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THE ROAD TO EN-DOR
[Illustration:
“HILL HAD TAKEN THE FIRST PHOTOGRAPH BEFORE I WAS READY.” THE
COMMANDANT, PIMPLE AND COOK AT THE FINDING OF THE FIRST CLUE TO THE
TREASURE]
THE ROAD TO EN-DOR
Being an Account of How Two Prisoners of War at Yozgad
in Turkey Won Their Way to Freedom
by
E. H. JONES, LT. I.A.R.O.
With Illustrations by C. W. HILL, LT. R.A.F.
“Oh the road to En-dor is the oldest road
And the craziest road of all!
Straight it runs to the Witch’s abode,
As it did in the days of Saul,
And nothing is changed of the sorrow in store
For such as go down on the road to En-dor!”
—RUDYARD KIPLING.
London: John Lane The Bodley Head. W.
New York: John Lane Company. MCMXX.
Third Edition.
Printed by the Anchor Press Ltd., Tiptree, Essex, England
TO
W.R. O’FARRELL,
AN IRISH GENTLEMAN,
WHO, HIMSELF INJURED, TENDED THE WOUNDED
ON THE DESERT JOURNEY FROM SINAI INTO CAPTIVITY,
GOING ON FOOT THAT THEY MIGHT RIDE,
WITHOUT WATER THAT THEY MIGHT DRINK,
WITHOUT REST THAT THEIR WOUNDS MIGHT BE EASED;
AND AFTERWARDS,
WITH A COURAGE THAT NEVER FALTERED
THROUGH NEARLY THREE YEARS OF BONDAGE,
CHEERED US IN HEALTH,
NURSED US IN SICKNESS,
AND EVER FOUND HIS CHIEF HAPPINESS
IN SETTING THE COMFORT OF A COMRADE
BEFORE HIS OWN.
PREFACE
“The only good that I can see in the demonstration of the truth of
‘spiritualism’ is to furnish an additional argument against suicide.
Better live a crossing-sweeper than die and be made to talk twaddle by a
‘medium’ hired at a guinea a séance.”—T.H. HUXLEY.
Professor Huxley was never a prisoner of war in Turkey; otherwise he
would have known that “spiritualism,” provided its truth be taken as
demonstrated, has endless other uses—even for honest men. Lieutenant
Hill and I found several of these uses. Spiritualism enabled us to kill
much empty and weary time. It gave “True Believers” satisfactory
messages, not only from the world beyond, but also from the various
battle-fronts—which was much more interesting. It enabled us to obtain
from the Turks comforts for ourselves and privileges for our brother
officers. It extended our house room, secured a Hunt Club for our
friends, and changed the mind of the Commandant from silent and
uncompromising hostility to a post-prandial friendliness ablaze with the
eloquence of the Spook. Our Spook in Yozgad instituted a correspondence
with the Turkish War Office in Constantinople. (Hill and I flatter
ourselves that no other Spirit has dictated letters and telegrams to and
obtained replies from a Government Department in any country.) It even
altered the moral outlook of the camp Interpreter, a typical Ottoman
Jew. It induced him to return stolen property to the owner, and
converted him to temporary honesty, if not to a New Religion (whether or
not the same as the “New Revelation” of which Sir A. Conan Doyle is the
chief British exponent we do not quite know). Finally, what concerned us
more, it helped us to freedom.
There is a good deal about spiritualism in this book because the method
adopted by us to regain our liberty happened to be that of spiritualism.
But the activities of our Spook are after all only incidental to the
main theme. The book is simply an account of how Lieutenant Hill and I
got back to England. The events described took place between February
1917 and October 1918. The incidents may seem strange or even
preposterous to the reader, but I venture to remind him that they are
known to many of our fellow prisoners of war whose names are given in
the text, and at whose friendly instigation this book has been
written.[1]
One thing more I must add. I began my experiments in spiritualism with a
perfectly open mind, but from the time when the possibility of escape by
these means first occurred to me I felt little concern as to whether
communication with the dead was possible or not. The object of
Lieutenant Hill and myself was to make it _appear_ possible and to avoid
being found out. In doing so we had many opportunities of seeing the
deplorable effects of belief in spiritualism. When in the atmosphere of
the séance, men whose judgment one respects and whose mental powers one
admires lose hold of the criteria of sane conclusions and construct for
themselves a fantastic world on their new hypothesis. The messages we
received from “the world beyond” and from “other minds in this sphere”
were in every case, and from beginning to end, of our own invention. Yet
the effect both on our friends and on the Turks was to lead them, as
earnest investigators, to the same conclusions as Sir Oliver Lodge has
reached, and the arrival of his book _Raymond_ in the camp in 1918 only
served to confirm them in their views. We do not know if such a thing as
a “genuine” medium exists. We do know that, in the face of the most
elaborate and persistent efforts to detect fraud, it is possible to
convert intelligent, scientific, and otherwise highly educated men to
spiritualism, by means of the arts and methods employed by “mediums” in
general.
When we reached England Lieutenant Hill and I thought our dealings with
spiritualism had served their purpose, but we now hope they may play an
even better part. If this book saves one widow from lightly trusting the
exponents of a creed that is crass and vulgar and in truth nothing
better than a confused materialism, or one bereaved mother from
preferring the unwholesome excitement of the séance and the trivial
babble of a hired trickster to the healing power of moral and religious
reflexion on the truths that give to human life its stability and
worth—then the miseries and sufferings through which we passed in our
struggle for freedom will indeed have had a most ample reward.
E.H. JONES.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PREFACE vii
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xiii
I. HOW SPOOKING BEGAN IN YOZGAD 1
II. HOW THE CAMP TURNED SPIRITUALIST 9
III. HOW THE MEDIUMS WERE TESTED 19
IV. OF THE EPISODE OF LOUISE, AND HOW IT WAS
ALL DONE 35
V. IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO THE
PIMPLE 46
VI. IN WHICH THE COOK APPEARS AND THE SPOOK
FINDS A REVOLVER 54
VII. OF THE CALOMEL MANIFESTATION AND HOW
KIAZIM FELL INTO THE NET 68
VIII. IN WHICH WE BECOME THOUGHT-READERS 82
IX. HOW THE SPOOK WROTE A MAGIC LETTER AND
ARRANGED OUR ARREST 87
X. HOW WE WERE TRIED AND CONVICTED FOR
TELEPATHY 99
XI. IN WHICH WE ARE PUT ON PAROLE BY OUR
COLONEL, AND GO TO PRISON 109
XII. OF THE COMRADES WE HAD LEFT BEHIND AND
HOW POSH CASTLE PLAYED THE RAVEN 121
XIII. IN WHICH THE PIMPLE LEARNS HIS FUTURE LIES
IN EGYPT 132
XIV. WHICH INTRODUCES OOO AND TELLS WHY THE
PIMPLE GOT HIS FACE SMACKED 144
XV. IN WHICH THE SPOOK PUTS OUR COLONEL ON
PAROLE IN HIS TURN, SAVES THE HUNT CLUB,
AND WRITES A SPEECH 155
XVI. HOW WE FELL INTO A TRANCE AND SAW THE
FUTURE 165
XVII. HOW THE SPOOK TOOK US TREASURE-HUNTING
AND WE PHOTOGRAPHED THE TURKISH COMMANDANT 173
XVIII. OF A “DREADFUL EXPLOSION” AND HOW OOO
SOUGHT TO MURDER US 185
XIX. OF THE FOUR POINT RECEIVER AND HOW WE
PLANNED TO KIDNAP THE TURKISH STAFF AT
YOZGAD 199
XX. IN WHICH WE ARE FOILED BY A FRIEND 215
XXI. IN WHICH WE DECIDE TO BECOME MAD AND THE
SPOOK GETS US CERTIFICATES OF LUNACY 222
XXII. HOW THE SPOOK CORRESPONDED WITH THE
TURKISH WAR OFFICE AND GOT A REPLY 234
XXIII. IN WHICH THE SPOOK PERSUADES MOÏSE TO
VOLUNTEER FOR ACTIVE SERVICE 239
XXIV. OF OUR MAD JOURNEY TO MARDEEN 248
XXV. HOW WE HANGED OURSELVES 257
XXVI. IN WHICH THE SPOOK CONVICTS MOÏSE OF
THEFT, CONVERTS HIM TO HONESTY, AND
PROMISES OMNIPOTENCE 270
XXVII. OF THE FIRST DAY IN HAIDAR PASHA HOSPITAL
AND THE PRELIMINARY EXAMINATION BY
THE SPECIALISTS 285
XXVIII. OF THE WASSERMANN TESTS AND HOW WE
DECEIVED THE MEDICAL BOARD 297
XXIX. OF HILL’S TERRIBLE MONTH IN GUMUSH SUYU
HOSPITAL 309
XXX. IN WHICH WE ARE REPATRIATED AS LUNATICS 320
POSTSCRIPT: WHAT THE PIMPLE THINKS OF IT
ALL—THREE LETTERS 336
APPENDIX I 343
” II 347
” III 349
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“Hill had taken the first photograph before I was
ready” (p. 180). The Commandant, Pimple, and
Cook at the finding of the first clue to the
treasure _Frontispiece_
TO FACE PAGE
The Ouija 4
The lane where the prisoners exercised 48
“On fine days they snoozed at their posts”—a
gamekeeper on guard in Yozgad 68
“I made my plans to go on skis and began to train” 74
“The snow on the slope of South hill”—the site of
the first clue to the treasure 122
“We had four-a-side hockey tournaments” 124
The “Posh-Castle Mess” who fed us in our
imprisonment 130
In the Pine Woods—“Winnie” and Nightingale on skis 164
Where the second clue was buried—Bones’s Nullah 186
“The Melancholic.”—C.W. Hill 230
“The Furious.”—E.H. Jones 232
The mad machine for uprooting England 302
Autograph photograph of Mazhar Osman Bey and five
other Haidar Pasha doctors (presented to the
author by Talha Bey) 332
THE ROAD TO EN-DOR
THE ROAD TO EN-DOR
CHAPTER I
HOW SPOOKING BEGAN IN YOZGAD
On an afternoon late in February 1917 a Turk mounted on a weary horse
arrived in Yozgad. He had come a 120-mile journey through snowbound
mountain passes from railhead at Angora, and he carried a belated mail
for us prisoners of war.
I could not feel grateful to him, for my share was only one postcard. It
was from a very dear aunt. But I knew that somewhere in the Turkish Post
Office were many more—from my wife, my mother, and my father. So I
grumbled at all things Ottoman. I did not know this innocent-looking
piece of cardboard was going to provide the whole camp with a subject
for discussion for a year to come, and eventually prove the open sesame
that got two of us out of Turkey.
Mail Day at Yozgad meant visits. The proper thing to do, after giving
everybody time to read their letters several times over, was to go from
room to room and pick up such scraps of war news as had escaped the eye
of the censor. Some of us received cryptograms, or what we thought were
cryptograms, from which we could reconstruct the position on the various
fronts (if we had imagination enough), and guess at the progress of the
war. The news that somebody’s father’s trousers had come down was, I
remember, the occasion of a very merry evening, for it meant that Dad’s
Bags (or Baghdad) had fallen at last. If, as occasionally happened, we
found hidden meanings where none was intended, and captured Metz or
Jerusalem long before such a possibility was dreamt of in England, it
did more good than harm, for it kept our optimism alive.
I allowed the proper period to elapse and then crossed to the Seaman’s
room. “Come in,” said Tudway to my enquiring head, “Mundey has been
round already and we can give you all the news.” (Mundey was our
Champion Cryptogrammist.)
We discussed the various items of news in the usual way, and decided
that the war could not possibly last another three months. Then Alec
Matthews turned to me:
“Had you any luck, Bones? What’s your mail?”
“Only a postcard,” I said. “No news in it, but it suggests a means of
passing the evenings. I’m fed up with roulette and cards myself, and I’d
like to try it.”
“What’s the suggestion?” Alec asked.
“Spooking,” said I.
“Cripes!” said Alec.
We began next night, a serious little group of experimenters from
various corners of the earth. Each of us in his own little sphere had
seen something of the wonders of the world and was keen to learn more.
There was “Doc.” O’Farrell, the bacteriologist, who had fought
sleeping-sickness in Central Africa. He argued that the fact that we
could not see them was no proof that spooks did not exist, and told us
of things revealed by the microscope, things that undoubtedly “are
there,” with queer shapes and grisly names. (The pictures he drew of
some of his pet “bugs” gave me a new idea for my next nightmare.) Then
there was Little, the geologist from the Sudan, who knew all about the
earth and the construction thereof, and had dug up the fossilized
remains of weird and enormous animals. _His_ pets were as big as the
Doc.’s were small. There was Price, the submarine man from under the
sea, and Tudway (plain Navy) from on top of it. And there is a saying
about those who go down to the sea in ships which was never truer than
of these two men. There was Matthews, from India, sapper and scientist.
He knew all about wireless telegraphy and ether and the various lengths
of the various kinds of waves, and he did not see why “thought waves”
should not exist in some of the gaps in the series which we thought to
be empty. And there was the writer, who knew nothing of scientific
value. He had studied psychology at College, and human nature amongst
the jungle folk in Burma.
Such was the group which first took up spooking. None of us knew
anything about the subject, but my postcard gave clear instructions and
we followed them. Matthews brought in the best table we possessed (a
masterpiece made by Colbeck out of an old packing-case), and Doc.
groomed the top of it with the corner of his embassy coat, so as to make
it slippery enough for the Spook to slide about on with comfort.
Tudway and Price cut out squares of paper, and Little wrote a letter of
the alphabet on each and arranged them in a circle round the edge of the
table. I polished the tumbler in which we hoped to capture the Spook,
and placed it upside down in the centre of the circle. Everything was
ready. We had constructed our first “_Ouija_.”
“Now what do we do?” Doc. asked.
“Two of us put a finger lightly on the glass, close our eyes and make
our minds blank.”
“Faith!” said the Doc., “we’d better get a couple of Red Tabs from the
Majors’ House; this looks like a Staff job. An’ what next?”
“Then the glass should begin to move about and touch the letters.
Somebody must note down the ones touched.”
Doc. sat down and put his forefinger gingerly on the glass. I took the
place opposite him. Price and Matthews, pencil in hand, leant forward
ready to take notes. Little and Tudway and Dorling and Boyes stood round
to watch developments. Doc. and I closed our eyes and waited, fingers
resting lightly on the glass, arms extended. For perhaps fifteen minutes
there was a tense silence and our arms grew unendurably numb. Nothing
happened.
Our places at the table were taken by two other investigators, and
their’s in turn by two more, but always with a total absence of any
result. We warmed the glass over a tallow candle—somebody had said it
was a good thing to do—and re-polished the table. Then Doc. and I tried
again.
“Ask it some question,” Price whispered.
“WHO—ARE—YOU?” said the Doc. in sepulchral tones, and forthwith I was
conscious of a tilting and a straining in the glass, and then, very
slowly, it began to move in gradually widening circles. It touched a
letter, and the whole company craned their necks to see it.
“B!” they whispered in chorus.
It touched another. “R!” said everybody.
“I believe it is going to write ‘Brown,’” said Dorling, and the movement
suddenly stopped.
“There ye go spoilin’ everything with yer talkin’,” growled the Doc.,
his Irish accent coming out under the influence of excitement. “Will ye
hold your tongues now, and we’ll be after tryin’ again!”
We tried again—we tried for several nights—but it was no use. The glass
did not budge, or, if it did, it travelled in small circles and did not
approach the letters. We blamed our tools for our poor mediumship and
substituted a large enamelled tray for the table, which had a crack down
the centre where the glass used to stick. The tray was an improvement
and we began to reach the letters. But we never got sense. The usual
séance was something like this:
Doc.: “Who are you?” Answer: “DFPBJQ.”
Doc.: “Try again. Who are you?” Answer: “DFPMGJQ.”
Matthews.: “It’s obviously trying to say something—the same letters
nearly, each time. Try again.”
Doc.: “Who are you?” Answer: “THRSWV.”
Matthews: “That’s put the lid on. Ask something else.”
Doc.: “Have you anything to say?” Answer: “WNSRYKXCBJ,” and so on, and
so on, page after page of meaningless letters. It grew monotonous even
for prisoners of war, and in time the less enthusiastic investigators
dropped out. At the end of a fortnight only Price, Matthews, Doc.
O’Farrell and myself were left. We were intrigued by the fact that the
glass should move at all without our consciously pushing it—I shall
never forget Alec Matthews’s cry of wonder the first time he felt the
“life” in the glass—and we persevered.
[Illustration: THE OUIJA]
Then our friend Gatherer came in. He said he didn’t care very much for
this sort of thing, but he knew how to do it and would show us. He
placed his fingers on the glass and addressed the Spook. We, as became
novices, had always shown a certain respect in our manner of questioning
the Unknown. Gatherer spoke as if he were addressing a defaulter, or a
company on parade, with a ring in his voice which indicated he would
stand no nonsense. And forthwith the glass began to talk sense. Its
answers were short—usually no more than a “yes” or a “no”—but they were
certainly understandable. Once more we were all intensely interested.
Gatherer did more than add fuel to the waning fire of our enthusiasm. He
presented us with his own spook-board, which he and another officer had
made some months before, and used in secret. It was a piece of sheet
iron on which the glass moved much more smoothly than on the tray or the
table, and he suggested pasting down the letters in such a way that they
could not be knocked off by the movement of the glass. Later on Matthews
still further improved it by adding a raised “scantling” round the edge
which prevented the glass from leaving the circle.
Gatherer was in great request, for without him we could get nothing, try
we never so hard. But he would not come—he “disliked it”—he “had other
things to do,” he “might come tomorrow,” and so on. Ah, Gatherer, you
have much to answer for! Had you never shown us that intelligible
replies could be obtained, I might have remained an honest little
enquirer, happy in the mere moving of the glass. But now, mere movement
was no longer satisfying. We were tired of our own company, and knew one
another as only fellow-prisoners can. We wanted a chat with somebody
“outside,” somebody with ideas culled beyond our prison walls, whose
mind was not an open book to us, whose thoughts were not limited to the
probable date of the end of the war or of the arrival of the next mail
from home. It did not matter who it was—Julius Cæsar or Socrates,
Christopher Columbus or Aspasia (it is true we rather hoped for Aspasia,
especially the Doc.), but any old Tom, or Dick, or Harry would have been
welcome. You ought to have known that, Gatherer, for you were a
prisoner, too; but you were callous, and left us alone to record our
meaningless X’s, and Y’s and Z’s.
After another week of failure we grew desperate. “If we get nothing
to-night,” said Matthews, “we’ll chuck it.”
We tried hard, and got nothing.
“One more shot, Bones,” said the Doc., sitting down opposite me.
I glanced at him, and from him to Price and Matthews. Disappointment was
written on every face. Success had seemed so near, and we had laboured
so hard. Was this to end as so many of our efforts at amusement had
ended, in utter boredom?
The doctor began pulling up the sleeves of his coat as though he were
leading a forlorn hope.
“Right you are, Doc.” I put my fingers on the glass. “One more shot,”
and as I said it the Devil of Mischief that is in every Celt whispered
to me that the little man must not go empty away. We closed our eyes.
“For the last time,” said the Doc. “WHO—ARE—YOU?”
The glass began to move across the board.
“S-,” Matthews read aloud, “A-L-L-Y—SALLY!”
“Sally,” Price repeated, in a whisper.
“Sally,” I echoed again.
The Doc. wriggled forward in his chair, tugging up his coat-sleeves.
“Keep at it,” he whispered excitedly. “Keep at it, we’ve got one at
last.” And then in a loud voice that had a slight quaver in it—
“GOOD EVENING, SALLY! HAVE YE ANYTHIN’ TO TELL US?”
Sally had quite a lot to tell us. She made love to Alec Matthews (much
to his delight) in the most barefaced way, and then coolly informed him
that she preferred sailor-boys. Price beamed, and replied in fitting
terms. She talked seriously to the Doc. (who had murmured—out of
jealousy, I expect—that Sally seemed a brazen hussy), and warned us to
be careful what we said in the presence of a lady. (That “presence of a
lady” startled us—most of us hadn’t seen a lady for nearly three years.)
She accused me of being unbecomingly dressed. (Pyjamas and a
blanket—quite respectable for a prisoner.) Then she complained of
“feeling tired,” made one or two most unladylike remarks when we pressed
her to tell us more, and “went away.”
I had fully intended to tell them that I had steered the glass, with my
eyes shut, from my memory of the position of the letters. But the talk
became too good to interrupt. There were theories as to who Sally could
be. Was she dead, or alive, or non-existent? Was the glass guided by a
spook or by subconscious efforts? Then round again on to the old
argument of why the glass moved at all. Was it the unconscious exercise
of muscular force by one or both of the mediums or was it some external
power? I lay back and listened to the sapper and the submarine man and
the scientist from Central Africa. Others dropped in and added their
voices and extracts from their experience to the discussion. Dorling had
schoolboy reminiscences of a thought-reading entertainment, which was
somehow allied to the subject in hand. Winnie Smith knew someone—I think
it was one of his second cousins in Russia, or a crowned head, or
somebody of the kind—who had a pet spook in the house. I told my story
of the dak bungalow in Myinmu Township in Burma, where there is a black
ghost-dog, who does not mind revolver bullets. We talked, and we talked,
and we talked, forgetting the war and the sentries outside and all the
monotony of imprisonment. And always the talk rounded back to Sally and
the spook-glass that moved no one knew how. The others slipped away to
bed, and we were left alone. Alec, Price, the Doc., and myself. I braced
myself to confess the fraud, but Doc. raised his tin mug:
“Here’s to Sally and success, and many more happy evenings,” said he.
_Facilis descensus Averni!_ I lifted my mug with the rest, and drank in
silence. Little I guessed how much water was to flow under the bridges
before I could make my confession, or under what strange conditions that
confession was to be made.
* * * * *
Next day I woke—a worm. I felt as if I had caught myself taking sweeties
from a child. They had all accepted the wonder of the previous night so
uncritically. It was a shame. It was unforgivable! I would get out of
bed. I would go across and tell them at once.
“Don’t,” said the Devil of Mischief. “Stay where you are. It was only a
rag. If you really want to tell them, any old time will do. Besides,
it’s beastly cold this morning, and you’ve got a headache. Stay in bed!”
“But it wasn’t a rag. We were experimenting in earnest,” said I. “That’s
why it was so mean.” I got one foot out of bed.
“Stay where you are, I tell you,” said the Devil. “You gave them a jolly
good evening, and you can have plenty more.”
I pulled my foot back under the blankets again. Yes, we had had a jolly
evening—the Doc. himself had said so. I would think it over a little
longer.
I thought it over—and started up again.
“You ass!” said the Devil. “They’ll only laugh at you! The whole thing’s
a fraud, anyway. Let them find out for themselves. Oliver Lodge, Conan
Doyle, and the rest of the precious crew are victims in the same way.”
“I won’t,” said I. “I’m going to tell them.” I got up and dressed
slowly.
“See here,” said the Devil. “What you gave them last night was something
new to talk about. Carry on! It does them good. It sets them thinking.
Carry on!”
“And what sort of a swine will I look when they find me out?” said I.
“But they won’t,” said the Devil.
“But they will—they must,” said I, and opened the door.
On the landing outside was our “Wardie,” once of America, doing Müller’s
exercises to get the stiffness out of his wounded shoulder. That was a
Holy Rite, which nothing was allowed to interrupt. But to-day he stopped
and faced me. I think my Devil must have entered into him.
“Hello, Bones, you sly dog!” said he.[2]
“What’s up, Wardie?”
“Oh, you don’t get _me_ with your larks,” he said, grinning at me. “I
know you, you old leg-puller!”
I made to pass on.
“You and your Sally,” he chuckled.
“Oh, _that_!” I said, and tried again to pass.
“Come on, Bones,” he continued; “how d’you do it?”
“Why, that’s spooking, Wardie,” said I.
“Oh, get on with you! You don’t catch me! I’m too old a bird, Sonny.
How’s it done?”
“You’ve seen! You sit with your fingers on a glass, and the glass moves
about.”
“Yes, yes, it moves all right. But this Sally business? These answers?”
“That’s what everybody’s trying to find out, Wardie.”
“I’ll find out one of these fine days, Bones me boy!” He dug his thumb
into my ribs and laughed at me.
“Right-o, Wardie,” said I, and went back into my room. My dander was up.