THE FIRST WINTER
It was in the first week of November that we moved into the house
allotted to us in the town. It was in a good quarter, about half-way up
the hill, and it was a very good house as houses go in Asia Minor. In
front there was a narrow street, and the building opposite to us was
popularly supposed to be the Angora University. It was, at any rate, a
school of large boys or small men; and I think we must have looked right
into the University Museum, for there was a mouldy-looking stuffed owl
there. On our left was another large house, at first used as a military
hospital; but, when all the patients had died, restored to its purpose
of a boys' school, small boys who used to make cutthroat signs to us.
Our right flank rested upon a dunghill, or, rather, a kitchen midden, a
public store of all manner of beastliness and the playground of the
little schoolboys. Behind us was a dark, damp, narrow passage, beloved
of dead cats, bounded on the one side by the school and our house, and
on the other by the city wall. The hill was so steep that the entrance
from the passage was two stories higher up than the main entrance from
the street. We used the back door, for the main entrance was nailed up.
The two bottom stories were uninhabitable, and by us unused. They
contained stables and store-rooms. In the floor of one of the rooms
there was a well, and beneath the floor there was the usual cess-pit.
The next floor was on a level with our entrance, and contained a small
kitchen and four bedrooms, one of which Derrick and I shared. The floor
above that contained another kitchen, three bedrooms, and a large hall
we used as a mess-room. Above that again was a small room containing a
jumble of more or less useless articles, a sort of lumber-room, in fact,
and a great many cubby-holes and recesses in the walls and under the
roof. Above that again was an unwalled, roofed space used for hanging
clothes to dry.
The house was owned by an Armenian woman who had found some means of
adapting herself to terrible circumstances, and of conciliating the
Turks. There were a number of such forlorn women in the town, and I,
for one, do not blame them.
To this lady, who lived further down the street, we paid rent. So the
Turkish Government was actually providing us with nothing at all except
our four shillings a day. For we rented the house furnished, very little
furnished.
The first fortnight of our stay here I passed in bed with persistent
fever.
We had not long been in residence when some more prisoners turned up;
the officers of a second submarine, and two or three others. They stayed
for a while in the hotel, and then we divided forces and made two houses
of it. Our house was already rather overcrowded, and it was impossible
to take in half a dozen more.
The new house was a couple of hundred yards away from the old one, and
was rented from a Turkish cavalry officer who kept a small bootshop in
the town.
There was great friction over the division, but the less friction is
emphasised the better. It is inevitable among prisoners.
Early in December Chukri Bey left Angora to go as Military Attache to
Berlin. We never met his like again. Swiftly and surely our privileges
were stripped from us, and about the middle of December we were locked
up for good and all. For the rest of our time in Angora we had no more
walks, and our outings were cut down to one half-day a week for
shopping. We were not even allowed to walk in the narrow passage behind
the house for several weeks, though we did later regain that dismal
right. It became exceedingly cold. Snow fell, and the temperature was
often near zero. But we were too poor to spend much on fuel. Larger
bills for our keep while in Constantinople came in, and their amount was
deducted from our pay. We had to try to buy blankets and underclothes.
And we had to store fuel for the kitchen fire. Gold had disappeared now
from circulation, and silver was fast disappearing also. The Turkish
Government used to pay us in paper, and as they had not yet struck small
notes, they paid us in fivers in bulk, and left us to settle among
ourselves how to change them. It was often almost impossible to do so in
the bazaar, and our mess secretary and the shopping orderly had a very
trying time.
In that house we could not afford to have charcoal braziers in our
rooms, as is the custom in Turkey and as we did later at Afion. The
kitchen fire had to be kept from failing, but the kitchen was far too
small to sit in, it would hold two people standing up. We had a stove in
the mess-room, and we used to light it about tea-time every afternoon.
For the rest of the day, if the sun shone, we used to congregate in the
two front rooms which got a narrow band of sunshine, until the roof
warmed up, and then we used to sit on the tiles. It was warmer on the
tiles than indoors, so long as there was no wind, even though the shady
slope of the roof were thick with snow. When it snowed, or was windy, or
rained, or was clouded over it was warmer indoors, warmest in bed.
Entire lack of exercise is bad for Britons, and looking back to that
winter I marvel that we quarrelled so little. Once the split of houses
was over we practically did not disagree at all. We played cards, and
chess, and backgammon. We had a few books. We talked. And we were
silent. Sometimes we had concerts. We were not much in the singing line,
but we made plenty of noise. Also there were alleviations. Those must
not be left out, or this chapter would seem more gloomy than is true. A
few parcels came, a few home letters, some food, and some books. Several
of us accomplished the reading of Gibbon's "Decline and Fall," which
probably we should never have done except in prison. And extraordinarily
interesting we found it, especially the later volumes which deal with
the history of the Crusades and the Turks. And I had two occupations
unshared by the rest, which took up much time, for I wrote verses and
had jaundice.
There was a sheet of ice on the floor, where water had been spilled,
when I went to bed, and twelve days later, when I got up, there was the
same ice still there. So cold it was. It was too cold to hold a book, so
I used to lie all day and devise meetings and dinners with my most loved
friends after the war.
From the tiles we had a widespread view of snow-covered plain and range
beyond range of mountains. The ground floor, so to speak, of Asia Minor
is about 3,000 feet above sea level. That is the average elevation of
the plains, and from that level rise the mountains. They are bare and
bleak, unclothed by woods, white in the winter, green for a brief and
beautiful spring, and for the rest of the year the colour of dust. Even
in the tropics I have not seen more gorgeous sunsets than those we
used to watch from the roof top, while below us lay the dark streets of
the town, channeled through the white roofs, and half-obscured by a mist
of smoke.
In the daytime those roofs were not altogether without interest.
Sometimes we saw people on them, but more often cats; real Angora
long-haired cats, basking, fighting, and lovemaking. We got to know a
lot of them by sight.
The street, too, was sometimes blocked by camels; sometimes
fierce-looking, armed ruffians strode along it; and there were a few
pretty girls who had a kind eye for the prisoners. And while the house
on our left was still a hospital, the town band used to come two or
three times a week and play excruciating music. But that can hardly be
ranked as an alleviation! The University, too, was a source of joy to
us, thoroughly pharisaical joy that we were not as they. For they were a
slimy crowd of undersized semi-demi-educated creatures not to be
compared with the stalwart murderers of the tanneries down below in the
gorge. They loved processions and patriotic demonstrations. I remember
once they carried out in procession a huge lath and paper ship meant to
celebrate some Turkish naval victory: it was about the time that the
"Hilal" newspaper announced that the Turkish navy still consisted of
over 300 units which floated. They must have included life-buoys.
All through that winter the news was bad for us, heartening for the
Turks. Russia was driven back. Bulgaria came in against us. We evacuated
the peninsula of Gallipoli, and a spirited, but wholly imaginary,
account appeared in the "Hilal" describing how our rearguard fought and
was destroyed to the last man. And Turkey began to dream and talk of an
overwhelming force concentrating for an attack on the Suez Canal. The
patriotic Zaki laughed at the idea of Egyptians submitting to be
"liberated" by Turkey. And we were all pretty optimistic despite the
gloomy news. "You are optimistic because you are prisoners," said the
French-speaking and wholly abominable officer who at this time had
charge of us. And though he knew it not, he spoke a great truth. For
prisoners are the most optimistic people in the world. For one thing,
they dare not be otherwise; but the chief reason is one analogous to the
action of vaccination or inoculation. For in the minds of prisoners
anti-bodies to the disease of pessimism multiply so fast that their
combative antitoxin keeps pace with the worst of news. This was most
noticeable throughout captivity, and, like Livingstone's famous
insensitiveness in the grip of the lion, it was a cheery feature of an
otherwise unpleasant experience.
This officer was of the East Eastern, dyed as to the skin only by a
smear of the West. Once he had been as far West as Sophia, and on that,
fortified by pornographic French literature, he based his claim to
civilisation. When I was ill with paratyphoid, and partially delirious,
he used to visit me while the rest were upstairs at lunch, and used to
try to poison my mind with his views on the downfall of England. But the
skipper, our senior officer, took this in hand, locked me in and him
out, and utterly refused him permission to visit me. He used also to be
as uncivil as he dared to Zaki, who longed to cut his throat; but this
Turk was not a man who dared much, and he was shut up in that direction
also. He used to drop in to tea, and call us "mon cher." He _was_ an
unlikeable creature. But after Christmas he cooled off, for the reason
that we made him drunk and foolish. This is not the tale of a select
seminary, but of full-blooded, hard-hearted prisoners of war, who had
not much joy in their lives. So I shall describe Christmas, and pray for
the mercy of the court. To be judged by our peers we should be judged by
soldier and sailor prisoners.
We had been locked up just long enough to hate it by Christmas, and we
determined to have as merry an evening as we could. We were helped in
this in several ways. First by ourselves, for we succeeded in buying
some rum in the town. Secondly, by the American Ambassador, may his name
be praised, who sent us a real generous Christmas hamper, with a ham,
whisky, rum, port, cigars, and chocolate. A gorgeous individual, all
gold and scarlet, came all the way from Constantinople to bring it. And,
thirdly, by the Turks: for they gave us leave to congregate for the one
evening all together in the other house, and they provided twelve
Christmas trees! There were no woods nearer than two and a half days'
journey distant, and yet they sent out a party of soldiers who brought
in twelve small fir trees. I think they were a little apologetic that
there were not enough trees to go round; and we regretted it, too, for
firewood was scarce. But it was a kindly thought, and they deserve all
credit for it. I had not had a Christmas tree of my own for about
twenty-five years.
There was rivalry between the two houses, just as there is at school,
just as there was rivalry between the two separate camps at Afion two
years later. But we sank it for the feast, and pooled all our resources.
Before dinner we sat round braziers and absorbed much alcohol: very
much: so much that one officer missed his dinner, although we shouted in
his ear that the war was over. Even that he could not hear. Even the
word "Peace" failed to rouse him. But he came round later, and ate a
huge dinner all by himself. We had turkey, and ham, and plum-pudding,
real American Embassy plum-pudding. We had also whisky. We had cigars,
and port, and again whisky. Then the evening began in earnest, near the
stove, all as near as possible to a wash basin full of hot rum punch. We
had a concert in full swing, when the Army Corps Commander, the
Commandant of Angora, the officer in charge of the prisoners, and an
interpreter came in. On a chair, with his back to the door, stood the
cook, and he was a noted songster who sang principally one song. I shall
have to paraphrase the only line I propose to quote, but it does not
lose any of its sense if reproduced as:
"_Little pigs lie with their backs all bare, umph bare_," etc.
The Army Corps Commander was a dignified person. He was the swine who
had locked us up. But except in his own person he loathed swine as a
true Mohammedan should. All mention of the pig family, or of those good
things, ham and bacon, were anathema to him. The Commandant of the Place
was likewise a person of very great dignity. Some effort was made to
stop the song, for these people had come on a state visit; to see their
Christmas trees, perhaps. But the Army Corps Commander waved all
interference aside with a superb gesture of benignity. "Let the song of
welcome proceed," he said, and these four unwanted visitors sat down in
a solemn row while the song did proceed, with pigs and pantomime in
every verse. Prison life in Turkey was not without occasional gleams of
merriment.
What the interpreter thought I don't know. He was an Armenian who had
embraced Islam to save his skin, and he did not matter anyhow. The
grandees did not wait long. We hoped to be able to "tank them up," for
very nearly all Turkish officers drink pretty heavily, despite Islam.
But they were too cautious. They and the interpreter departed. But our
officer remained, and he was our reward. Him we rendered completely
tight. So tight that at the end he stood upon a table and sang "God save
the King" in English; though, up to then, he had always denied all
knowledge of English. Zaki still wanted to cut his throat, and was with
difficulty restrained.
Thus passed the Christmas of 1915; and it was just as well we did not
know that two more Christmases would have to pass in the same way. We
all walked home to our house unaided. But the officer in charge of us
slackened off his unwelcome camouflage friendship from that day, for he
knew what a fool he had been.
January was very cold, and we were pleased to learn, towards the end of
it, that we were all to be moved to Afion-Kara-Hissar, where the other
British officers were interned. We were thoroughly sick of Angora, and
of being locked up. No change was to be expected under the present Army
Corps Commander, who hated us as much as we hated him. And really I
don't blame him very much looking back upon it in cold blood. British
prisoners are perfect brutes to manage. If they are allowed to run
things themselves, they run them very well indeed, but they also run
away. If they are given much liberty they walk about as if they own the
place. Not out of pride or display, but just because they actually feel
as if they owned it. I felt, we each felt, as though we British owned
Angora. They will never, no not ever, not even if they die, feel, or
seem to feel, or pretend to feel that their captors are as good men as
they, let alone that they are better. Again and again we received
instructions--even now I can hardly admit ever receiving "orders" of
such a kind, hence "instructions"--to salute all Turkish officers whom
we met in the streets. And each time those instructions were ignored. We
saluted senior officers, not those of rank equivalent to our own. If, on
the other hand, British prisoners are given no liberty, they continually
struggle for more, and make the lives of the Turks a burthen to them. A
Turkish officer of any grade always prefers to get one of a lower grade
to do his work, and to attend to his interviews for him. We never
acquiesced in this for one moment. If possible we raided the senior
officer's privacy. If that was not possible, we sent his junior to fetch
him. And if that failed we ruined his peace of mind by continually
writing letters to him. When any outside person of importance visited us
we complained bitterly of all we resented, and were not afraid. Turks
don't understand that attitude at all. Their method is to give strict
orders, to have those orders obeyed in semblance, and disobeyed in
private, until, in the course of time the orders lapse and become
obsolete. Then the senior officer awakes from his pleasant slumber,
makes a lot of new orders, and goes to sleep again. In no circumstance
will he remain awake, give reasonable orders, and see to it himself that
they are reasonably carried out. It is difficult for the Turk to keep
his mind, his will, or whatever you like to call it, firmly and steadily
opposed to the wills of others, whether prisoners, or his subordinates,
or subject peoples. He simply cannot do it. His method is to be
unreasonably lax for a long time, and then unreasonably severe for a
short time, so that the resultant line of progression may be more or
less straight. Thus, diagramatically expressed, these two lines, T for
Turkish and B for British, point in the same direction, but are quite
different in kind:
/| /| /| /| /| /|
T. / |/ |/ |/ |/ |/ etc.
B. ------------------- etc.
It follows that in Turkey there are no standing orders. None, that is to
say, that live long. There are files, rooms, whole houses full of dead
ones. But can you call orders "standing" when they do not stand?
In a small way, this conflict between ideas of government made life
troublesome for us in Turkey, and even more troublesome for the Turks.
But we were a small matter. If the main facts of their history were
similarly plotted as a diagram, it would be found very like my line T.:
and the result is the ruination of one of the most fruitful lands on the
face of the earth; the production of nothing, save only cruelty and
unnaturally debased races; and the present-day collapse and
disintegration of the Ottoman Empire.
Although we expected to hear at any moment that we were to pack up and
go to Afion, the date of our departure continued to recede. We really
had some things to pack now. It is extraordinary how quickly things
accumulate, even in prison. We were all anxious to go, especially the
skipper, who thought Afion would not be so difficult to escape from. He
was always thinking of escape, and at last did get clear away, but not
until the latter half of 1918. The account of that truly great and
successful adventure has been written in _Blackwood's Magazine_.
Personally I had given up the idea; my continual bad health had forced
me to abandon all hope of escape.
In Turkey all moves happen as did our move to Afion. You are told that
you will go, and nothing happens. Having been lied to consistently on
all possible occasions, after a time you conclude that this is just one
more lie. Then, quite suddenly, you are told that you are to go now at
once. Hastily you pack up, sell off what you can, take what you can of
the rest with you, and go. At the other end you find that nobody expects
you at all. Either they have never been informed that you are coming; or
they have been informed of it so long ago that they have forgotten; or,
most likely of all, they, too, have thought it was just one more lie.
How the dickens this people ever managed to run an empire is a holy
mystery to me. I don't believe they did. I believe that all real
organisation, such as it was, has been done by Greeks, Armenians and
Jews, by subject people, slaves, half-breeds and poly-breeds.
They put up a wonderful fight in this war, despite the dearth of roads
and railways. But they were staffed by Germans, and nobody denies that
Germans can organize. But how the Turks hated them! With German
organization the Turkish infantry can do very well indeed. They are
tough and hardy to a degree hard to conceive. They can live on nothing
and march all day. And they are brave. Poor devils, they need be. They
are operated upon without anaesthetics, which were only kept for
officers. They are half-starved, and they are mercilessly flogged and
bastinadoed. I have seen recruits coming in chained in gangs; and I have
seen the sick and wounded crawl with grey, leaden faces up from Angora
station to the rough accommodation provided for them in the town. I have
seen them leave their hospitals, too, generally in corpse-carts. If all
else fails to kill them, typhus does not fail. As practically all Turks
of the lower orders are lousy from birth to death, typhus rages among
them. Lice give them typhus, bugs convey relapsing fever, and fleas the
plague. Turks abound in all these insects. They may be said to be their
natural fauna. But the toughness of the peasants causes them to survive
as a race in spite of disease, in spite of ill-treatment, and in spite
of continuous war.
At last, late at night on the 13th of February, 1916, we left Angora by
train for Afion-Kara-Hissar. And to the station there came, to bid
good-bye to us, the most mysterious person in Angora: so mysterious that
I dare not mention him for fear, if he is still there, it might bring
him into peril.