FIRST PLANS FOR ESCAPE.
With the departure of the party for Geddos, the camp at Changri did
what little they could to render the long bare barrack rooms somewhat
more endurable as winter quarters. Each room was about 80 feet in
length, and consisted of a central passage bordered on either side by
a row of ugly timber posts supporting the roof. Between the passage
and a row of lockers which ran along the walls were raised platforms,
affording about six feet of useful width. Each platform was divided
in two by a single partition half-way along the room. Viewed from one
end the general effect resembled that of stables, to which use indeed
all the lower rooms had been put previous to our arrival. Each length
of platform was allotted to a group of three or four officers, who
were then at liberty to beautify their new homes as ingenuity might
suggest. Planks were hard to come by, so for the most part old valises,
blankets, and curtains were strung from post to post to screen the
"rooms" from the passage, and thereby gain for the occupants a little
privacy.
As the severity of the winter increased, caulking floor-boards became
a profitable occupation, for an icy draught now swept up through the
gaping cracks. By the time the financial difficulties to which we
have referred were at an end, it was no longer possible to obtain in
the bazaar a sufficient quantity of firewood for anything except our
kitchen stoves. It was not, however, until snow was lying deep upon
the ground that Sami Bey could be prevailed upon to let us cut down a
few of the neighbouring willow-trees, for which it need hardly be said
we had to pay heavily. Apart from the exercise thus obtained--and it
was good exercise carrying the wood into the barracks--an odd visit
or two to the bazaar, and a few hours' tobogganing as a concession on
Christmas Day, were the only occasions on which we saw the outside
of our dwelling-place for three long months. Nor was there anything
in the way of comfort within. The number of trees allotted to us was
small, and the daily wood ration we allowed ourselves only sufficed
to keep the stoves going in our rooms for a few hours each day. The
fuel, moreover, being green, was difficult to keep alight, so that we
spent many hours that winter blowing at the doors of stoves; and the
stoker on duty had to give the fire his undivided attention if he
wished to avoid the sarcastic comments of his chilled companions. It
was a special treat reserved for Sundays to have our stoves burning for
an hour in the afternoon. For over a month the temperature remained
night and day below freezing-point, and the thermometer on one occasion
registered thirty-six degrees of frost.
An officer who used to fill up an old beer-bottle with hot water to
warm his feet when he got into bed, found one morning that it had
slipped away from his feet and had already begun to freeze, although
still under the clothes!
But enough of the miseries of that winter: in spite of such
unfavourable conditions, the camp was a cheerful one. We were all
good friends, and united in our determination not to knuckle under to
the Turk. Our senior officer, Colonel A. Moore, of the 66th Punjabis,
was largely instrumental in making our lot an easier one. This he did
by fighting our many battles against an unreasonable and apathetic
commandant, and in all our schemes for escape he gave us his sound
advice and ready support.
Compared to his two predecessors, this commandant, Sami Bey, was a
very difficult person from whom to "wangle" anything. Although he
could lay claim to no greater efficiency for his task of commanding
a prisoner-of-war camp than they, he made himself very obnoxious to
us by his policy of pure obstruction. If we applied for any sort of
concession, however reasonable, he safeguarded himself by saying he
would have to wire to Constantinople for orders, and of course no
orders ever came. With the two commandants we had had in Kastamoni, a
threat by our own senior officer to report any matter under discussion
to the Turkish Headquarters was enough to make him give in over any
reasonable request without further ado. Sami, however, would look
the question up in his Regulations. On one occasion we bombarded him
from every quarter with demands to be allowed to go out tobogganing.
Finally the answer came back: "The Regulations do not mention the word
'toboggan'; therefore, I cannot allow you to do so." Even the Turk,
then, though he uses sand instead of blotting-paper, has his office
"red tape"!
The average Turkish officer is an ignoramus, and the following story
of Sami Bey will serve to show that he was no exception to the rule.
At the time that the German gun "Big Bertha" was bombarding Paris at
long range, he was very proud to produce a picture of it in a German
paper. It was one of those semi-bird's-eye views, showing Paris in the
left-hand bottom corner, and along the top the Straits of Dover and the
English Channel. The gun was about half-way down the right-hand edge,
and the curved trajectory of the shell was shown by a dotted line from
the moment it left the muzzle to the moment when it entered Paris. To
a British officer to whom he was showing the picture, Sami explained at
great length how the shell passed through St Quentin, Cambrai, Douai,
up to one of the Channel ports, and then down again viâ Amiens, until
it finally arrived at its destination in Paris and exploded! This
Turkish brigadier-general believed this to be a solemn fact, and his
"ignorant" British hearer was polite enough not to undeceive him.
Ours claimed to have been the first party formed with a view to escape,
but it was not long before there were several others, and it became
evident that some plan would have to be devised by which a large number
might hope to make their way out of the barracks fairly simultaneously.
Since these had been designed for Turkish soldiers, every window was
already barred. But we were in addition a camp of suspects, who had
refused to give their parole; so at night, in addition to sentries
being posted at every corner, visiting patrols went round the building
at frequent intervals. Three or four fellows, of course, might cut the
bars of a window and slip through, but hardly five or six parties.
At this moment an old magazine came into our hands containing an
article which described how thirty or forty Federal officers had
escaped from a Confederate prison by means of a tunnel. This was at
once recognised as the ideal solution of our problem if only we could
find a suitable outlet and the means of disposing of the earth.
While the general plan was still under discussion, we were reinforced
by the arrival of three officers from Geddos. They had refused to give
their parole in spite of the Turks' threat that they would be moved
to Changri if they did not change their minds. Here then they arrived
one cold December morning, looking very racy in their check overcoats,
supplied to them by the Dutch Legation. These coats were doubtless
the last word in Constantinople fashions, and in the shop windows had
probably been marked "Très civilisé," for it is the highest ambition of
the Turk to be considered civilised.
Nothing hurts his feelings more than to be the object of ridicule on
account of any lack of up-to-dateness, as the following story will
serve to illustrate. While we were at Kastamoni, a chimney in one of
the houses occupied by the prisoners of war caught fire, and, with a
great flourish of trumpets, the town fire-brigade was called out to
extinguish the conflagration. Let not the reader, however, picture to
himself even the most obsolete of horsed fire-engines. In this town,
with a pre-war population of something like 25,000 souls, and with
houses almost entirely built of timber, dependence in the event of a
fire was placed on what can best be described as a diminutive tank
carried on a stretcher, and provided with a small pump worked by a
lever, seesaw fashion. The tank was kept filled by buckets replenished
at the nearest spring. The sight of two men in shabby uniform solemnly
oscillating the lever by the handle at either end, and of the feeble
trickle of water which resulted at the nozzle of the hose, was too
much for the sense of humour of the British officers who happened to
be present at the time. At this moment the commandant, then one Tewfik
Bey, appeared on the scene. Horrified at such ill-timed levity on the
part of the onlookers, he seized upon a major standing by and had him
escorted to his room, there to be confined till Tewfik's anger should
abate. To the Turk this tank was the latest thing in fire-engines.
To carry the story to its happy ending, we may add that, after three
days of confinement, the major addressed a letter to H.E. Enver Pasha
through the commandant, which ran somewhat as follows:--
"SIR,--I have the honour to report that, owing to the
close confinement in which I have been kept, my health has now
entirely broken down. I therefore request that, with a view to
providing some slight possibility of recovery, I may be allowed to
go to England on one month's sick leave, and that as far as the
port of embarkation I may be accompanied by _posta_[5] 'Ginger,' as
he alone in all Turkey really understands my temperament.--I have
the honour to be, sir, your most obedient prisoner of war,
X."
Whether this letter ever reached His Excellency we shall probably never
know. From our knowledge of the Turk's total lack of humour, however,
we should say that it is more than probable that Tewfik Bey solemnly
forwarded it on through the proper channel. That no answer was received
proves nothing; for it is a matter of years to get a reply to an
application like this from the authorities at Constantinople, and the
letter was only written three years ago. At least it had this good
effect, that the major was released from confinement forthwith.
But we must return to our real subject. Amongst the three officers from
Geddos was one Tweedledum, so named from a certain rotundity of figure,
which even the scanty provisions said to be obtainable there had failed
to reduce. From his lips we first heard of the wonderful capabilities
of the Handley-Page passenger aeroplane. Such machines, he said, could
carry fifteen to sixteen passengers, and three of them had recently
flown from England to Mudros, with only one intermediate landing in
Italy. A pilot of one of them had been a prisoner with him at Geddos.
A few evenings later Nobby had a great brain-wave; fetching a 'Pears'
Annual,' he turned up the maps of Europe and Asia Minor, and, after a
few hurried measurements, unfolded to his stable companions, Perce and
Looney, what was afterwards known as the "aeroplane scheme." These
three had, with much expense and trouble, managed to collect enough
planks for a real wooden partition to their "room," and it was behind
this screen that this and many another devilish plot was hatched.
Briefly, Nobby's idea was for a flight of five or six Handley-Pages
to be sent from Cyprus, swoop down on Changri, and pick up the whole
camp, both officers and men--and Sami too. We should, of course, have
to take over the barracks from our guards, but this should be easily
effected by a _coup de main_, and probably without having to resort to
bloodshed. At first the idea appeared a trifle fantastic, for after
being cut off from the outside world for two whole years it took time
for us to assimilate the wonderful advance of aeronautical science
which the scheme assumed; but given that Tweedledum's statement was
correct, the scheme was feasible, and we soon took up the question
seriously. Our representative of the R.F.C. pronounced the surrounding
fields practicable landing grounds; a committee confirmed the
possibility of taking over the barracks by surprise; and the whole
scheme, illustrated by a small sketch of the vicinity, was soon on its
way home.
We were fortunate in having a method of sending secret information
without much risk of detection. The censorship of our letters, like
most things in Turkey, was not very efficient. Looney's brother in
England was the inventor of the secret means. The first code which he
devised consisted merely of diminutive gaps between pairs of letters
in an apparently ordinary communication. That there was a message
contained was indicated to the addressee by the writer adding after his
signature his address as "Codin House, Thislet Terrace."[6] The exact
nature of the code then had to be discovered by guess-work. After two
letters had been received, Nobby noticed the gaps, and the clue was
discovered. By stringing together all the letters preceding the gaps,
one obtained the concealed message.
The way thus opened, more effective means of communication could be
developed. One of these was to send out messages written on a slip of
paper, wrapped up in silver tissue and then inserted in a full tube
of tooth-paste. As parcels, however, took anything from eight months
to over a year to reach the camp, the value of the news contained was
considerably diminished. Moreover, this method was not available for
sending news from Turkey to England.
The final method was simple, yet perfectly effective for smuggling
news into a country such as Turkey. It consisted of pasting together
two thin post-cards, the gummed portion being confined to a border
of about an inch in width round the edges. The central rectangle so
left ungummed was available for the secret message, which was written
very small on the two inner faces of the cards before they were
stuck together. Further space for writing was obtainable by adding
another slip of paper of the size of the rectangle, and including this
within the cards when gumming them up. After being pressed, the final
post-card was trimmed so as to leave no sign of the join. The position
of the rectangle containing the message was indicated on the address
side by at first two lines, and later by the smallest possible dots
at the corners. Well over a score of such cards must have passed from
England into Turkey, and more than half that number in the reverse
direction, without discovery ever being made by our captors. In the
camp, to avoid the risk of being overheard talking about "split
post-cards" by one of the interpreters, these cards were known as
"bananas"--an apt name, as you had to skin them to get at the real
fruit inside!
This explains the method by which it was possible to suggest the
aeroplane scheme to the home authorities.
Unfortunately it used to take at least four months to receive a
reply to a letter. For this reason we could not afford to wait until
a definite date was communicated to us, so we ourselves named the
first fifteen days of May as suitable for us, and agreed, from 6 to 8
A.M. on each of these days, to remain in a state of instant
readiness to seize the barracks should an aeroplane appear. For the
sake of secrecy, the details of the _coup de main_ itself were left to
be worked out by a small committee, and the report spread amongst the
rest of the camp that the scheme had been dropped. The true state of
affairs would not be divulged until a few days before the first of May.
The committee's plan was this. There were at Changri 47 officers and
28 orderlies--a total force of 75 unarmed men with which to take over
the barracks. Our guard, all told, numbered 70 men. At any one time
during daylight there were seven Turkish sentries on duty: one outside
each corner of the barracks, one inside the square which had an open
staircase at each corner, one at the arched entrance in the centre of
the north face, while the seventh stood guard over the commandant's
office. This was a room in the upper storey over the archway and facing
on to the square.
On each side of the commandant's office, therefore, were the barrack
rooms inhabited by the British officers, and to go from one side to the
other it was necessary to pass the sentry standing at his post on the
landing in between. From here a flight of steps gave on to the road
through the main archway; on the other side of this again, and facing
the stairs, was the door of the ground-floor barrack room used by our
guard. This room was similar to those in the upper storey already
described, and we found out by looking through a hole made for the
purpose in the floor of the room above, and by casual visits when we
wanted an escort for the bazaar, that the rifles of the occupants were
kept in a row of racks on either side of the central passage-way.
By 6 A.M. on each morning of the first fifteen days of May
every one was to be dressed, but those who had no specific job to do
were to get back into bed again in case suspicion should be caused in
the mind of any one who happened to come round. The aeroplanes, if
they came, would arrive from the south. Two look-out parties of three,
therefore, were to be at their posts by 6 A.M., one in the
officers' mess in the S.E., and the other in the Padre's room next to
the chapel in the S.W. corner of the barracks.
The staircases at these two corners of the square were to be watched
by two officers told off for the purpose, one in each half of the
north wing. When the look-outs in the south wing had either distinctly
heard or seen an aeroplane, they were to come to their staircase and
start walking down it into the square. Our look-outs in the north wing
would warn the others in their rooms to get ready, and the officer who
had the honour of doing verger to the Padre, and who used to ring a
handbell before services, would run down the north-eastern staircase
and walk diagonally across the square towards the chapel, ringing the
bell for exactly thirty seconds.
The stopping of the bell was to be the signal for simultaneous action.
The sentry on the landing could be easily disposed of by three
officers; most of the rest were to run down certain staircases, cross
the archway, dash into the barrack room and get hold of all the rifles,
a small party at the same moment tackling the sentry at the main
entrance.
On seeing the rush through the archway the look-out parties from the
south wing would overpower the sentry in the square. The arms belonging
to the three sentries and one other rifle were to be immediately taken
to the corners of the barracks and the outside sentries covered. The
orderlies, under an officer, would meanwhile form up in the square as a
reserve.
Surprise was to be our greatest ally, and we hoped that, within a
minute of the bell stopping, the barracks would be in our hands.
Having herded our Turkish guard into a big cellar and locked them in,
we would then signal to the aeroplanes that the barracks were in our
possession by laying out sheets in the square; while small picquets,
armed with Turkish rifles and ammunition, would see to it that the
aeroplanes on landing would be unmolested from the village. We are
still convinced that the plan would have succeeded.
Even those in the know, however, put little faith in the probability
of the aeroplane scheme being carried out, realising that the machines
necessary for such an enterprise were not likely to be available from
the main battle-fronts. Preparations, therefore, continued for working
out our own salvation, as though this plan for outside help had not
entered our heads. With the first signs of spring the tunnel scheme
began to take concrete form.
As already mentioned in the description of the barracks, the ground
to the west rose gently up to the Angora road. In this slope was a
shallow, cup-like depression at a distance of forty yards from the
building. If only a convenient point for starting a tunnel could
be found in the nearest wall, the cup would form an ideal spot for
breaking through to the surface. A night reconnaissance was made in
the downstairs room on the western side of the barracks. As a result
of this there seemed a likelihood that under the whole of the platform
in this room we should find a hollow space varying from one to three
feet in depth. If the surmise were correct and a tunnel could be run
out from here, there would be no difficulty in getting rid of all the
excavated earth into this hollow space. Unfortunately the lower room,
though not in use, was kept locked.
It was discovered, however, that the walls of the barracks consisted
of an outer and inner casing, each a foot thick, and built of large
sun-dried bricks, the space between being filled up with a mixture of
rubble, mortar, and earth, and a few larger stones. This was in the
bottom storey. Above that the construction of the wall changed to two
thicknesses of lath and plaster attached to either side of a timber
framing, and the thickness of the wall diminished to only nine inches.
The total width of the wall below was five feet; therefore the lockers
in the upper room were immediately above the rubble core of the heavier
wall. It would thus be possible to get down through the lockers and
sink a shaft through the rubble to a trifle below the level of the
ground, and from there to break through the inner casing and come into
the empty space below the ground-floor.
Work was commenced in the middle of February 1918. For the next few
weeks an officer was usually to be seen lolling about at either end of
the first-floor rooms, and, on the approach of an interpreter or other
intruder, would stroll leisurely down the passage, whistling the latest
ragtime melody.
Within the room all would now be silent; but when the coast was again
clear there could perhaps be seen in the barrack room a pair of weird
figures, strangely garbed and white with dust. Somewhere in the line of
lockers was the entrance to the shaft-head. The locker doors being only
a foot square were too small to admit a man, and so the top planks at
the place where we wished to work had been levered up and fitted with
hinges to form a larger entrance. To give additional room inside, the
partition between two consecutive lockers was also removed; the floor
of one locker and the joists supporting the platform at this point were
then cut away, and we were free to commence the shaft.
For this job six officers were chosen, of whom three belonged to our
escape party. The six were divided into three reliefs, and each worked
for two hours at a time. The hole was of necessity only just large
enough for one man to work there, so of the pair one did the digging,
while his partner, when the shaft had progressed a little, sat inside
the locker at the top of the hole. When actually at work, the time
went quickly enough; but sitting in the locker was very wearisome,
as one's only duties were to pass on the alarm when the ragtime was
whistled, and from time to time to draw up by a rope the small sacks
filled by the digger. When all the available sacks were full, work was
stopped, and the two would emerge from the locker. The sacks of rubbish
were then carried a few yards along the room and emptied into a space
underneath some planks which had been loosened in the platform. At the
end of their relief, the two would go off to change their clothes,
leaving the work to be continued by the next pair.
During the time spent in the locker, one of the six learnt 'Omar
Khayyám' by heart. Reading a book was almost impossible owing to the
lack of light; even if it had been permissible, in view of the risk
of the reader becoming so interested as to miss the signal of the
alarm. 'Omar,' however, was a different thing. A verse could be read
line by line at the streak of light entering by a chink in one of the
ill-fitting locker doors, and then committed to memory--not a very
engrossing task, but it helped to pass the time.
The working kit was a light one: a shirt and "shorts," sand-shoes,
and a Balaclava cap. Round his mouth the digger usually tied a
handkerchief, so as not to swallow his peck of dust at one time, while
the cap prevented his hair and ears getting quite full of rubbish.
Let us work for one relief. You are dressed for the occasion. The
tools, consisting of two chisels, are at the bottom of the hole, which
is, say, twelve feet deep. A couple of candles and a box of matches is
all you need take with you. It is your turn to dig. You get into the
locker and climb down the rope-ladder as quickly as possible, but you
must take care not to touch the outer casing of the wall as you go, or
you may find yourself staring at an astonished sentry outside: there
are already a few holes in the wall through which daylight can be seen.
The candle lighted, you have a look round: but this is absurd! No one
has done any work since you were down there yesterday morning. That
beastly stone in the corner looks as tightly embedded in the mortar as
it was then. You bend down to pick up a chisel and you bump your head
against a projecting brick. You try to sit down, but there is not
enough room to sit and work at the same time. You try kneeling, but
it can't be done. After twisting your limbs in a hitherto undreamt-of
fashion you begin to chip away at the mortar round your old friend.
Nothing seems to happen; then suddenly your candle falls down and goes
out, leaving your chamber of little ease in Stygian darkness.
You think you hear your partner say "Stop!" and you look up just in
time to get your eyes full of grit, for he has merely shifted his legs,
which are dangling above you. After untying yourself you relight the
candle and again get down to the stone. You pick and scrape and prise,
and then as the chisel slips you bark your knuckles; and so you go on.
All sense of time is lost, and your one thought is to get that stone
out. Now it moves. You work with redoubled energy, with the result
that you break into a profuse perspiration. How you hate that stone!
Finally up it comes when you don't expect it, and the bruise at the
back of your head is nothing compared to the joy of the victor, which
is equally yours.
The rock is too big, however, to go into a sack, so you shut your eyes
and whisper to your partner above you. He then lets down an old canvas
bath kept in the locker for this purpose. The periphery of the bath is
attached to a rope by several cords, the resulting appearance as it
is lowered towards you being that of an inverted parachute. The stone
is difficult to lift and your feet are very much in the way, but in
the end the load is ready. There is not enough room in the shaft for
the stone and the bath to be pulled up past your body, so you climb up
the ladder and help your partner to haul. This done, work is resumed.
A small sack is filled with bits of mortar picked away from round the
stone, and this too is pulled up the shaft, but the sack being small
you need not leave the hole.
Now your partner tells you that it is time for the next shift. You
leave the chisels in an obvious place, blow out the candle, and climb
to the locker. Here your partner is tapping gently against the door. If
your look-out says "All safe!" you push open the lid and emerge. The
big stone is hastily carried to an empty locker and the rubbish from
the sack disposed of as already described. The plank in the platform is
replaced, the bath and sack returned to the locker, the lid closed, and
the place once more assumes its normal aspect.
You then nip along to the nearest inhabited room, where you find your
relief waiting for you. One of these two is almost certain to greet
you with the words: "I suppose you got that stone in the corner out
straight away. I practically finished it off last night. It only wanted
a heave or two." It is useless to point out that, had it not been for
the masterly manner in which you had worked, the stone would still be
firmly embedded there. You merely bide your time, certain that within
a few days you will be in a position to make a similar remark to him.
Work was now being carried on continuously throughout the day. Besides
the diggers, there were 24 officers who took their turn as look-outs.
It was not possible to keep the work going at night, for from time to
time the sentries outside would patrol this wing of the barracks. In
the daytime, when they approached the point where we were at work, our
look-outs could stop the diggers, but this would have been impossible
after dark. Moreover, light from a candle would then have been visible
from outside through the cracks in the outer casing.
At this stage our plans received a rude shock. We were suddenly
informed that we were to be moved to the Prisoner-of-War Camp at Yozgad
(pronounced Useguard), eighty miles south-east of us. We were to be
ready, said Sami Bey, to start within a week. After our experience
of the departure from Kastamoni, we came to the conclusion it might
equally well be a month before the necessary transport was collected.
We determined, therefore, to push on with the tunnel at high pressure,
and if necessary to bring it out to the surface short of the spot
originally intended, and then one dark night to make a bolt for it. So
the work went on.
For the first three feet of the shaft we had found merely loose rubble
and stones easily excavated, for the next thirteen we had had to dig
out stones embedded in very hard mortar. Here we progressed only a few
inches a day. Below this there was solid concrete. Every few feet we
came to wooden ties holding the inner and outer casings together; but
fortunately these were on one side of the hole, and we did not have to
cut through them.
At the time the move was announced we were at a depth of 16 feet,
just entering the concrete. Here we were below the level of the lower
storey, so we broke through the inner casing into the space beneath
the platform. We now found, to our disgust, that the ground was on an
average barely a foot below the joists, and the surface, being composed
of dust which had been falling for eighty years between the boards of a
Turkish barrack-room floor, was very unpleasant.
Our disappointment, however, was counteracted by a stroke of good luck.
At each end of the barrack room above there was an alcove, and we found
beneath the nearer of the two alcoves an empty space 8 feet by 6 by 5.
In this we could dispose of a good deal of the spoil from the tunnel.
To get rid of the rest we should have to make a main burrow below the
floor, filling up the remaining space on either side between the ground
and the floor, and eventually packing the burrow itself with earth
excavated from the mine. Should this again not suffice, the surplus
earth would have to be pulled up by way of the shaft, and distributed
under the boards of the upper-room platform. All that now remained for
us to do before actually starting on the tunnel itself was to sink a
secondary shaft about 6 feet deep, so as to get below the level of the
concrete foundations. After this we could strike horizontally towards
the Angora road.
The method of moving about in the confined space was that employed by
the caterpillar that loops its back, draws its hind legs under it,
and then advances with its forefeet; and we found it a slow means of
locomotion. The burrow to the hollow under the alcove was completed,
and another in the opposite direction to the farther alcove was well on
its way when we started to work on the second shaft. Three feet down we
came to water. It was a great blow to us; and although with unlimited
time at our disposal the difficulty might have been overcome, under
present circumstances we had to consider ourselves defeated in that
direction, especially as we heard, a few days later, that transport was
already on its way from Angora.
The early move would also, of course, upset the aeroplane scheme, and
we sincerely hoped that the authorities at home would hear that we
had left Changri in time to prevent aeroplanes being sent. Although
the scheme sent to them had provided somewhat for this contingency
by arranging that the aeroplanes were not to land till they saw the
special signal from us, it was not pleasant to think that we might
be the cause of risk to valuable pilots and machines, and all to no
purpose. Apart from the move, however, it eventually turned out that
the scheme could not be entertained at home, as in April and May 1918
every available machine was being urgently required for making things
unpleasant for the Germans behind the main battle-front.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] = soldier.
[6] = code in this letter.