for Odessa, to take White and myself
as stowaways. The _Batoum_ was expected to leave in about three weeks'
time.
From Avaloff, who was still in touch with Yeats-Brown and Paul, I heard
of their adventures after escaping from Psamatia. Yeats-Brown was still
at large in the city, dressed in girl's clothes lent him by Miss
Whittaker. Paul, from whom Avaloff had just received a letter, was
trekking toward the Gulf of Enos with a young Greek waiter from the
Maritza as guide. They hoped to put to sea from near Enos, accompanied
by a Greek boatman. Paul, who spoke Arabic fluently, was dressed as an
Arab. I remembered the tuft of unkempt beard which he had been growing
before his escape, and now saw the reason for it.
Meanwhile, a party that included Yeats-Brown and two Turkish officers
was waiting in Constantinople on the result of Paul's attempt. If he
succeeded, said Avaloff, they would follow in his tracks, and the Greek
boatman would return to the Gulf of Enos for them.
White and I decided, out of consideration for Miss Whittaker, not to
ask her for any help, as we heard that since the escape of Paul and
Yeats-Brown she had been closely watched. The Turkish police suspected
her connivance, especially when they learned that she had met them in
the park at Stamboul on the day before they left Psamatia. On the
following Sunday morning, when, for the first time in three weeks, we
were allowed to attend service in the English Church at Pera, we took
care never to look in her direction, not knowing whether one of
Constantinople's myriad informers might be among the congregation.
For the moment our greatest problem was to obtain funds. We hoped to
find a banker in Mr. S., the English merchant who, on his own
responsibility and at great risk to himself, had several times cashed
large cheques for officers who wanted to escape. We knew several
Armenian and Greek merchants, but these we could not induce to supply
us with money, as we had no orthodox cheque-books. Such cheques as we
cashed on the Dutch Legation, or on Mr. S., were written on sheets of
blank paper.
In those days British bombers from Mudros and Imbros were visiting
Constantinople every fine moonlit night, and spreading great terror all
over the city. Whenever an alarm, false or real, was given, we were
wakened by the firing of scores of machine-guns planted on the near-by
roofs. Turkish soldiers, who, next to food and wives, love fireworks
better than anything on earth, would continue firing into the vacant
air for hours, until all their ammunition was exhausted, merely for the
pleasure of hearing the rap-rapping. Except on one occasion the bombs
themselves did little damage; but many people were killed by the
chance-falling bullets from the machine-guns.
Sometimes the aeroplanes came during the daytime; and then, anxious to
see some of our own machines, we would race into the garden while the
Turks were scurrying from it into the shelter of the hospital. Once a
very fat Turkish pasha, with paunch and dignity well to the fore, paid
Gumuch Souyou a visit of inspection and happened to be in the middle of
the garden when the anti-aircraft firing began. He cast off the
dignity, and would doubtless have liked to cast off the paunch, as he
raced for the hospital door and inquired for the underground baths.
The Turkish love of fireworks was useful to me during the Mohammedan
month of Ramazan. At each sunset guns were fired and puff-balls were
exploded, at interval of a few seconds, all round Constantinople.
Whenever I went into the city with Aziz Bey I arranged that we should
be at sunset near Taxim Gardens, opposite which some puff-balls were
exploded. On the first explosion I started violently and began to
tremble, then continued to swerve and shiver at each subsequent noise.
Having returned to Gumuch Souyou I would demand aspirin and bromide to
calm my nerves, which--as Azid Bey could bear witness--must still be in
bad condition. This I did because a few days earlier it had been
suggested that I was now in a fit state to return to a prisoners' camp;
whereas we were still a fortnight from the opening date of rendezvous
with John Willie the Bosnian, and from the time when the _Batoum_ might
be expected to weigh anchor.
But ill-luck disbanded the queer company in the prisoners' ward of
Gumuch Souyou Hospital early in the following week. On the Sunday
afternoon, after our visit to the church, White, R., and I visited some
of my newly made friends, in a street behind the Tokatlian. Our two
guards, bribed for the purpose and placated with a promise that we
would return to them in an hour's time, loafed outside the doorway. One
of the city's innumerable police spies saw us handing over a
fifty-piastre note, and having by inquiries discovered that we were
British officers, reported the incident to the War Office. Next morning
all but the two mad-men were ordered to Psamatia, at an hour's notice.
White and I were not disappointed at the change for it now wanted but a
week to August the 7th, when at three o'clock in the morning we might
expect to meet John Willie the Bosnian at the corner of a wood outside
San Stefano aerodrome. Meanwhile, there remained the urgent necessity
of cashing some cheques on Mr. S.; for only ready money could make
possible our escape, whether we flew to Mudros or crossed the Black Sea
as stowaways on the _Batoum_.