HOW WE HANGED OURSELVES
On the 29th April, 1918 (an ominous day because it was the second
anniversary of the fall of Kut-el-Amara and of the beginning of my
captivity), we drove into the little town of Mardeen. Here, on our
journey to Yozgad twenty-two months ago, we had rested for a day. We
were then travel-worn, footsore and starved. The memories of the awful
desert march, the studiously callous neglect with which the Turks had
treated us on the way, the misery of being herded and driven and clubbed
across the wastes like so many stolen cattle, and sheer weariness of
body had nigh broken our spirit. Long afterwards a British officer,
captured on the Suez front, who saw the Kut prisoners pass through
Angora, told me, “When we saw your mob being driven along I turned to my
neighbour and said, ‘By God! Those fellows have been through it! They’re
broken men, every one of them!’ You all looked fit for nothing but
hospital.” Our batch were officers, and as such the Turks had granted us
a little money and a little transport to help us on the way. What the
men of the garrison suffered no one can tell. The desert road from Kut
to railhead at Raas-el-ain is 600 miles. At each furlong-post set a
stone to the memory of a murdered prisoner, and there will still be
corpses to spare! That lonely desert track belongs to the Dead Men of
Kut.
My second entry into Mardeen was happier than the first. We were
travelling in comfort. The twisting of a coat-button made us in fact
what that courteous liar Enver Pasha had glibly promised we should
be—“the honoured guests of Turkey.” The Spook could get us all the
comforts we wanted, and though we still denied ourselves proper food the
starvation was nothing, for it was a self-imposed means to an end. In
place of a hopeless captivity there lay ahead of us the hope of early
freedom. So we bumped joyfully over the cobbled streets and drew up in
the market square. We noticed with interest the effects of the pressure
of the British Navy. Two years ago the shops had still been full of
European goods. Now most of them were shut, and those which remained
open were empty of everything but local produce. A restaurant where I
had got a good meal for five piastres was now charging forty piastres
for a single dish of poor food. Everywhere prices were fabulously high.
Last winter, we learned, the town had been swept by typhus. Most of the
townsfolk were in rags; at all of which we could have rejoiced had it
not been for the starving children. Hill nudged me and silently
indicated a little group of them, pallid with hunger, grubbing amongst
some refuse in the hope of finding food the dogs had overlooked. The
Spook got to work with five-piastre notes, and my Turkish being already
good enough to enable me to tell each recipient to run like smoke, the
Pimple had a desperate ten minutes. He returned from his last chase
puffing and blowing, and bundled me back into the cart. He was very
frightened, for he had retrieved very few of the notes.
We went on to one of the three caravan-serais of which the town boasted.
These Turkish serais are built on a regular model. A big gateway leads
into an open courtyard surrounded on all four sides by buildings. These
are usually two-storeyed. The lower storey consists of stables for the
horses, the upper of rooms for the men. Round the upper storey runs a
fairly broad veranda, which overlooks the courtyard and gives access to
the rooms. The veranda is reached by a staircase leading up from the
courtyard. Somewhere in the building there is usually a coffee-stall,
kept by the caretaker, where light refreshment can be obtained.
As we entered the courtyard the caretaker bustled forward with his bunch
of great keys. He opened room after room for our inspection. They were
all stone floored, low-ceilinged and devoid of all furniture. This would
not have mattered to us. The important point was that nowhere could we
see a place to tie a rope above five feet from the floor. The building
seemed to have been specially designed to prevent suicide by hanging.
Hill was mooning along with us, reading his Bible as he went and
pretending to take no interest in the proceedings, but I knew that the
mournful look he bestowed on each room as we entered had taken in every
detail. I glanced at him and he gave the tiniest shake of the head. I
turned on Moïse.
“Is this the accommodation you offer me, ME, a friend of the Sultan!” I
said in simulated rage, twisting my coat-button as I spoke. “This is an
insult! Take us where we shall find worthy lodging, or you shall
suffer!”
The Pimple translated to the caretaker, and asked if he had no better
rooms. That worthy closed his eyes, tossed back his head, and clicked
his tongue against the roof of his mouth. We knew the gesture well, as
does every prisoner of war from Turkey. It is the most objectionable,
irritating and insulting negative in the world. Then he pocketed his
keys and walked away.
We went down into the courtyard. The drivers had already unharnessed.
Bekir and Sabit had taken the luggage off the carts, and as the Pimple’s
belongings included 500 lbs. of butter which he was taking to
Constantinople in the hope of selling it at a profit, unloading was no
light task. When the Pimple told them we had refused to stay there,
sentries and drivers alike were furious. I added to the hub-bub by
dancing about the yard in a frenzy and ordering them to harness up at
once. Bekir, his face red with anger, took me roughly by the shoulder
and growled at me in Turkish. I pushed him off, and foaming with rage
informed him that he was reduced from Lieutenant-Colonel (to which rank
I had promoted him that very morning) to a common ‘_nefer_’ (private)
again, and if he didn’t load up at once I’d have him shot, I’d report
him to the Sultan, I’d tell Enver about him and blow him from the
cannon’s mouth. The Pimple translated. It was a very pretty little
scene, and quite a crowd gathered in the gateway. In the end we had our
way. The horses were harnessed, the carts were loaded, and we bumped
over the cobbles to another caravanserai. It was no better than the
first. My wrath reached boiling point: Hill became almost grotesquely
mournful. The sentries and the drivers were on the point of mutiny. I
nearly twisted off the coat-button getting Moïse to move them on. We
crossed the square to the third, last and best caravanserai in Mardeen.
The sentries and drivers began unloading as soon as they got into the
courtyard. Their patience was at an end and it was obvious they would
humour us no longer. Besides, there was nowhere else to go. The
hotel-keeper (I dignify him thus, though he was a lousy rascal enough,
because the place was a little more pretentious than the ordinary serai)
told us he had only one room unoccupied. Everything looked very hopeless
as we watched him fumble at the lock. Then he threw open the door. It
was a narrow room, about fifteen feet long by ten wide, and contained
two beds. In the wall opposite the door was a small barred window, too
low down to be of any use. I glanced at the ceiling. It was high—a good
11 feet above ground level—and directly overhead, close to the door and
about three feet apart from one another, were four solid rings, fastened
by staples to the woodwork, that looked strong enough to hold an ox. Our
luck had changed. Things could not have been better had we ordered them
specially.
I turned to the hotel-keeper.
“We would prefer a larger room, with ten beds, if you have it.”
He said he had no other room. I bowed profoundly and indicated our
willingness to make the best of a bad job. Hill was already sitting on
the floor reading the Bible.
Bekir and Sabit brought up the luggage and proceeded to make themselves
comfortable. An attempt to get them to take up their quarters on the
veranda failed. My simulated rage at the first two hotels had frightened
them. They thought I was in one of my dangerous moods, and stuck to
their posts. But there was still plenty of time, as it was not yet
sunset.
Opposite the door of our room, on the other side of a small narrow
passage, was the coffee-shop of the hotel. It was full of a motley crowd
of drovers and shepherds. At my suggestion Bekir, Moïse and I entered
it, leaving Hill at his religious duties in the corner and Sabit to
watch him. Before Moïse could stop me I had ordered and paid for coffee
all round—it cost a shilling a cup! While this was being drunk I went
amongst the drovers and asked confidentially if there were any English
in the town, and if any of them knew Major Baylay. There were no English
in Mardeen, and Baylay was utterly unknown. In my joy at the news I
ordered ten cups of coffee for each guest and threw a pile of bank-notes
on the counter. Moïse grabbed it, explained to the crowd that I was mad,
and amid much sympathetic murmuring and “Allah-Allah-ing” from the
drovers I was hustled back into my own room. In preparation for what was
coming later, the hotel habitués had been given a hint of our mental
state, and I had seen what we wanted in the coffee-room—a small table,
by standing on which we could reach the rings. As an excuse for getting
it brought in we ordered a meal.
The next problem was to get rid of the sentries. While Moïse was out of
the room ordering our dinner, Hill (pretending to be reading his Bible
aloud) suggested that after the meal I should invite the sentries and
Moïse to step across the passageway and have a cup of coffee with me.
They would probably accept the invitation because they regarded Hill as
harmless. While they were away Hill would fix the ropes to the rings. I
would excuse myself for a moment and return to the room, the door of
which they could see from the coffee-room. We would jam the table
against the door, stand on it, get the nooses round our necks, blow out
the light and swing off. I agreed.
Moïse came back with the table and the food. We all had dinner (Bekir
and Sabit were fed at our expense as a mark of their return into
favour). Under pretence of doing something to the luggage, Hill tied
nooses on our two ropes. The sentries did not notice what he was doing.
Then he began to read his Bible again. I invited the party to coffee.
All accepted, except Hill, who paid no attention. We opened the door:
the coffee-room was shut. The “_café-jee_” had gone away! Our plan had
failed. Bekir offered to get a bottle of cognac if we would provide the
money. I had a momentary idea of making the men drunk enough to sleep
soundly, but it would be too dangerous. Besides, the Turks would expect
us to drink level, and we needed clear heads if we were to make no
mistakes. So we vetoed the cognac and I voted for tea. Sabit went out
and boiled some water over a fire in the yard. I tried to get Bekir to
go and see why he was so long about it, but Bekir had taken his boots
off and couldn’t be bothered. Sabit came back with the hot water. I had
failed again.
As we drank the tea I began to make myself as interesting as I could,
and told tales current among Welsh country folk that appealed to the
bucolic minds of our escort. I spoke of things seen in the East, and
especially of crops and harvests in distant lands. Moïse interpreted.
The sentries listened intently, for they were small farmers themselves,
and asked intelligent and endless questions. Thus they forgot their
fears about us, and ten o’clock arrived. But we were no nearer our
objective. Sabit began to spread his bedding in his customary
place—across the door.
“Before Sabit lies down,” I said, “I want to be taken to the House of
Purification” (the Turkish name for lavatory). I signalled secretly to
Hill to come with us. Bekir and Sabit got their rifles and marched us
into the outer darkness. The Pimple remained behind. After we had gone a
few paces I slipped an Indian rupee and a Turkish gold lira into Hill’s
palm, and began singing. This is what I sang—
“It’s up to you to show them some tricks.
I’ll say it’s magic, you get them keen,
Then offer to show them one still more wonderful
If they’ll stand outside the door while you prepare.”
Hill squeezed my arm to show that he understood, and I turned to Sabit
and asked for a Turkish song. He complied readily enough. By the time we
got back to the room we were all singing together, except Hill. He went
back to his corner and his Bible.
“That last tune of Bekir’s reminds me of one I heard from a witch doctor
in Togoland,”[49] I said to the Pimple. “He was a great magician and
held converse with djinns. Ask Bekir if he has ever seen magic.”
Bekir had often heard of magic and djinns, but had never seen any. Yes,
he would like very much to see some, but where?
I pointed to Hill, huddled up in his corner, and told them he knew all
the magic of the aborigines of Australia. I’d make him show us some, if
they wished it. They were delighted at the idea. But Hill refused to
oblige. He said magic was “wicked” and he had given it up.
“Shall I force him to do it?” I asked.
Bekir and Sabit nodded. They were very keen already, and knew that Hill
usually obeyed me—it was a feature in his insanity that he gave in to me
more readily than to anyone else. But tonight he simulated great
reluctance. I had to threaten to take his Bible away before he would do
as he was told. Finally he stood up, the picture of mournful
despondency, and slowly rolled up his sleeves. We lit a second candle
and placed it on the table. We moved the table to the spot we wanted
it—not directly under the rings but slightly to one side, so that we
would swing clear when we stepped off. Then Hill began.
It was a very wonderful little performance. He showed his empty hand to
the sentries, then closed it slowly under their noses (his audience was
never more than three feet away). When he opened it a rupee lay shining
in his palm. The sentries gasped—here was a man turning thin air into
silver. Could he make gold too? Hill took the rupee in his right hand
and threw it into his left three times. The third time it turned into a
Turkish gold lira. The sentries, dumb with surprise, took it from his
palm, examined it closely by the candlelight, bit it, rang it on the
table. “It is good,” said Bekir, handing it back. “Make more, many
more.” Hill smiled a little sourly and threw the lira back into his left
hand, and it turned back into a rupee. Sabit gave a short, very nervous
bark of a laugh. Bekir was disappointed—he wanted more gold. With a look
of utter boredom on his face Hill began extracting gold coins from the
air, from under the table, from the back of his knee, slipping his
harvest into his pocket as he garnered it. The sentries gaped in
open-mouthed astonishment. Hill picked up his Bible and made to sit in
his corner again.
“More!” said Bekir. “Show us more magic.”
Hill turned back. “Would you like to see the table float about the
room?” he asked.
They would like it very much.
“Then step outside the door while I speak to the djinns.”
We all rose to go out, I with the rest.
“You’ll be out there about 15 minutes,” Hill went on; “better take a
candle with you. And if you value your lives don’t come in till I call
you. But I want one of you to stay and help me.”
I suggested Moïse should stay, and in the same breath twisted my button
and told him to leave me behind. It ended by the sentries going out with
Moïse quite happily. We closed the door. It fitted badly, and Moïse had
but to watch the space between the lintel and door to see when our light
went out. Darkness was to be his signal for breaking in.
The moment the door closed, Hill handed me my rope, and we mounted the
small table together. My hands shook so from excitement that the ring
rattled against the staple with a noise like castanets, and I could
scarcely control my fingers to knot the rope. It was not unlike the
“stag-fever” which afflicts young hunters of big game.
“Steady,” said Hill in a low voice, “they’ll hear you.”
He was already standing with the rope round his neck. His ring and
staple had not made a sound. His voice pulled me together, and next
moment my task too was done.
“Ready?” I whispered.
“I’m O.K.,” he replied.
We shook hands.
“Take the strain,” I said.
Holding the rope above my head in my right hand, I bent my knees till it
was taut about my neck. I could not see Hill, but knew he was doing the
same. We did not want an inch of “drop” if we could avoid it.
The candle was ready in my left hand. I blew it out, and we swung off
into space.
To anyone desirous of quitting this mortal coil we can offer one piece
of sound advice—don’t try strangulation. Than hanging by the neck
nothing more agonising can be imagined. In the hope of finding a
comfortable way of placing the noose we had both experimented before
leaving Yozgad, but no matter how we placed it we could never bear the
pain for more than a fraction of a second. When we stepped off our table
in the dark at Mardeen we simply had to bear it, and though we had
arranged to grip the rope with one hand so as to take as much weight as
possible off the neck until we heard Moïse at the door, the pain was
excruciating. Moïse did not at once notice that our light had gone out.
I revolved slowly on the end of my rope. My right arm began to give out
and the rope bit deeper into my throat. My ears were singing. I wondered
if I was going deaf, if I could hear him try the door in time to get my
hand away, if he was ever going to open the door at all. It was
impossible to say how long we hung thus, revolving in the dark. I
suppose it was about 90 seconds, but it seemed like ten years.
“Hill, Jones, are you ready?” At last the Pimple had seen the signal.
We instantly let go of our ropes and hung solidly by the neck—it was
awful.
“Hill, Jones!” The Pimple was shouting now. We could not have answered
had we tried.
The door crashed open. The Pimple saw us, yelled at the top of his
voice, and kept on yelling. Somebody rushed past (I was next the door)
bumping against me so that my body swung violently, and the rope
tightened unbearably round my throat. Then a pair of strong arms clasped
my legs and—oh, blessed relief!—lifted me a little. (I found out
afterwards it was Sabit, the sentry. The Pimple was doing the same for
Hill.) There was soon pandemonium in the room; in answer to the Pimple’s
cries people came rushing in from all over the hotel. The place was in
darkness and everybody except Hill and myself were shouting as loud as
they could, while the Pimple’s shrieks sounded clear above the din. Then
somebody took me by the waist and threw all his weight on me. Through my
closed eyelids I saw a whole firmament of shooting stars. I don’t quite
know what happened after that until I found myself on the floor. The
same thing was done to Hill. I believe it was one of the drovers who did
it, but what his intention was I never knew. Perhaps he was testing us,
to see if we would put up our hands, or perhaps he was a good Mohammedan
anxious to finish off two infidel “_giaours_.” Whatever his object may
have been, he did not succeed.
I don’t think either Hill or I ever quite lost consciousness, but for a
time everything was very confused. We have quite clear recollections of
unnamable tortures being inflicted upon us, which we endured without
sign as best might be. Turkish methods of resuscitation are original and
barbarous. At last somebody poured a bucketful of extraordinarily cold
water over me and I half opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was Hill.
He lay on a bed still feigning unconsciousness, with dropped jaw and
protruding tongue. The local expert in anatomy was practising on him the
same abominable treatment as I had just undergone. Another gentleman was
pouring water impartially over Hill and the bed. The hotel-keeper, in a
vain effort to save his mattresses, was tugging at Hill’s head so as to
bring it over the edge of the bed and let the water fall on the floor.
Hill opened his eyes and began to cry, as Doc. O’Farrell had warned him
to do. They continued to pour water over us both, until the floor was an
inch deep in it.
Doc.’s orders to me on “coming to” had been to be as abusive and noisy
as possible, and to curse everybody for cutting me down. It was the only
unfortunate bit of advice he ever gave us. As soon as I felt up to it, I
tried to struggle to my feet, shook my fist at the Pimple and added to
the general din by roaring out, “_Terjuman chôk fena! Terjuman chôk
fena!_” (Interpreter very bad.)
Bekir, who had a firm grip on my collar, thrust me back to a sitting
position on the floor and relieved his feelings at finding me so much
alive by striking me a heavy blow with his fist under the ear. I paid no
heed to him, though my head was singing, and continued to roar,
“_Terjuman chôk fena!_” at the top of my voice, but Bekir’s action was
the signal for a general assault by everyone within reach. Sabit, from
behind, drove his rifle-butt into my back, a shepherd in front smote me
on the head with a coil of rope, and a gentleman in wooden clogs on my
left kicked me hard in the stomach. The rope and the rifle had been just
endurable, but “clogs” was the last straw. An overwhelming nausea came
over me, everything swam in a giddy mist, and my voice sank like Bottom
the weaver’s from a good leonine roar of wrath to the cooing of a
sucking-dove. I have never felt so ill in my life, and it was hard to
keep at it, even in a whisper. They were going to do something more to
me, when Moïse intervened. I was profoundly thankful, but went on raving
at my rescuer between gasps. Bekir and Sabit contented themselves with
holding me down on the floor.
Meantime my melancholic companion in crime was weeping and wailing on
the bed. He was a most distressful figure, with his pale contorted face
and streaming eyes and the great red weal round his neck where the rope
had been. His shirt was torn half off, and everything about him from his
hair to his socks was as wet as water could make it. Nobody paid the
least attention to him and he wailed on in solitude.
The whole population of Mardeen seemed to be in the room or in the
passage outside trying to get in. Gentlemen with swords; gentlemen with
daggers; gentlemen with rifles, and blunderbusses, and knobkerries;
shepherds and drovers with long sticks; a shoemaker with a hammer; and a
resplendent gendarme with a long shining chain. On the table the
hotel-keeper was standing; he held a torch in one hand and with the
other exhibited a clasp-knife he had broken in cutting us down. Everyone
was talking at once. The din was indescribable and the smell was beyond
words. The Pimple, with fresh marks of tears on his cheeks (he had
shrieked himself into hysterical weeping), waved his arms and explained
over and over again about Hill’s gold trick and how we had fooled them
into leaving the room. The mention of the gold fired the mob to search
us. They did it very thoroughly, but found nothing but notes. Hill kept
the gold out of sight by the aid of his sleight of hand, but let them
find the rupee. This caused a fresh discussion—the rupee was evidence of
the truth of what Moïse and the sentries had said, and it must be that
the gold was magic gold, and had disappeared into the thin air whence it
came. They looked at Hill’s weeping figure with something of awe in
their glances.
After about half an hour, when Hill and I had begun to quieten down,
Moïse questioned us for the benefit of the crowd as the Spook had
previously ordered him to do. I admitted having attempted suicide, and
said I did it because twenty English prisoners were chasing us (the
Afion party which was two days’ behind), and Major Baylay was going to
kill me. I managed to work myself up into a great state of terror. It
was easy enough to do. I had only to let my body “go,” as it were, and
as a result of our drenching, the extreme cold of the night and the
rough treatment we had just come through, it did all that was necessary
for a perfect simulation of fear. My teeth chattered and I shook all
over as if with ague. The sentries were quite alarmed at the sight, and
assured me for the hundredth time that no Englishman could come near me.
Then Hill, questioned in the same way, sobbed out that he knew suicide
was a very wicked thing, but I had told him to do it. Moïse told him
angrily that he was a fool to take any notice of me. Hill turned his
face to the wall and went on weeping. His acting was wonderful. Next day
Moïse told us the “control” had been marvellous.
I soon found that “letting myself go” had been a mistake; having once
begun shivering I could not stop. It was a curious sensation: my body
had taken command of the situation and was running away with me. I had
an uneasy feeling that a lunatic ought not to feel cold or exhaustion,
and I struggled hard to pull myself together, talking the while of my
terror of Englishmen in general and Baylay in particular, in the hope
that the Turks would ascribe the trembling to fear. They did. They
showed me their rifles and knives and knobkerries and promised to kill
off my English foes as they had done in the Dardanelles. Gradually my
shivering wore itself out, but I felt colder than ever. I began joking
with the crowd, telling what I would do to Baylay when I caught him. I
was joking in a mist, and their voices were beginning to sound very far
away. I knew I was on the point of fainting, and I made a mistake which
might well have been fatal to our plans. I twisted my coat-button and
said in English to Moïse, “Send us to bed.” It was a foolish, insensate
thing to say. Had the crowd in the room contained anyone who knew
English that single sentence was enough to show that Moïse was our
confederate. The moment the words were out of my mouth I realised what I
had done, and could have bitten my tongue out. By sheer good fortune,
nobody understood, but I have never forgiven myself. The contrast
between my weakness of spirit in Mardeen, and Hill’s superlative
endurance later on in Constantinople when he kept a close tongue through
a month of incredible illness and suffering in Gumush Suyu hospital, has
cured me of any pride in my will-power. But the lesson was not entirely
lost, and never again was my hatred of physical suffering allowed to
gain the upper hand.
Luckily the crowd thought the order to change into dry things and go to
bed emanated from Moïse. Hill helped to save the situation by sobbing
out that he didn’t want dry clothes and preferred to remain as he was
and contemplate his sins. He had to be forced into his pyjamas. Meantime
Moïse had thrown me a towel and I was drying myself, joking with the mob
as I did so. We noticed that at this they began muttering among
themselves. Moïse told us later that the hotel-keeper said no lunatic
would dry himself under the circumstances. Moïse replied I did it under
his orders, which was true enough and satisfied everybody except the
hotel-keeper, who was angry at the disturbance we had caused in his
hotel and the damage done by the water to his bedding.
At the time we did not know what the muttering was about, but we saw
something was wrong and raised a successful diversion by quarrelling
amongst ourselves. Hill wanted to hold a prayer-meeting to ask
forgiveness for our suicide, while I wanted him to obey the Turks who
were protecting us from the English, and go to bed. In the end Moïse was
asked by the hotel-keeper to make me shut up, as I was keeping everybody
in the hotel awake. I obeyed Moïse, and so far as Hill was concerned he
held his prayer-meeting and then turned in. I refused to go to bed
myself, and plagued Moïse to give me back the money he had taken from me
at the search, in order that I might buy a rifle from one of our
audience to protect myself against Major Baylay and the English. After
about an hour of fruitless begging and raving on my part the last of the
onlookers went away. Our cart drivers and two villagers were brought in
to support Bekir and Sabit in case we turned violent again and I was
made to lie down.
My throat was too sore to let me sleep, so I saw that all six of our
guards remained awake all night, with their weapons ready in their
hands.