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FOUR-FIFTY MILES TO FREEDOM
[Illustration:
_From a photo taken at Famagusta, Cyprus, by Lieut. E. F. McAlpine, H.L.I._
(_attached Royal Scots_).
THE SUCCESSFUL ESCAPE PARTY, WITH SOME CAPTURED TROPHIES.
Left to right--standing: Captains J. H. HARRIS, F. R.
ELLIS, A. B. HAIG, Commander A. D. COCHRANE,
D.S.O., R.N., Captains V. S. CLARKE and M. A. B.
JOHNSTON. Seated: Captains R. A. P. GRANT, M.C., and
K. D. YEARSLEY.]
FOUR-FIFTY MILES TO FREEDOM
by
CAPTAIN M. A. B. JOHNSTON, R.G.A. and CAPTAIN K. D. YEARSLEY, R.E.
William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
1919
All Rights Reserved
_TO THE_
_REVEREND =HAROLD SPOONER, C.F.=,_
_FELLOW-PRISONER OF WAR
IN TURKEY._
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. KASTAMONI AND CHANGRI 3
II. FIRST PLANS FOR ESCAPE 15
III. AN ATTEMPT THAT FAILED 39
IV. YOZGAD CAMP 55
V. THE FLAG FALLS 83
VI. THE PEACEFUL SHEPHERDS 108
VII. RECAPTURED? 124
VIII. THE ANCIENT HALYS 140
IX. A RETREAT UNDER FIRE 159
X. THE THREE HUNS 176
XI. IN THE HEART OF THE TAURUS 195
XII. DOWN TO THE SEA 211
XIII. ON THE COAST 233
XIV. FAILURE AND SUCCESS 253
XV. FREEDOM 278
XVI. CONCLUSION 293
ILLUSTRATIONS.
THE SUCCESSFUL ESCAPE PARTY, WITH SOME
CAPTURED TROPHIES _Frontispiece_
AN OLD BRIDGE AT KASTAMONI _Facing p._ 4
COUNTRY KNOWN TO THE LOCAL HUNT CLUB
AS "HADES" " 60
YOZGAD CAMP FROM N.W. " 94
UPPER HOUSE, YOZGAD, FROM N.N.E. (WINTER TIME) " 98
THE FLIGHT FROM MOSES' WELL " 162
LIFE IN THE RAVINE " 234
THE MOTOR BOAT " 274
MAP _at end_
Four-Fifty Miles to Freedom.
PRISONER OF WAR.
When you've halted after marching till you feel you do not care
What may happen, for you can't march any more,
And the order comes to "Fall in" and to march you know not where,
Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war.
When you're fighting in the trenches ankle-deep in mud and slush,
With the north wind cutting through you keen and raw,
While the second hand ticks slowly till it's time to make the rush,
Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war.
When the order's "Up and at 'em" and the blood beats through your head,
When the dead are falling round you by the score,
And when all you think and all you feel and all you see is red,
Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war.
When you're fighting in the desert where the heat waves never stop,
And you've never known what thirst has been before,
Though you'd sell your soul for water and you know there's not a drop,
Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war.
We've been handed down a birthright which the bards of ages sing,
From the days of Agincourt and long before,
That a Briton owns no master save his God and save his king,
But you find a third when prisoner of war.
It's a feeling right inside you, and it never lets you go,
That you haven't been allowed to pay your score:
You may still be hale and hearty, but you're missing all the show.
What offers for the job? Prisoner of war.
M. A. B. J.
_Written in_ KASTAMONI,
1916.
CHAPTER I.
KASTAMONI AND CHANGRI.
"Il n'y a pas trois officiers." Such was the memorable epigram by which
Sherif Bey, Turkish Captain of the Prisoners-of-War Guard at Kastamoni,
and a man regardless of detail, announced to us that four officers,
whose escape has been described in 'Blackwood's Magazine,'[1] had got
safely away from the camp. Those of us who knew that the attempt was
being made were anxiously waiting for news. To others it came as a
great surprise. Captain[2] Keeling, in his story mentioned above, does
not, for obvious reasons, name any one who helped them. Now it does not
matter.
Officers sang loudly and long to prevent the nearest sentry from
hearing the noise of rusty nails being pulled out of a door not many
feet away from him, though hidden from view. More metaphorical dust was
thrown in this wretched man's eyes and ears by the incorrigible James,
who during these critical moments described to him, in very inadequate
Turkish, but with a sense of humour equal to any occasion, the working
parts of a petrol motor-engine. Another helper was an orderly, Gunner
Prosser, R.F.A., a remarkable man with a passion for wandering about
in the dark. The thought of spending a quiet night sleeping in his
prisoners' quarters was repellent to him. As far as we could make out,
he never missed a night's prowl. A fez, a false beard, and a civilian
overcoat were the only "props" he used. This was undoubtedly the man
to help Keeling's party out of the town, for the by-streets were
better known to Prosser in the dark than they were to other prisoners
by daylight. Accordingly, he led the four officers out of Kastamoni.
Some one, however, must have seen and suspected them, for less than
three-quarters of an hour after their start the alarm was given. Shots
were fired and the camp suddenly bristled with sentries. Through this
cordon Prosser had to get back to his quarters. A Turkish sergeant,
into whom he ran full tilt, was knocked over backwards. Followed by
revolver shots from the angry _chaouse_, Prosser darted up one side
street, doubled on his tracks by another, and by his own private
entrance reached his quarters in safety. Here he disposed of his beard
and fez, shaved off his moustache in the dark, and got into bed. When
a few minutes later Captain Sherif Bey came round to feel the hearts
of all the orderlies, Prosser could hardly be roused from an innocent
sleep, and his steady heart-beats allayed all suspicion as to the part
he had played.
[Illustration:
_From a sketch by Major F. S. Barker, R.E._
AN OLD BRIDGE AT KASTAMONI.]
The effect of the escape of these four officers on our camp was
considerable. We were confined to our houses without any exercise
for ten days; sentries were more than trebled on the principle of
locking the stable door. This, however, did not affect Prosser, who
took his nightly walks as usual. Our commandant, Colonel Fettah Bey,
was dismissed in disgrace and replaced by a Sami Bey, whose rank
corresponded with that of a brigadier-general. Now came rumours of the
closing down of the camp at Kastamoni and a move to Changri (pronounced
Chungri)--a mere village about eighty miles due south of us.
Keeling's party escaped on August 8, 1917. Each day that followed,
Sherif Bey brought official news of their capture in different parts
of Asia Minor. One was reminded of Mark Twain's stolen white elephant.
The marching powers of the four officers must have been phenomenal:
sometimes they covered hundreds of miles in a few hours. Confined to
our houses, we amused ourselves taking bets with the Turkish sentries,
who were convinced that the fugitives would be brought back to
Kastamoni within a week. In their opinion those who had escaped were
madmen. What could be more delightful than the life they were running
away from,--one could sit in a chair all day quietly smoking cigarettes
and drinking coffee, far away from the detested war--assuredly they
were quite mad! Now it was unwise to bet, because when we lost we paid
up, and when the Turks lost they did not feel in any way bound to do
so. Our first commandant, Colonel Tewfik Bey, betted heavily on the war
ending before Christmas 1916. He went on the doubling system. On losing
his bet he deferred payment and doubled his bet for a later date, till
by the time he lost his job as commandant he had mortgaged most of
Turkey.
One half of the prisoners at Kastamoni moved to Changri on September
27, 1917, the other half about ten days later. Three weeks before the
departure of the first party we were told to be ready to move in a few
days' time. Preparations were made, rooms dismantled, and home-made
beds, tables, and chairs pulled to bits for convenience of transport;
kit and crockery were packed, and all of us were living in a state of
refined discomfort, when we were told that the move had been postponed,
owing to lack of available mules and carts. Some of us set to work to
rebuild beds and chairs, others resigned themselves to fate and were
content to sleep on the floor and sit on boxes. If we remember aright,
there were two postponements.
At last the day of leaving Kastamoni really did arrive. We had been
promised so many carts and so many mules and had made our arrangements
accordingly. At the last moment we were told that fewer carts and
mules had rolled up. This meant leaving something behind, or marching
the whole way--one decided for oneself. Many of us marched every step
to Changri. Our departure took place at 1 P.M., and a weird
procession we must have looked--carts and mules loaded high with
all manner of furniture, stoves and stove-pipes sticking out in all
directions.
The poor Greeks of the town were very sad to see us go. The Rev. Harold
Spooner, through the Greek priest, had been able from time to time
to distribute to these destitute people fair sums of money supplied
by voluntary subscription among the prisoners. In addition to this,
families of little children used to be fed daily by some messes,
and so we were able, in a small way, to relieve the want of a few
unhappy Christians. Before we left Kastamoni, the Padre showed us a
letter which he had received from the head Greek priest, thanking us
for having helped the poor. We had, he said, kept families together,
and young girls from going on the streets, and he assured us that it
would be the privilege of the Greek community to look after the small
graveyard we had made for the six officers and men who had died while
we were there.
By 2 P.M. we were clear of Kastamoni. The change of camp
would be a great break in the monotony of our existence, and for the
time being we were happy. The journey was to take four days. At night
we halted near water at a suitable camping-ground by the roadside, and
in the early morning started off again. A healthy life and a great
holiday for us. For the first two days the scenery was magnificent, as
we crossed the forest-covered Hilgas range, but as we approached our
destination the country became more and more barren. On the fourth day,
coming over a crest, we saw the village of Changri built at the foot of
a steep and bare hill. We went through the village, and a mile beyond
us stood our future home.
A dirty-looking, two-storied square building it was, surrounded on
three sides by level fields edged with a few willows. On the west the
ground rose a little to the main Angora road. Close to the barracks
were sixty graves, which looked fairly new. This gave a bad impression
of the place at the start. On entering, we were too dumfounded to
speak, and here it may be added that it took a lot to dumfound us. The
square inside the buildings was full of sheep and goats, and the ground
was consequently filthy. The lower-storey rooms, which were to be our
mess-rooms, had been used for cattle, and the cellar pointed out to us
as our kitchen was at least a foot deep in manure. Only one wing of the
barracks had window panes, and these were composed of small bits of
glass rudely fitted together. Truly a depressing place.
Many of us elected to sleep that night in the square in preference
to the filthier barrack rooms. The sanitary arrangements were beyond
words. The next morning we set to work cleaning up, but it was weeks
before the place was habitable. Another great inconvenience was that
for many days drinking-water had to be fetched in buckets from the
village over a mile away; but for this the Turks finally provided a
water-cart.
It was at Changri that most of the twenty-five officers who escaped
from Yozgad on August 7, 1918, made up their parties. Our party, only
six at that time, consisted of--
Captain A. B. Haig, 24th Punjabis;
Captain R. A. P. Grant, 112th Infantry;
Captain V. S. Clarke, 2nd Batt. Royal West Kent Regiment;
Captain J. H. Harris, 1/4 Hampshire Territorials;
and the two authors. Throughout the remainder of our narrative these
six will be denoted by their respective nicknames: Old Man, Grunt,
Nobby, Perce, Johnny, and Looney.
Roughly speaking, there were four alternative directions open to us.[3]
Northwards to the Black Sea, a distance of 100 miles; eastwards to
the Russian front, 250 to 350 miles; to the Mediterranean, 300 miles
southward, or 400 miles westward. Compared to the others the distance
to the Black Sea was small, but outweighing this advantage was the fact
that Keeling's party had got away in that direction, and the coast
would be carefully guarded if another escape took place. The position
of the Russian front, so far as we knew, was anything up to 350 miles
away, and the country to the east of us was very mountainous. In
addition, an escape in that direction would entail getting through the
Turkish fighting lines, which we thought would prove very difficult.
The Salt Desert, at least 150 miles across, frightened us off thinking
of the southern route. The remaining one was westward: it was the
longest distance to go, it is true, but for this very reason we hoped
the Turks would not suspect us of trying it. The valleys ran in the
direction we should be travelling, and if we did reach the coast, it
was possible that we might get in touch with one of the islands in
Allied hands.
Having made up our minds, we sent code messages home to find out which
would be the best island to make for in the following early summer.
We also asked for reduced maps to cover our route from Changri to the
selected island, and requested that a look-out should be kept from it
in case we signalled from the coast.
Shortly after we had made our decision the question of giving parole
cropped up. To any one who gave it the Turks offered a better camp and
more liberty. It was a question for each to decide for himself, and we
did so. On the 22nd November 1917, therefore, seventy-seven officers
went off to Geddos. It was very sad parting from many good friends, and
when the last cart disappeared round the spur of the hill, one turned
away wondering if one would ever see them again. There were still
forty-four officers and about twenty-eight orderlies in Changri. These
officers were moved into the north wing of the barracks, and there
they remained for the next four and a half months. At this period we
had a great financial crisis--none of us had any money, prices were
very high, and it came to tightening our belts a little. Our long and
badly-built barrack rooms were very draughty, and as we had no money
there was not much likelihood of getting firewood. Some cheerful Turk
kindly told us that the winter at Changri was intensely cold, and that
the temperature often fell below zero. Altogether the prospect for the
next few months was anything but pleasant.
During our most depressed moments, however, we could always raise a
smile over the thought that we were "The honoured guests of Turkey."
Enver Pasha himself had told us so at Mosul, where we halted on
our four-hundred-mile march across the desert, after the fall of
Kut-el-Amara.[4] So it must have been true.
At the time we write this unscrupulous adventurer, Enver--a man of
magnetic personality and untiring in his energy to further his personal
schemes--has but lately fled to Caucasia. He is a young man, and
having held a position of highest authority in Turkey for some years,
presumably a rich one. Doubtless he will lead a happy and prosperous
existence for many years to come.
There are thousands of sad hearts in England and in the Indian Empire
to-day, and hundreds of thousands in Turkey itself, as a result of the
utter disregard for human life entertained by this man and a few of his
colleagues. Of the massacre of Armenians we will not speak, although
we have seen their dead bodies, and although we have met their little
children dying of starvation on the roadsides, and have passed by their
silent villages; but we should fail in our duty to the men of the
British Empire who died in captivity in Turkey did we not appeal for a
stern justice to be meted out to the men responsible for their dying.
It may perhaps be said with truth that it was no studied cruelty on
the part of the Turkish authorities that caused the death of so many
brave men who had given themselves to the work of their country: yet
with equal truth it may be said, that it was the vilest form of apathy
and of wanton neglect. Where the taking of a little trouble by the high
officials at Constantinople would have saved the lives of thousands
of British and Indian soldiers, that trouble was never taken. Weak
with starvation, and sick with fever and dysentery (we speak of the
men of Kut), they were made to march five hundred miles in the burning
heat across waterless deserts, without regular or sufficient rations
and without transport--in many cases without boots, which had been
exchanged for a few mouthfuls of food or a drink of water.
We officers, who had not such a long march as the men, and who were
given a little money and some transport, thought ourselves in a
bad way. But what of the men who had none? There were no medical
arrangements, and those who could not march fell by the desert paths
and died. The official White Book gives the number 65 as the percentage
of deaths amongst British soldier prisoners taken at Kut, a figure
which speaks for itself.
It is a law of the world's civilisation that if a man take the life
of another, except in actual warfare, he must pay forfeit with his
own life. Take away bribery and corruption and that law holds good
in Turkey. Now when a soldier is taken prisoner he ceases to be an
active enemy, and the country of his captors is as responsible for his
welfare as for that of her own citizens. What if that country so fails
to grasp the responsibility that its prisoners are allowed to die by
neglect? Should not its rulers be taught such a lesson that it would
be impossible for those of future generations to forget it?
It is not enough to obtain evidence of a cruel corporal at that
prisoners' camp, or of a bestial commandant at this, and to think that
by punishing them we have avenged our dead. These men are underlings.
The men we must punish first are those few in high authority, who, by
an inattention to their obvious duty, have made it possible for their
menials to be guilty of worse than murder.
We pride ourselves on the fact that we are citizens of the most just
country of the world. Let us see to it that justice is not starved.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] "An Escape from Turkey in Asia," by Captain E. H. Keeling.
'Blackwood's Magazine,' May 1918.
[2] Now Lieutenant-Colonel.
[3] _Vide_ map at end of volume.
[4] "Kut," correctly pronounced, rhymes with "put."