A prison is a house of care,
A place where none can thrive;
A Touchstone True to try a friend,
A Grave for man alive.
Sometimes a place of right,
Sometimes a place of wrong;
Sometimes a place of rogues and thieves,
And honest men among.
Old inscription
It was over a cocktail before dinner in HMS Ben-my-Chree at Port Said, where I was a guest for the evening, that Commander Samson said to me, ‘Let’s see, you haven’t been put down for coming on this next stunt of ours, you’d better come in this ship and see the fun.’
So it was settled that I should go in the Ben-my-Chree for the first day’s stunts and then transfer to HMS Raven in place of Squadron Commander Malone, who was to be an observer on the second day’s stunt with the Commander. Accordingly, having left Meade in charge of the Seaplane Depot where I had two busy days filling up the Ben-my-Chree, Raven and Anne with machines, stores and personnel, I went aboard the Ben-my-Chree, my old ship of five months previous. T.H. England was then Flight Commander, so I had a more or less visitor’s existence, very different to my overworked existence as a flight lieutenant.
Ben-my-Chree left Port Said about 4.00pm on 24 August, Raven and Anne having gone out during the morning. The ship’s band, consisting mostly of string instruments, was mustered on the foc’sle to play us out of harbour, much to the amusement of the Port Said populace and the HM Ships in port. Past SS Jupiter the band played ‘And the green grass grew all around’. This ship having been berthed for some considerable time, it was reported she had grown to the bottom. Past the Casino, the usual waves of fair visions left behind, and a final wave from two sisters in a sailing felucca brought us to sea once more.
I was rudely awakened before dawn by my camp bed giving way and discovered that the cause was that the ship had run into Syria in the dark and we were hard aground. Much shouting, of course. Machine guns were mounted in the bows while the screws going full astern churned up plenty of sand and the siren called up our little TB escort. Some of us were rather pleased at the chance of something novel: the cause of this running aground I can hardly write as carelessness, but it was certainly rather comic. After an hour’s going astern with the Chief Engineer’s help – he always had steam up his sleeve for special occasions – we came clear, went on our way and arrived at Haifa Bay, our rendezvous. Here the Raven and Anne had already arrived. Seaplanes were at once hoisted out and the Commander, with his machine having a red tail fin, got away, followed by nine others. Away in the distance one could see a long line of machines disappearing to El Feulie on their errand of destruction. All returned safely about fifty minutes later, some having shot holes in, but all were enthusiastic about the damage done to the railway junction.
A second flight was to be made to this junction by three machines, myself with Wedgwood Benn MP as observer. Benn had arrayed his tunic with many false medal ribbons, thinking that if he were taken prisoner he would be treated as a general. I had the commander’s machine, but after hoisting out I found the engine was too bad to get off the water, so I was told to go away in another. Again luck was against me, the engine was bad and I could only get about 800 feet, dropping overland where there were bumps. From my point of view I was fed up as the other two machines returned and said the junction was then a sight worth seeing, while I had not been able to get there.
We left Haifa Bay and went south, meeting on our way two hostile dhows in sail. We stopped these with our 12-pounders across their bows. One ran ashore with sails up and the crew legged it. The other we captured as a prize and took the crew of five prisoners. They didn’t seem displeased as they only had bread and water to live on and aboard they got a square meal. We hoisted the dhow aboard and went on to a place off the shore between Askelon and Gaza where various raids were to be started, each ship having a different objective. Orders were a bit vague until the last moment, so there wasn’t much time to look over one’s allotted machine.
I was allotted one of the new Clerget Schneider machines which had only recently arrived at Port Said, the fastest thing in boots. I left the Ben-my-Chree about 4.30 after some difficulty in starting up. Once away I climbed rapidly and made off rapidly inland to my objective, a camp. My engine was going well and the weather was good. I watched other seaplanes on their return journey with a careful look out for the Hun. I followed inland over a wadi, or dried-up water course, over the sand dunes thinking what a nice machine this was, when at about 3,000 feet up and twelve miles inland, my engine spluttered and died out. I waited a few seconds to see if it was going to continue, but no.
Now I’m for it, I thought. I gazed at the petrol gauge as the nature of the stoppage was like a petrol failure. No petrol in the fore tank. Perhaps the fore tank had a bullet through it. I changed over the taps to the back tank and pumped up the pressure. No result. Taps were alright. Switch was on. The only explanation I could, on the spur of the moment, think of was that the tanks had never been filled. By this time I found myself 100 feet up, faced with landing this rapid machine on terra firma on its floats. I used this last height to turn head to wind and to square up, wondering if a few seconds later would see me alive. I got to within a few feet, pulling her back and back to do a pancake landing. I seemed to be actually travelling very slowly just before I touched, but when I did hit Turkey she went over on to her nose like a flash.
I obeyed Newton’s laws and carried straight on, landing mostly on my right shoulder and head and did two somersaults. I got up dazed with a pain in my shoulder; nothing broken, thank God! I returned to the machine and having no matches or petrol to destroy the machine, which was not badly smashed, I was looking inside for any possible cause of the failure and breaking the instruments with the butt of my revolver. I tore up the chart and tried to get the machine gun out of its fittings without success. Arabs from all around were then running up and, while I was fishing out my revolver and ammunition pouch, I was seized by the Arabs and held.
At first I shouted ‘Allemagne’ hoping to bluff them that I was German and saying by signs I wanted to go to Gaza. This they took and my hopes of reaching the coast near the ships ran high, but alas!, one blighter on a horse knew the Allied marks on my machine and shouted ‘Inglese’ (English) and then they fairly went for me, in spite of my arm which was hurting badly. They tore my clothes off me leaving me only in a vest and trousers. They drew their nasty looking knives, threatening me and intimating they would cut my throat with a horrid grin on their faces. They took my watch, cigarette case, money, slitting my pocket down with a knife to get it, cap, water bottle and all.
By this time a whole Arab village was around me. The women, being most anxious to have my blood, took the opportunity to hit me over the head with sticks and throw clods of mud in my face. They tried to get my shoes, but I kicked out and kept them. What a crowd of savages I had fallen into. Some were pitch black, others copper, dirty, evil-looking brutes with hair matted like sheep’s wool. There were about eight holding onto me, squabbling like jackdaws for my possessions, and in the squabble they distracted their attention for a while and I broke away and ran like a hare followed by a howling mob of savages with swords waving. My arm pained fearfully to run, but I could have got out of their clutches and away had not a horseman ridden up and hit me over the head with his sword. The crowd rushed at me and I thought my finish had really come but they just pulled me to bits every way. One man made a dash at me with his dagger, a horrible glint in his eye, but the others kept him off. They sat me down and tied my arms behind my hack. I knew then they were going to do me in by their manner and I sincerely hoped they would finish me off quickly. But no, a Turkish NCO rode up and drove them off with a whip saving me by a few minutes from the unpleasant operation of having my throat cut.
This treatment in the hands of the Arabs is very nice for a cinema show, but very different if you happen to be the unfortunate victim. The Turkish NCO, who could speak French a little, gave me water and a cigarette and attended to my arm. I complained to him about my belongings and he led me to understand they would mostly be recovered for me. I was very grateful to him for his kindness and for saving my life. A soldier was placed over me while the NCO went and looked over my machine. Later, more soldiers arrived, bringing me black bread and dates and, by the light of a lantern, they requested me to take the bombs off my machine. This I couldn’t do even with two hands, but I explained how they came off, requesting one man to each of the four bombs, while another pulled the lever. Volunteers were not forthcoming and, with much strafing and fright, four were pressed into service and to the others’ amusement the bombs came away. They got in another funk when I went near them to explain that the fans when unwound made the bombs dangerous, but I was kept away.
About 12 midnight I was lifted on to a donkey, but this proving uncomfortable they put me on a horse with a leash. Thus I went in the night accompanied by six camels and five other cavalry to Gaza. I longed to break loose and gallop in the night seaward, but my arm gave me gyp, especially when the horse stumbled over the uneven track. Three and a half hours riding saw us at Gaza, one of the first towns mentioned in the Bible, which I knew well from above but now from the floor. I rolled somehow off my horse and was taken immediately to the Commandant’s HQ, an old domed room up stone steps used by Napoleon in his attempted conquests of Syria. The Commandant and all his staff were there although it was 4.00am; the reason I gathered later when they questioned me. They gave me a decent supper and cognac; the latter was pressed freely and so were cigarettes. Their manner was most polite and they told me to make myself feel at home as I was no longer an enemy now. I was on my guard about all this as I knew they were going to question me.
Via an interpreter they asked me many questions to which I told as many lies and, in all seriousness, the Turk having little sense of humour, everything was put down in writing. They wanted to know how many troops were in the ships and where they would be landed. It was then that I saw they feared a landing was going to take place with the presence of large ships off the coast, bombarding by the ships of the dhows, and exceptional aerial activity. They promised to recover my clothes and, even after my questioning, were quite cheery to me, thanks to the cognac I hadn’t drunk. A doctor fellow was exceptionally decent, rubbing my shoulder with embrocation and doing it up in a sling and providing me with a coat. At dawn I went, accompanied by the Commandant and his staff, through the town to the other end and it occurred to me this was rather odd. Were they after all going to shoot me at dawn after considering me no use for information? Somehow things looked that way. However, my fears were only short lived, for at the end of the town we met an Arabian wagonette in which they told me I was to go to Beer-Sheba. So with a loaf of bread and handful of Red Cross chocolates in my pocket, I started with many a salute and adieu for a long journey across the desert of forty miles.
My guard was a sub of about forty-five years – silent, but with an inexhaustible supply of cigarettes. The journey was at first cold and later very hot. A Bedouin on a camel trotted in front as a guide with a trooper as escort. There was no road, only tracks in places. We went over many wadis and the jolts fairly gave my arm hell. The tracks were littered here and there with skeletons of fallen camels and horses. After eight hours we drove through much heat and sand storm into Beer-Sheba, a desert town on a rise 600 foot high, consisting mostly of modernised buildings. Beer-Sheba was (up till the war) the terminus of railway to Egypt from Damascus, but it now runs on some twenty miles to El Auja, and might be extended further except for the lack of rails and labour. I recognised the place well from photos taken by us. The aerodrome to the north and the square of scrubs and flowers laid out in the form of a carpet pattern were particularly noticeable.
I was taken to HQ and from there without seeing anyone to the local hotel the Eschelle Abraham, run by a Jew with a beard two feet long. I was given food and was glad of it after eleven hours without. The son of the proprietor, aged about fourteen, spoke a little English and attended to my wants. A doctor speaking English, having spent most of his life in the States, came and chatted to me and then took me to the hospital to have my arm attended to. Here I was surprised to see the place so clean and well organised. There wasn’t much work for the doctors, so they all came and looked at me. First one would lift my arm up and watch my face screw up with the pain and then another, until about six had done it making me pretty fed up. After a consultation they said it wasn’t broken, bound it up and said if I liked I could stay in hospital a few days. So I stayed, knowing this would be cleaner than the hotel. I was rudely awakened at dawn on the following day to go to the station in a cab in the cold hours, only to wait again. This time I was taken to a carriage, second class, with wooden seats, but a vast improvement to a van. My guard picked up two pals, one a motor van driver, the other a soldier NCO. The latter had a mandolin on which he played appalling Turkish music and sang a continual drawl. I had to tolerate this as they gave me bread and water melon, my guard having only produced flat bread, some cheese or rather ‘soap’ and grapes.
The journey to Islahiah was uninteresting and uneventful, but rather quicker. We arrived there at noon – a place composed mostly of wooden huts and the railway terminus where one starts for a journey across the Tarsus mountains. The usual journey is done in two days by caravan, but by an excellent German system of motor lorries in six to eight hours. There was a scramble to get the few available motor lorries for passengers. Of course, as usual, my guard went buzzing off to find someone to ask what to do, so, as spaces were filling up in the lorry and I didn’t wish to wait here a night or to take a caravan, I got in and we started without the guard, the latter having to run a mile to catch us up. His pride was somewhat lowered as I laughed at his breathlessness.
The lorry, owing to a lack of rubber, was steel-tyred. Inside we were packed ten of us with baggage. Leaving Islahiah we traversed much worn tracks, with an appalling surface; in fact the surface was only projecting rocks. Over this we bumped at about 8mph. The vibrations were indescribable. We were chucked about like ninepins, holding on with both hands, sitting on available baggage, a thick dust pouring in at the back. I didn’t like the prospects of six to eight hours of this as it was not only very fatiguing and sore, but shook one’s inside up badly. The man with his mandolin was amusing as he had to hold it up with one hand to prevent it being broken. Occasionally a shout would come from someone whose foot was being squashed by baggage. After enduring this for an hour the road got better until eventually it came to a newly made proper road.
Here we started to climb and did so for two and a half hours, winding up in continual zig-zags up the mountainside, passing much traffic. Slowly winding up at 4mph we could see the road winding below, with many other wagons also climbing. We passed a stopped car, the German driver amusing himself shooting at buzzards with his rifle and, further on, some Hindu prisoners from Kut working on the roads. At last we started to descend and then stopped at a rest camp to change over to another lorry. Here I met a German naval officer aviator on his way to the Caucasus front. He gave me some news and showed me a Fokker aeroplane packed in a lorry nearby. Our descending journey was over unmade roads again, quite pretty through villages, and would have been enjoyable except for the appalling bumps and lack of food. Eventually, at sunset, we bumped over level ground again and fetched up at the railhead of Marmura.
This place is a small village at the present head of the railway. The railway is being constructed rapidly to join up at Islahiah across the mountains by means of tunnels and mountain railways. This place is very bad for fever and I was warned before by Hungarians against drinking the water. I was mighty thankful to end this bumpy journey and being very dusty indeed I got clean under a pump and looked for the promised supper, only to find bread and water melon. I went along to a bungalow in the midst of a small German colony of motor drivers. Here a German medical officer spoke to me in French and said he was sorry his dinner was over but would I like a glass of wine. This I eagerly accepted and sat down to my bread and water melon. Later a German NCO came to have his supper. He had been a fellow sufferer in the lorry and as he spoke English he got in conversation with me, giving me more wine and half a tin of sausages and cabbage. The German officer said he was sorry the accommodation for officers was absolutely full but he would have a place screened off in the barracks for me. This treatment was somewhat different to my previous treatment on the journey.
I wasted the evening looking at the papers in the small library in a log hut and listening to a concertina being played in the still and misty dusk. Next morning I had a good wash early and got some coffee and bread and jam from the Germans, leaving Marmura about noon in a rather better carriage than the previous ones.
Amongst my fellow passengers were two Germans; one had fever badly and the other, a student who had been on the peninsula, spoke French. He was sorry for me in the food line and having no money, so he offered me a 50 piaster note if I would like to take it and repay it after the war. I took it and thanked him for it, exchanging addresses. We stopped at Adana some hours. Here I came across about twelve British Tommies who I got in conversation with. They looked very ill and said they were Kut prisoners just out from hospital on their way up the line to work. The American Consul had kept most of them alive at Adana by good food and clothes, but many had died in Turkish hands in hospitals. They told me the story of their most awful treatment after Kut fell and how hundreds died by the wayside for lack of food and care.
Bazanti village, consisting of mostly wooden huts and shelters, was a busy centre, full of war material. It is very prettily situated in the mountains with a fast-running stream running through it. My first idea was food, now that I had a little money, so I told my guard so and he told me to wait. I was tired of this objectionable fellow, so I approached a German officer about it which had the desired effect. I then went immediately to the cafe shelter, my guard bringing a pal with him, and there had a meal for which I was obliged to pay both for the guard and his pal. I came across a few British Tommies and some of our submarines’ crews in the village and had a chat with them. They said they were under the Germans there and got paid for their work on the line. If they kept fit and out of the hospital they were fairly well off.
Later in the day I went down to a Turkish cavalry camp alongside the river where a tent was cleared out for me. After dark the Turks made a camp fire and sat round it on blankets for camp-fire songs. To this I was invited and listened to weird drawls on mandolins. Some sang, others did comic dances. I offered to sing also as I wished to get on the right side of them, so as to get some supper out of them if possible. I sang three songs starting with ‘Because’, which they applauded. Next ‘Here we are again’, which wasn’t so popular and finally ‘The Rosary’ which they liked well. It was all very comic round a camp fire on a still September evening with a running stream alongside, in a circle of squatting Turks, but my singing had the desired effect. They produced food and also in the morning washed my, now filthy, whites for me. I slept well, but was very much bitten by bugs. In the morning, as I was lousy by this time, I bathed in the river. The Turks thought I was mad, but really it was most refreshing, after living in one’s clothes so long. My arm still hurt me when I tried to swim.
With much persuasion and threats I got my guard to take me to the Hungarian hotel on the hill where I met a charming Hungarian lady doing war work there. She spoke English well, having lived a lot in India. She was sorry she had run out of food, but I was able to buy a cup of coffee and a slice of bread and jam. She also sold me two apples, which were really her own, and a box of cigarettes. I had now nearly run out of my 50 piasters and food seemed very scarce here.
I later came across 240 Tommies of the Kut garrison in the most miserable state imaginable, hardly a stitch of clothes, absolute skeletons, ninety per cent sick, all bivouacking beside the river. I had a long chat with them, but couldn’t do anything for them. Their stories of misery would turn the hardest man. They were dying like flies from lack of food, treatment and care. Two died while I was there and no one seemed to care. They were too weak to help each other. These men who had survived the trek from Kut were, without rest and treatment, put on to work on the railway where they died in hundreds of fever, dysentery and neglect. The Germans had intervened and had had them sent to the prisoners’ camp at Afion Kara Hissar. The sight of these poor fellows was a terrible one. Hardly a single one of this 240 lived through the winter.
I left Bazanti in a third-class compartment full of soldiers along with 240 Tommies who were put into vans. I learnt here that by my ticket I could have travelled second class, but was unable to find another German officer to protest about it; also I learnt that I was going to the prisoners’ camp at Afion, instead of to Constantinople. I was disappointed about this at first as I had heard so much about the good times officer prisoners had at the latter place, but I found out later this was all a myth and that Afion was better both in treatment and cheaper living.
Winding through rocky gorges it gradually got dark and I went to sleep, feeling very cold and wondering how the poor Tommies who were so badly off for clothing were faring. At every long stop, more Britishers were taken out dead and carted off on stretchers without any inquiries as to names. They would probably be buried like dogs. By midday we arrived at Konia where I had a few minutes’ talk with the Tommies and tried to cheer them up a bit. I then was taken into the town by a broken-down horse tram. My guard and a few others went to the mosque while I wandered about in the courtyard and examined the exterior. Later we spent an hour or so in a cafe where I was given a glass of tea, then a day’s food in the shape of a meat meal was actually given to me at a filthy restaurant. I then went round the town and with my remaining money bought some biscuits and a small bottle of Greek brandy. This I thought would be useful to revive some of the Tommies in their deplorable condition. I went back to the station, where I found a Turkish officer superintending carting four dead Britishers off in an araba. Two more almost dead went off in another. One more fellow almost dead, unconscious, and a mere skeleton, was left lying on the platform in the hot sun. I got him moved into the shade and found, by a mark on his braces, that he belonged to the Norfolk Regiment. I protested to the Turkish officer about the care of these men, but got no satisfaction.
After much travel, Dacre was imprisoned in the PoW camp at Afion.
The room had three windows facing south. The unpapered walls had many photos sent from home arranged upon them. These photos of familiar faces or places were an envy for us to look at. Big cupboards formed the end of the room, one being a washing stand with charcoal stove below and the other for storage of provisions and bottles. Nails on the door, cupboards and walls provided pegs for hanging up things. The furniture consisted of three beds, a folding table (bought) and plank-made table with one leg mended by the addition of another piece of plank, two highly-coloured tin-covered boxes, one chest cupboard and another table cupboard, one stool and one deckchair. A carpet bought locally gave the room a less attic appearance.
At night a candle placed on the table would cover it with grease, or a sputtering of olive oil wick would flicker out its illumination. A plank-made bookshelf hung on the wall and a wooden box just nailed to the wall held odd papers. You could not say it was a tidy room; having no wastepaper basket, all cigarette ends, matches, paper etc. went on the floor. The numerous bottles of all shapes, in various parts, of the room looked very bad, but were really an accumulation of non-returnable alcohol being purchasable by cheque at very high price from the ‘Economic’ at Constant. ‘Raki’, the local grape spirit, could be bought at 3/- [15p] a bottle. This gave cheer to us on days when hopes were black and the weather miserable. Under the circumstances in which we lived it is a wonder we were not driven to drink. Maps used to adorn the walls, but these were forbidden. On the table at the present moment are the following articles: a hand mirror, bottle of water, empty Raki bottle formerly gin bottle, five or six glasses, a corkscrew, dog collar and string, Huntley and Palmer cake tin full of letters, a box of cigarettes, a Turkish lesson book, a lamp burner, two mess account books, an empty Abdulla cigarette box full of odd buttons etc., a bottle of ink, a tin of camphorated ice and a pair of gloves. A good deal of candle grease and cigarette-end burns deface the table.
On one particular day Paul took it into his head to do some pastry making. So, using the above table for carrying out his schemes, he opened a tin of oatmeal for oatmeal cakes and mixed this up with flour and milk, covering everything, including the floor and my bed, with flour. Then, kneading and rolling it on the table, he managed to successfully clear this and baked the result in the kitchen oven. We ate it (brave fellows) and, in our pain which followed, we had the horrible thought that the oat meal would swell inside us. However, we live to tell the tale. Our servant was one of the survivors of the Kut garrison men. He came to us thin and suffering from fever and ague, but with good feeding he visibly grew fat. He was very slow moving and untidy, but willing.
The Mess was really the landing at the top of the stairs. In it was a pantry rigged up with a long table and forms, all being made by the officers. I found myself appointed Honorary Mess Secretary in November and it would be interesting, especially to housekeepers, to know what we lived on and the price of various items. The difficulties of catering with ever-rising prices meant much work. Mess members always shouted for living as they found it at home, but without money this wasn’t possible. Everything had to be cut down to a minimum. Variety was hard to get, but we always had four meals a day and a good dinner. After December 1916 messing went up to 690 Piasters (£5.15.0 or £5.15p) a month each in a mess of ten officers with four servants and one private servant. Our pay was 700 Piasters a month plus, Embassy money nearly £2.10.0 [£2.50p] a month.
Clothes were difficult to obtain, especially when one was captured and had no money. Most of one’s clothes were taken off one, as mine were. The American Embassy used to send down things every now and again; in the meanwhile I borrowed things, local cloth and tailoring being too expensive. The first Embassy suit I got was a rough brown frockcoat thrown together; this and trousers to match were a really comic sight on me, together with a black felt hat I bought locally and a month’s beard on my face. However, later I got a better double-breasted tweed which had to have all the seams re-sewn, otherwise they fell to bits. The men were always badly off for clothes and we had to part with everything we possibly could for them. The daily dress of the officers was very mixed. Some who were fortunate enough to get clothes through in parcels walked about immaculately dressed; others like myself wore no collar and tie. The summer garb was shirt, shorts, socks and shoes. Some wore woolly hats made out of scarves in winter. When once settled down we weren’t badly off for clothes as far as warmth was concerned.
All the naval officers and a good share of the soldiers started growing beards in the autumn of 1916. It saved a lot of trouble and kept one’s face warm. Great was the competition for size and quality. Everyone had theirs trimmed on Xmas day. Later the soldiers shaved theirs off while the NOs except one carried on. Soon after I arrived in the lower houses a search was organised. We were all called out into the yard while the Commandant and other officers went through everyone’s gear, taking all diaries, books, letters, maps etc. Great was the indignation from everyone when they found in some cases a year’s work gone and all sorts of private affairs removed. Scarfe, the senior officer of No. 3 house, refused to give up certain books and told the Turks what he thought of them, so for his trouble he got taken off to jail for ten days. The jail was a filthy stone cell full of vermin, ill lit and ill ventilated. This punishment had been meted out to other officers for similar offences. The men got beaten for small offences, even the sergeants. Personally I only lost my diary in the search, not having had time to accumulate other stuff. The ‘bag’ was put into sacks and locked up in a hut in the yard and later sent to Constant. Some time after, we got the books back censored and our diaries with the written part torn out. After the search we weren’t allowed to keep diaries, uncensored books, maps or more than two sheets of writing paper a month. Notebooks for languages etc. had to be censored before and after use. Paul did a smart piece of work in recovering some of the more important diaries and data. The hut in which the sacks were stored had a tiny window about a foot square. While some of us engaged the posta on guard in conversation he squeezed in through this window, ransacked the sacks and passed out all the important stuff. The interpreter also made a faux pas by mixing up the sacks of censorable stuff with the uncensorable, so we got back one sack of stuff which was to be sent to Constant for inspection containing valuable diaries.
The two days of Christmas 1916 and New Year 1917 are voted the best we had in Turkey. Apart from the entertainments got up, we had hope of new conditions in the present state of affairs in 1917. Two days before Xmas a pantomime took place. The rehearsals were very amusing and the show itself perhaps gave most enjoyment to the players. I officiated as a scene shifter with Elliot. We rigged up a stage in No. 3 mess, scenery being mostly an arrangement of blankets. The panto being ‘Jack the Giant Killer’ had as a cast the widow, the widow’s son, the King and Princess, the giant, the villain or the pirate chief and his crew. The costumes were a marvel, being made out of nothing, face paint being water colours. The widow was splendidly done by MacDonald while the Princess, who made up as pretty as any girl, was done by Davenport. The songs were mostly parodies of old well-known songs put to new words by our playwright Scarfe. The whole show was full of take-offs and amusing side shows, especially during the scene aboard the pirate’s ship when periscopes and anti-aircraft guns were introduced. The show wound up with an excellent supper in No. 2 house including tinned lobster.
Delegates of the Prisoners’ International Commission from Geneva visited us in November 1916 and learnt our moans. They didn’t like the journey a bit. We put before them all our grievances. They gave us a little news and said we were the most cheerful prisoners they had seen. God help the other countries’ prisoners. We were photographed and questioned. They said the men’s conditions were very bad and when they left our treatment was certainly better. The death toll amongst the men had shown what their treatment had been. Hardly a day went by in the later part of 1916 when we were not to see dead Britishers being taken to the cemetery on stretchers, with a small sheet hardly covering them. They were buried without clothes only two feet down with no service, until the commission arranged otherwise. A wooden cross with no name marked the spot where one or more were buried. Most of the poor fellows died through neglect, especially in outlandish places when they got sick. At Afion once they got strong they went along alright, and when later their treatment was much better and more cheerful they had brighter prospects.
Those who arrived from outlandish parts weak with fever and dysentery were so weakened by the tiring journey that they went to hospital and seldom came out. The men always dreaded going to hospital on this account. Guest Nights by houses used to be given, but as living got higher these became fewer. They were very amusing, always finishing up in the early hours after a sing-song or dancing. On Sunday nights a service was held in one of the houses.
Twice a week during the winter dances were held in each house in rotation. They started dancing classes, but (these) developed into popular entertainments with great keenness. Programmes were booked up a week in advance. You couldn’t quite compare it with ordinary dancing. It generally got acrobatic, but whatever it was it kept one warm in the cold weather and was most amusing to see old majors being young.
On Christmas Day 1916 we started by early morning greetings, followed by decorations of mistletoe given to us as a present and Chinese lanterns, which we made out of wire and tissue paper all painted up. A service was held in the morning, while later the men were allowed a walk past our houses. They were full of cheer which pleased us very much. They sang ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’ and cheered as they passed. We threw from our windows boxes of cigarettes and tinned stuff which was eagerly scrambled for. I saw Adcock during this procession and was able to have a few words with him. The afternoon we had an enthusiastic football match vs the upper houses which we won.
We had Dinner in No. 3 house ensemble and very good it was too. A splendid blow out, including turkey, plum pudding, drinks, etc. After dinner we all adjourned to our house for dancing, one room being made into a bar from which hot punch was served. Next day I felt very heavy headed and declared that the sun was rising over the hills in the west – but a football match against the servants put my liver right again.
On New Year’s Eve, Dinner was in our house with No. 3 house as guests. We decorated our Mess with coloured paper in Empire style with a wall notice having a light behind it showing ‘A Happy New Year’. Candlesticks and pink shades were on the table. Nearly all were in fancy dress, some making excellent girls. I went as a tramp. Menus, hand painted and suitably worded, added to the table decoration. We had cocktails in rooms before dinner and as guests arrived it was hard to tell who they were through their disguises, some having removed their beards for the occasion. The dinner was a marvel in eight courses, including coffee, taking into consideration the local produce. After our port and cigars we drifted to No. 4 House where we spent a most enjoyable evening at a fancy dress ball with an attendant bar in one room. Cards and games also figured amongst the entertainments for non-dancers. At 12 midnight we sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and then ate a large supper mostly of tinned delicacies and trifles. One game I introduced was drawing a two-minute picture on a panel of paper on the wall. These varied from truly artistic to scribbles. By the way, on Xmas day we gave a tea to the upper houses. A large iced cake made by our cook couldn’t have been obtained better in London itself.
One evening in February 1917 we were aroused after dinner by a great deal of excitement and band playing. A procession passed the house twice headed by a band and the schoolboys singing. As they passed us they cheered and we replied. Those of us who could speak Turkish declared that they said ‘Long Live the English’. There was no doubt about the cheering, but we couldn’t get any information as to what it was all about. We were naturally very excited about it as it was such an extraordinary affair and it would be in this way that we should first hear of peace. We asked the postas if it was peace, but they didn’t know. A few days later we found after many false rumours in between that a Pasha had visited the town to make a speech and he said to the people that the war would soon be over.
About 9.30pm one winter’s evening we were aroused by rifle shots close at hand, followed by others all around the houses and excitement amongst the postas. A hurried roll call was made and all found to be present. Apparently the posta on guard in front of the houses saw someone flash a light near the house and a black dog go by. So, shooting in the air with a challenge and receiving no reply but shouts from other postas, he aimed at the position of the dog, or whatever it was, followed by much firing from other postas. One bullet went through a tree in front of the house and another hit the house. We all had a good laugh at the comic Turkish display and carried on with our occupations.
Rumours used to come from all sorts of sources to us, some good, some bad, on good authority or otherwise, but only about one in twenty were true. We got most of our news via these rumours, especially when the paper stopped, and whether authentic or not, good rumours brought optimism. When a good rumour came we thought the war would very soon be over, but when a bad one came we looked as if we never would get out of this place. Rumours came from prisoners arriving from other places, the dustmen, the tradesmen and the postas, or elaborated stories from our letters. Whenever we met the other houses, the French or Russians or got a mail, everyone asked for news. False rumours were often got up to pull people’s legs, but the individuals got such a bad time when they were found out that this wasn’t often practised afterwards.
A gold Lire in Dec 1917 can be sold for six paper Lires, showing the state of Turkey’s finance. The internal conditions of the country are deplorable. When the hard winter set in in December, firewood and charcoal became unobtainable. The houses who hadn’t a winter stock in were obliged to burn up doors, cupboards and furniture for cooking purposes. When wood could be bought it cost 6d [2.5p] a pound and charcoal 1/1d [5.5p] a pound.
Christmas 1917. Once more a Christmas came upon us adding a slight relaxation to the monotony. We were allowed certain privileges, including visits to the other camp each day for a week, late hours and more walks for the week. A Red Crescent representative arrived before Xmas with a good many parcels, clothes from the Dutch Embassy and some of the goods ordered by us from the stores in Constant including ‘Alk’. We had some amusement getting this down to our camp in a cart on the ice-covered roads. Several of us had to hold the back of the cart in the middle of the road to prevent it going down into the ditch. On Xmas day we had guests for lunch with sliding on the ice in the yard afterwards. For dinner we had No. 4 House in as guests, a very good dinner with a sing-song afterwards.
During the week we ‘tea-ed’ out several days at the other camp and, on the 29th, dinner in Paul’s house, going to another house afterwards to see a play. The play was exceeding clever, the music composed by the orchestra’s master was wonderful and the girl most real. A rowdy supper followed in another house. Fifty officers all doing scrums in a small jerry-built room. New Year’s Eve we had a Fancy Dress dance as we have done in past years in No. 2 House. A games room and a bar was also set up. The dresses were marvels of something out of nothing, most effective. I went as Sir Walter Raleigh. Five very well-dressed girls were present, whose wigs continually came off. A real funny evening and much enjoyed. The guards thought we were mad. New Year’s Day we had a return dinner in No. 4 House, a good fill and well served up. Each house had decorated in their own style. A sing-song and a small dance wound up the ‘Biram’. After these festivities were over, money was scarce and remorse took its place.
A lot of rumours have gone around lately about exchange and we are optimistic. Wallace my room companion went off before Xmas for exchange for appendicitis. We have heard that he and others who went before had not left Constant at the end of January. Other unfit officers are recommended for exchange. Four French have also left here and the doctors may go. We pin our hope on exchange.
Lieutenant Philpots RFC was captured in Mesopotamia in October 1917. He got dysentery on his way here, as so many others have done, and after being put in quarantine here for several days was carted off to Turkish hospital and by now most people know what these places are like. Our doctors say that if they had him in their hands they could have easily cured him but, as our doctors are not allowed to attend patients, he went to hospital where he got worse and, after a month’s suffering, died on 14 January 1918. He is the fifth of the Afion officers who have now died out of at present seventy-five. The percentage of men is very much higher.
Those who craved for some excitement got what they wanted when the earthquake gave us a visit on 16 January. The first shock was felt about 9.00am, followed by small ones and then two large shocks at 6.00pm – other smaller ones throughout the night and following days. Fortunately our houses are made of wood and mud and take a lot of shaking down. The feeling is altogether uncanny. Pictures swing about, everything creaks, a low rumbling is heard, crockery rattles. It feels rather like being in a ship in a rough sea, shaking in the waves. Some houses made a bolt for the yard as the shocks came. At nightfall it is a debatable question whether to remain in the house until it falls over your ears or go into the cold yard and be shot by the guard. It is not at all amusing. Poor prisoners!
On 2 November, preceded by many false rumours, an official telegram came to the town to say the Armistice was signed. The townsfolk showed no signs of excitement or mouldiness. They just went slowly on as before, except that prices dropped. In the afternoon we were set at liberty to wander out anywhere without postas except for long walks where an armed posta was necessary against attacks by brigands. We leaped out like unleashed hounds, went down to the station buffet in the evening and sang ‘Rule Britannia’ with a hearty voice. It felt quite funny to be free again and not to have a posta always following one’s footsteps. The country is absolutely done. We gave food to the starving wounded that came through in trains without attention, food or money. The general inhabitants are very pleased to think the British will take over the country; nowhere is there hostility towards us and they, like all beaten Orientals, bow submissively to our will. It is great to be a Britisher in a conquered country. Those at home do not realise what British Power and Prestige means until they have been in foreign countries.
The long-waited-for day has arrived. We never thought of such a complete debacle in our enemies’ camps as has happened. The next question is when we shall leave Afion. We know it is only a matter of a day or two before the great homecoming.
On 4 November we received official news that our camp and sixteen from the top camp with orderlies would proceed to Smyrna on the 5th, making half the Afion officers. Great was the excitement thereof; 5 November, of all days, was a day for a bonfire. We burnt furniture, trees, everything that the locals would not give us a decent price for. It was a fine flare-up and nearly did down the houses. Most of Afion were outside the front of our houses, just like a pack of hungry wolves, scrambling and fighting for the odds and ends we threw out the window. They fought like cats for the smallest article, women included. Several casualties occurred which our MO attended to. Later on, the crowd got rather pressing and began swarming in at the windows, so we were obliged to keep them out with water squirts and buckets of water and stick. They were a howling mob of savages, not hostile but howling for ‘Backshish’, with a continual howl of ‘Inglis, Backshish’. We sold, smashed, burnt or gave away all our gear except what was necessary and evacuated our houses with great joy about 4.00pm.
We waited until 9.00pm before we pushed off. Each house had a horse truck, so we had one for nine officers and gear. These trucks are much the best method of travelling in Turkey when you clean them out and disinfect them. Ordinary carriages are full of vermin and too cramped to sleep in. We had with us lashings of grub and most of our Xmas wines. We cleared out the truck and disinfected it, then arranged our mattresses and gear. We had a cheery supper and a cheer to be at last rid of Afion and, after a somewhat bumpy journey, more for the rest than for myself as I had a hammock, we arrived at Ouchak at 3.00am, where we spent twelve hours.
At Ouchak we met several officers who had some time ago weakly given their parole to be free and are somewhat looked down on by us. They were concentrating on the railway from their camp at Gedes. One party on the truck got held up by brigands and robbed of their money and gear. One officer who made a bolt for it got shot and lightly wounded. Even on the Smyrna line these brigands have on occasions held up the trains and robbed the passengers, and even torn up the rails. What a country.
Our journey was the usual Turkish one – very slow and tedious. We have to take our own drinking water from Afion as the water down the line is not fit for drinking purposes. On arrival at the outskirts of Smyrna all the inhabitants gave us a huge welcome as we passed. We arrived about 3.00pm and went off into the town. No officials were there to take us over so we were at perfect liberty to do what we liked and stay where we liked. The Turks had completely washed their hands in any matter of looking after us or handing us over. We got our gear on carts and took a carriage to the best quarter. All the inhabitants came out to greet us with waves and cheers. It was difficult to gather the new situation with all the welcome given to us, and although the town is Turkish we no longer regarded ourselves as prisoners. We fixed ourselves up at the Egypt Hotel and then I went aboard HM Monitor M-29 alongside the quay to report myself. Here it gave me great joy to see our own people again who gave me so much news and real whiskey and soda, State Express cigarettes and the latest wireless communiqués to read. The skipper, Commander Dixon, said he could send me to Mudros the day following, but strongly advised me not to go as the ship for our transport would arrive in a few days and we would get back to our jobs quicker by that way.
It was all very interesting to see Smyrna from the ground after my acquaintance with it three years ago. I am afraid all the demonstrations in our honour are only because we are top dogs. If we had lost the war, the same population would probably spit at us. However, being top dogs, we accept the situation as it is with good cheer. The Greek citizens say they hope that Smyrna will become Greek, while the English colony say give it to any European control but the Greek or they will have to clear out. By the invitation of Pass, our old house party had dinner with him at the Kraeme Palace Hotel. We were surprised to find we could so easily accommodate ourselves to civilisation again – table manners, speech and habits. Later we went and saw a play in Greek at the theatre but, as the acting appeared to us so coarse, we roared with laughter and left before the end. When we went to bed we were reminded that we were not yet out of Turkey by being eaten alive by bugs. So the next morning we shifted our gear to the Smyrna Palace Hotel which was quite clean. We were free to do just what we liked under no one’s orders. We watched with interest the weird and animated crowd of Levantines who swarm by on the Esplanade all day. The Esplanade is bounded by hotels and cafes, all Greek. We went sailing and did anything there was to do.
On Saturday night, 10 November, a Special Ball was held at the Kraeme. The ballroom was splendid and the music good. It started at 6.00pm and went on until 1.00am. Most of the English Levantine colony turned up and introductions were flung round. These people, who mostly have been born in Smyrna, fared pretty well during the war. They have been perfectly free to do what they like. They were all extremely well dressed, in spite of shortage of material, and picked up our new dance quickly. It was somewhat of a shock to us to speak and dance with pretty girls again, but we found no difficulty in getting on with them and having a most enjoyable evening. Although it was November, the temperature was frightfully hot. Funnily enough, none of these people who have lived all their lives in Smyrna have been to or know anything about the interior of Turkey. It is hard to realise Smyrna is in Turkey. We have forgotten our captivity already. The cafe bands play ‘Tipperary’, ‘Rule Britannia’, ‘God Save the King’ and the ‘Marsaillaise’ every evening. Everyone is all over us, but only the English Levantines’ appreciation is genuine.
Smyrna has a reputation for pretty girls and it is certainly correct. They are pretty vivacious and dress well. In fact some of the officers have gone off their heads and want to settle down here. The pastries are the best I have seen anywhere. I have spent hours eating them and drinking ‘Mastik’. We thoroughly made the best of our stay, with dancing, sailing, lunches, dinner parties. I went out by train to Bournabak to the English colony and there had two teas, first at the older Whittalls and then at the younger. Their houses and gardens are magnificent and most homely. They have shown us the greatest hospitality in spite of their privations and hardships and insults during the war. This English colony is 200 years old and the present generation has been born in Smyrna.
On 18 November the great and longed for day arrived. At 9.00am we went with our gear on board two ferry steamers. A large crowd of British residents and other Ententists gathered to give us a cheery send off. As we left the stage they cheered us heartily while we replied more so. It was noticed that several pretty maidens had tears in their eyes, which shows what ten days will do. Probably they enjoyed the ten days as well as we captives did. After a three-and-a-half-hour trip to the outside of the Smyrna Gulf we arrived alongside the Indian Native Hospital Ship Empire where we embarked and found they were only prepared for Indians. However, on a homeward journey one does not get too particular. Two hundred officers were accommodated in one hold and we lived on bully and biscuits, tea, jam and onions. It was a very uncomfortable two-and-a-half-day trip, as we got it rough and a great many of the passengers were seasick. The hold where we slept was frightfully foul. A concert was given on the last evening and a ration of gin and vermouth was wacked out. As I close this little book of my experiences as a prisoner of war in Turkey, the buildings of Alexandria show up in the distance. Patience is at last rewarded. It has been a long two and a quarter years, but what a glorious ending to the war with all its appalling sufferings.
21 November 1918. ‘Der Tag’ at last ‘
Three cheers for England!
GOD SAVE THE KING! GOD STRAFE THE TURKS!