OF THE WASSERMANN TESTS AND HOW WE DECEIVED THE
MEDICAL BOARD
Hill’s examination followed. It was much shorter, for Hill’s conduct was
in every way the antithesis of mine. He answered each question with a
gloomy brevity, and never spoke unless spoken to. The questions asked
were much the same as those put later to him by Mazhar Osman Bey in the
interview which I quote below, but at this preliminary examination Hill
denied the hanging. I could not hear what was said, for they spoke in
low tones; in the middle of it I saw Ihsan grab Hill’s wrist, but the
phenacetin was doing its work and his pulse revealed nothing. Once Hill
wept a little, and several times while Ihsan and Moïse were talking
together in Turkish he opened his Bible in a detached sort of way and
went on with his eternal reading. His face throughout was puckered and
lined with woe. How he kept up that awful expression through all the
months that followed I do not know. But he did it, and from first to
last I never saw him look anything like his natural happy self. At the
close of his examination he was taken back to bed and Ihsan ran over his
reflexes in the ordinary way. Then the doctors left the room.
An hour later the orderly on duty called out, “_Doctor Bey geldi!_” (the
Doctor has come) and every patient in the ward, except Hill, sat up in
an attitude of respect. A little procession entered. At its head was the
chief doctor, Mazhar Osman Bey. Behind him followed his two juniors,
Ihsan and Talha, in their white overalls, and behind them a motley crowd
of students and orderlies, the latter carrying trays of instruments
which the great man might need on his rounds.
Mazhar Osman was a stout, well-dressed, well-set-up man of about 40
years of age, with a jovial and most confoundedly intelligent face. He
spoke French and German as easily as Turkish, and was in every way a
highly educated and accomplished man. In his profession he had the
reputation of being the greatest authority on mental diseases in Eastern
Europe. As we discovered later, he was Berlin trained, had studied in
Paris and Vienna, and was the author of several books on his
subject,[53] some of which we were told had been translated into German,
and were regarded as standard works. It is of course impossible for a
layman to judge the real professional merit of a doctor, but this Hill
and I can say: during our stay in Constantinople we were examined at
various times by some two score medical men—Turks, Germans, Austrians,
Dutch, Greek, Armenian, and British. We were subjected to all sorts of
traps and tests and questions. There is no doubt we were often
suspected, especially by those who were ignorant of our full “medical
history,” but nobody inspired us with such a fear of detection, or with
such a feeling that he knew all about his business, as Mazhar Osman Bey.
He seemed hardly to glance at Hill as he made his round. I found out
afterwards that it was a favourite trick of his to leave his patients
alone for several days after their arrival—but when he got to my bed he
stopped, and stood looking at me in silence for some time. Then he put
his hand on my heart. It was quite steady.
“I suppose,” I said gloomily, “you are a _heart_ specialist.” Moïse
translated, and Mazhar Osman laughed, showing he knew of my tirade
against specialists, and asked me why I looked so cross. I complained
bitterly that Ihsan Bey had said I was mad and was keeping me there
against my will.
“Ihsan Bey does not understand you,” said Mazhar Osman; “you must learn
to speak Turkish.”
“I will,” I said enthusiastically, “I’ll learn it in a month.” (And I
did!) “I’ll also learn every other language in the world.”[54]
Mazhar Osman smiled again, and said something in Turkish to the gaping
crowd of students. Then he examined my reflexes, gave an order to his
subordinates, and left the room.
Soon after, I learned what the order had been. Ihsan and Talha came back
and announced they were going to take my blood and draw off some of my
spinal fluid. I had hoped these tests might be omitted, for they would
show beyond doubt that I had no syphilitic infection, and I feared that
this might prove the first step in the detection of my simulation. But
these men were leaving nothing to chance. They were convinced I had
syphilis, and were going to prove it, and they said so. If I wouldn’t
admit to having suffered from the disease I must submit to the test.
It was too dangerous to make such an admission, for they might—probably
would—carry on with the tests in spite of me, and so prove me a liar. My
object was to tell the truth in such a way that they would think it a
lie.
“I protest,” I said. “I have never had syphilis.”
“Your blood and your spinal fluid will prove who is right,” Ihsan
grinned.
“There’s nothing wrong with either,” I said indignantly. So far I had
told the truth. Now was the time to add a lie which they couldn’t
possibly detect, and which would puzzle them later on. “Both were tested
in England by M——, so I know. I’ll tell you what, though, if you are so
certain about it, will you bet?”
“Certainly,” said Talha—I think he hoped to make a little money!—“how
much would you like to bet?”
“Oh, say a hundred thousand pounds,” said I.
Talha cut it down to a hundred. I submitted gleefully to the test, and
while they drew blood from my arm I babbled away about how sorry they
would be when they had to pay up, and how I had won money from M—— in
the same way. Then they tackled my spine. I saw an orderly blow down the
hollow needle and wipe it on the back of his breeches before handing it
over to the doctors, and it nearly gave me a fit. If it had not been for
Hill I think I would have given in and confessed, for I dreaded
infection. I knew enough about needles to be in mortal terror of a dirty
one. I believe I gave a start, or looked frightened, for orderlies
pounced upon me and held me down in the required position. The student
who was practising his prentice hand on me made two boss shots before he
hit the bull. It was altogether beastly.
The report of the bacteriologist, of course, stated everything was
healthy and normal. I danced with simulated joy, jeered at Ihsan and
Talha, called loudly, day after day, for my hundred pounds and demanded
to be sent forthwith to Enver Pasha. Ihsan and Talha went through
another head-scratching competition. I have never seen two men more
interested or more fogged. Meantime Hill was being left sedulously
alone—a treatment quite as trying to the nerves of the malingerer as
what I had been through. He knew quite well that though no one went near
him he was under observation every minute of the twenty-four hours.
On the 13th May, five days after our admission into hospital, they held
a Board on our cases. I was examined on much the same lines as on the
first occasion, except that they pestered me a good deal more about the
hanging, which I continued to deny. They also questioned me about Hill.
There was in our kit (it was put there purposely for them to find) the
following cutting from the Constantinople paper _Hilal_ of June 1st,
1916:
“_Un aviateur Anglais à Damas._
“Le journal ‘El Chark’ de Damas écrit: L’aviateur Australien Hol faisant
son service dans l’armée anglais, a pris son vol de Kantara près du
Canal, et a survolé le désert pour faire des reconnaissances. Une panne
survenue en cours de route l’obligea à atterir.
“Quelques habitants du désert out accouru sur les lieux pour le
capturer, mais il opposa une résistance acharnée qui a duré six heures.
Finalement il a dû se rendre. Cet aviateur a été amené à Damas.”
From the fact that Mazhar Osman Bey began to question me about Hill’s
capture I gathered they had found the cutting, and that their interest
had been roused, as we hoped would be the case. I replied that all I
knew about it was that the Arabs had knocked him on the head so that he
became unconscious. (This was quite untrue, as the Arabs did Hill no
injury, but O’Farrell had said that a bump on the head would be a good
“point” in Hill’s medical history. It certainly created an impression on
the doctors, for there was a good deal of whispering after I mentioned
it.) Mazhar Osman Bey then asked what I thought of Hill—and I think he
hoped I would say he was mad. I replied he was my engineer and was
designing me an aeroplane to carry 10,000 men, and I would make 3,000
such aeroplanes and would invade England with 30,000,000 men, etc.,
etc., etc. I was interrupted and told to go, and after another appeal to
be sent to Enver Pasha and to be made a Turkish officer on the grounds
that my blood test, etc., had proved me sane, I went.
Hill was then called in. The following is his description of what
occurred:
“After about ten minutes Jones came out and I was led in. It was a small
room, and choc-à-bloc with doctors of all sizes. There was a stool in
front of the head doctor (Mazhar Osman Bey) on which I was invited to
sit down. He spoke to me through the Interpreter, who stood beside me.
[Illustration: THE MAD MACHINE FOR UPROOTING ENGLAND]
“I had thorough ‘wind up,’ my nerves being already upset from the first
strenuous five days, but pretended to be frightened at finding myself
amongst so many strangers. I fingered the Bible nervously, opening it
every now and then. The conversation ran something as follows:
DOCTOR. “What is the book you are always reading?”
HILL. “The Bible.”
DOCTOR. “Why do you read it so much?”
HILL. “It is the only hope in this wicked world. Don’t you read the
Bible?”
DOCTOR. “Who are you that you should call the whole world wicked—are you
a priest?”
HILL. “No.”
DOCTOR. “What religion do you believe in?”
HILL. “I believe in all religions. There is only one God.”
DOCTOR. “Have any of your people suffered from insanity?”
HILL. “No.” (To Moïse) “Why does he ask me that?”
MOÏSE: “It is for your own good.”
DOCTOR. “What illnesses have you had?”
HILL. “I have had typhoid.”
DOCTOR. “Anything else?”
HILL. “I had fits when I was young. At least my people said they were
fits, but I don’t think they were fits.” (This of course was a
lie—O’Farrell’s instructions again.)
DOCTOR. “What were they like?”
HILL. “I used to fall down. I don’t remember what happened after that.”
DOCTOR. “Why did you try to hang yourself?”
HILL. “I didn’t!”
DOCTOR. “But Moïse saw you!”
HILL. “No, I didn’t!”
DOCTOR. “Did you do this drawing of a machine[55] for Jones?”
HILL. “Yes, but there is no sense in it and it is wicked.”
DOCTOR. “Why did you do it?”
HILL. “Because Jones told me to.”
DOCTOR. “Why do you do what Jones tells you?”
HILL. “Because he is very wicked, and I want to convert him. He has
promised to be converted if I do what he wants.”[56]
DOCTOR. “Did you know Jones before the war, or what he did?”
HILL. “No. I think he was a Judge in Burma.”
DOCTOR. “Do you know what this place is?”
HILL. “I think it is a hospital.”
DOCTOR. “Do you know what all these people are?”
HILL. “I think they are doctors.”
DOCTOR. “Do you know what disease you have?”
HILL. “I have no disease. There is nothing the matter with me.”
(A murmur went through the crowd of doctors.)
DOCTOR. “Why did you try to commit suicide?”
HILL. “I didn’t!”
DOCTOR. “But Moïse saw you hanging.”
HILL. “I didn’t. It is very wicked.”
DOCTOR. “It is very wicked to tell lies.”
HILL (looking very ashamed). “Yes.”
DOCTOR. “It is very wicked to try and commit suicide, but sometimes
people feel they don’t want to live any more.” (Hill, fidgeting
nervously and looking more ashamed than ever, nodded.) “You did try and
hang yourself, didn’t you? I know you are a very religious man, and will
tell me the truth.”
HILL (after thinking for a long time, looking very ashamed, whispered)
“Yes.”
DOCTOR. “Why?”
HILL (crying). “Jones was going to, and I didn’t want to live without
Jones.”
MOÏSE. “The doctor thanks you very much. That is all.”
At the first opportunity Hill told me he had admitted the hanging. (He
had denied it at his first examination.)
“If they confront me with you and your admission,” I said, “I think the
right line would be for me to bash you on the jaw. Will you mind?”
“Carry on,” said Hill.
“I’ll have to hit pretty hard and pretty quick.”
“Right-o!” said Hill.
But the assault was never necessary. Although the doctors tried in many
ways to get me to admit having attempted suicide, they never told me
that Hill had confessed. I think they were afraid of the consequences
for Hill.
Later in the same day a lady came to see us. She was accompanied by the
_Sertabeeb_ (Superintendent of the Hospital). She was Madame Paulus, of
the Dutch Embassy, and Heaven knows it went bitterly against the grain
to deceive her and wring her woman’s heart with our senseless gabble,
but under the circumstances we had no choice.
“I have come from the Dutch Embassy,” she said. “I always come to see
sick prisoners.”
Hill glanced up from his Bible. “I am not sick,” he said surlily.
“No,” I chimed in, “he’s not sick. He’s always like that. And I’m not
sick either. They are keeping us here against our wills. I belong to the
Turkish War Office, and I’m going to have a Turkish uniform. Tell them
to let us go—I say!” (in alarm) “you are not English, are you?”
“I speak English,” said Madame Paulus gently, “but I am not English. I
come from Holland. Do you know where that is, Mr. Hill?”
Hill nodded slightly, but went on reading his Bible.
“Oh, won’t you talk to me?” she begged.
“I don’t want to talk,” he said sourly.
“_I’ll_ talk to you,” I cried enthusiastically; “come over here. Don’t
bother about him—he’s always like that. Come and talk to me.” I called
to an orderly to bring a chair and set it by my bed, but nobody paid any
attention to me except the _Sertabeeb_, who spotted the symptom and
smiled.
“Why don’t you want to talk, Mr. Hill?” Madame Paulus went on.
“It is wicked to talk unnecessarily,” Hill growled.
“Oh no, it isn’t. I see you are reading the Bible. It is a very good
book to read, and I am sure it does not say it is wicked to talk. Jesus
used to talk.”
“Some of the Bible is wrong,” said Hill. “I’m going to re-write it.”
“Dear! Dear!” said Madame Paulus, sympathetically. She turned to me.
“Here are some flowers and chocolate I brought you from the Embassy.”
“Are you sure they are not from the English? Are you certain they are
not poisoned?” I cried. After much persuasion I was prevailed on to
accept them. (As soon as she had gone I threw away the chocolate, saying
she was an English spy and it was poisoned. Some of the Turks retrieved
and devoured it.)
“Here are some beautiful flowers for you, Mr. Hill,” the gentle lady
went on.
Hill went on reading.
“Oh, won’t you take them? Won’t you put them in water? I brought them
for you because I thought you would like them.” She put them into Hill’s
hand. He glanced at them without showing the slightest interest and went
on reading.
“There,” she said, soothingly. “But you must put them in water, you
know, or they will die.”
“I have nothing to put them in,” said Hill. “It was wicked to pick
them.”
Madame Paulus got a glass from another patient. Hill stuffed the flowers
into it, anyhow, and turned back to his Bible.
“Do you like chocolate?”
“Yes,” said Hill.
“Well, here is some I brought you from the Embassy.”
Hill took it and went on reading.
“Won’t you eat it?” Madame Paulus asked.
“Not to-day.”
“Why not to-day?” she cried, and then—noticing Hill’s breakfast and
lunch standing untouched on the table by his bed, “Oh! Why haven’t you
eaten your food?”
“It is wicked to eat much,” said Hill, “I am fasting to-day.”
“Oh, dear! dear! When will you eat it?”
“When I have done fasting,” Hill sighed.
“When will that be?”
“After forty days,” said Hill, very mournfully. “Jesus used to fast for
forty days.”
With a little gesture of despair Madame Paulus turned to me.
“May I write to your relatives?” she asked. “They would like to know how
you are.”
“No!” I said, in a frightened voice. “No! certainly not! They want to
kill me. Don’t tell them where I am. They hate me.”
“Oh no! no! No mother ever hated her son. You must give me her address
so that I may write. Are you married?”
“Yes,” I said, “I am. But my wife is the worst of the bunch. She puts
poison in my parcels, and I’m going to divorce her, that’s what I’m
going to do. I’m going to divorce the whole crowd of them, wife, mother,
father—every one of them, and be a Turk, for they are all bad, bad,
bad!” (I burst into tears.)
Madame Paulus wrung her hands. She was very nearly in tears herself,
poor lady, and I hated the whole business. She turned to the
_Sertabeeb_.
“_Il dit qu’il va divorcer sa femme!_” she cried.
“_C’est comme ça, cette maladie_,” the _Sertabeeb_ said,
sympathetically.
Madame Paulus and the _Sertabeeb_ conversed together in low tones—I
could not catch what was said—and then she turned to Hill.
“You will be going home soon,” she said. “Will you like that? All sick
prisoners are going home in July.”
Our hearts leapt within us. This was the first news we had had of a
general exchange of sick prisoners. But we had to keep it up. I could
see the _Sertabeeb_ was watching us keenly—as we discovered later, he
knew a little English.
“I am not sick,” said Hill.
“You are both to be sent home in July. Don’t you want to be sent home?”
“I don’t care.” Hill’s voice sounded full of sadness. “There is plenty
to do in Turkey.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to convert the Turks first. Then I will go to England.”
“But don’t you want to see your father and mother? And your sisters and
brothers?”
“I don’t care! They are all sinners—poor lost sheep—but they do not need
me more than the people I see about me. I’ll convert the Turks first.”
“Oh, dear! You shouldn’t say that. What does the Fifth Commandment say?”
“‘Honour thy father and thy mother.’”
“Yes. Then why don’t you follow the Bible?”
I thought Hill was getting into a hot corner, and that a counter-attack
was necessary.
“Here! I say!” I called. “You’re not thinking of sending _me_ to
England, are you?”
“Don’t you want to go?” she asked.
“Don’t you know Lloyd George wants to kill me?” I asked, excitedly. “I
thought you knew that! Everybody knows he hates me, and it is all
Baylay’s fault.” Once on the subject of good old Baylay I could keep
going like a Hyde Park orator, and I did.
Madame Paulus made one more effort to get my home address and failed.
She succeeded better with Hill—he gave her some address in Australia.
“Shall I give your mother your love, Mr. Hill?” she asked.
“If you like,” Hill answered, without looking up from his Bible.
“But don’t you want to send your love?”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh, dear, dear me!”
The dear lady went away almost in tears. She had tried so hard, and had
shown such a fine courage in that ward full of crazed men, and she
thought it had all been in vain—that she could do nothing for us. It was
hateful to let her go away like that, deceived and unthanked. Little she
guessed what joy she had brought us. For all unwittingly she had given
us the one piece of news for which we pined—we were to go Home—and in
July! I know that Madame Paulus cheered many a sick prisoner in
Constantinople, but never did she leave behind her two more grateful men
than her lunatics of Haidar Pasha.
Before entering the hospital we had arranged with Moïse a code of
signals by which he was to let us know what the doctors thought of our
malady. If they thought we were shamming, he was to shake hands with us
on saying good-bye. If they were not sure he was to bow to us. If they
believed us mad, he was to salute. Hitherto he had bowed his way out,
and left us each day with anxious hearts. But on the morning following
the Board Meeting and the visit of Madame Paulus he drew himself up in
the doorway, clicked his heels, and saluted us both, in turn.
So far, then, all was well.