FourFifty Miles to Freedom 1

FourFifty Miles to Freedom 1

FourFifty Miles to Freedom

Author: Maurice Andrew Brackenreed Johnston and Kenneth Darlaston Yearsley

 

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.