FourFifty Miles to Freedom 2

FourFifty Miles to Freedom 2

The poor Greeks of the town were very sad to see us go. The Rev. Harold

Spooner, through the Greek priest, had been able from time to time

to distribute to these destitute people fair sums of money supplied

by voluntary subscription among the prisoners. In addition to this,

families of little children used to be fed daily by some messes,

and so we were able, in a small way, to relieve the want of a few

unhappy Christians. Before we left Kastamoni, the Padre showed us a

letter which he had received from the head Greek priest, thanking us

for having helped the poor. We had, he said, kept families together,

and young girls from going on the streets, and he assured us that it

would be the privilege of the Greek community to look after the small

graveyard we had made for the six officers and men who had died while

we were there.

 

By 2 P.M. we were clear of Kastamoni. The change of camp

would be a great break in the monotony of our existence, and for the

time being we were happy. The journey was to take four days. At night

we halted near water at a suitable camping-ground by the roadside, and

in the early morning started off again. A healthy life and a great

holiday for us. For the first two days the scenery was magnificent, as

we crossed the forest-covered Hilgas range, but as we approached our

destination the country became more and more barren. On the fourth day,

coming over a crest, we saw the village of Changri built at the foot of

a steep and bare hill. We went through the village, and a mile beyond

us stood our future home.

 

A dirty-looking, two-storied square building it was, surrounded on

three sides by level fields edged with a few willows. On the west the

ground rose a little to the main Angora road. Close to the barracks

were sixty graves, which looked fairly new. This gave a bad impression

of the place at the start. On entering, we were too dumfounded to

speak, and here it may be added that it took a lot to dumfound us. The

square inside the buildings was full of sheep and goats, and the ground

was consequently filthy. The lower-storey rooms, which were to be our

mess-rooms, had been used for cattle, and the cellar pointed out to us

as our kitchen was at least a foot deep in manure. Only one wing of the

barracks had window panes, and these were composed of small bits of

glass rudely fitted together. Truly a depressing place.

 

Many of us elected to sleep that night in the square in preference

to the filthier barrack rooms. The sanitary arrangements were beyond

words. The next morning we set to work cleaning up, but it was weeks

before the place was habitable. Another great inconvenience was that

for many days drinking-water had to be fetched in buckets from the

village over a mile away; but for this the Turks finally provided a

water-cart.

 

It was at Changri that most of the twenty-five officers who escaped

from Yozgad on August 7, 1918, made up their parties. Our party, only

six at that time, consisted of--

 

Captain A. B. Haig, 24th Punjabis;

Captain R. A. P. Grant, 112th Infantry;

Captain V. S. Clarke, 2nd Batt. Royal West Kent Regiment;

Captain J. H. Harris, 1/4 Hampshire Territorials;

 

and the two authors. Throughout the remainder of our narrative these

six will be denoted by their respective nicknames: Old Man, Grunt,

Nobby, Perce, Johnny, and Looney.

 

Roughly speaking, there were four alternative directions open to us.[3]

Northwards to the Black Sea, a distance of 100 miles; eastwards to

the Russian front, 250 to 350 miles; to the Mediterranean, 300 miles

southward, or 400 miles westward. Compared to the others the distance

to the Black Sea was small, but outweighing this advantage was the fact

that Keeling's party had got away in that direction, and the coast

would be carefully guarded if another escape took place. The position

of the Russian front, so far as we knew, was anything up to 350 miles

away, and the country to the east of us was very mountainous. In

addition, an escape in that direction would entail getting through the

Turkish fighting lines, which we thought would prove very difficult.

The Salt Desert, at least 150 miles across, frightened us off thinking

of the southern route. The remaining one was westward: it was the

longest distance to go, it is true, but for this very reason we hoped

the Turks would not suspect us of trying it. The valleys ran in the

direction we should be travelling, and if we did reach the coast, it

was possible that we might get in touch with one of the islands in

Allied hands.

 

Having made up our minds, we sent code messages home to find out which

would be the best island to make for in the following early summer.

We also asked for reduced maps to cover our route from Changri to the

selected island, and requested that a look-out should be kept from it

in case we signalled from the coast.

 

Shortly after we had made our decision the question of giving parole

cropped up. To any one who gave it the Turks offered a better camp and

more liberty. It was a question for each to decide for himself, and we

did so. On the 22nd November 1917, therefore, seventy-seven officers

went off to Geddos. It was very sad parting from many good friends, and

when the last cart disappeared round the spur of the hill, one turned

away wondering if one would ever see them again. There were still

forty-four officers and about twenty-eight orderlies in Changri. These

officers were moved into the north wing of the barracks, and there

they remained for the next four and a half months. At this period we

had a great financial crisis--none of us had any money, prices were

very high, and it came to tightening our belts a little. Our long and

badly-built barrack rooms were very draughty, and as we had no money

there was not much likelihood of getting firewood. Some cheerful Turk

kindly told us that the winter at Changri was intensely cold, and that

the temperature often fell below zero. Altogether the prospect for the

next few months was anything but pleasant.

 

During our most depressed moments, however, we could always raise a

smile over the thought that we were "The honoured guests of Turkey."

Enver Pasha himself had told us so at Mosul, where we halted on

our four-hundred-mile march across the desert, after the fall of

Kut-el-Amara.[4] So it must have been true.

 

At the time we write this unscrupulous adventurer, Enver--a man of

magnetic personality and untiring in his energy to further his personal

schemes--has but lately fled to Caucasia. He is a young man, and

having held a position of highest authority in Turkey for some years,

presumably a rich one. Doubtless he will lead a happy and prosperous

existence for many years to come.

 

There are thousands of sad hearts in England and in the Indian Empire

to-day, and hundreds of thousands in Turkey itself, as a result of the

utter disregard for human life entertained by this man and a few of his

colleagues. Of the massacre of Armenians we will not speak, although

we have seen their dead bodies, and although we have met their little

children dying of starvation on the roadsides, and have passed by their

silent villages; but we should fail in our duty to the men of the

British Empire who died in captivity in Turkey did we not appeal for a

stern justice to be meted out to the men responsible for their dying.

 

It may perhaps be said with truth that it was no studied cruelty on

the part of the Turkish authorities that caused the death of so many

brave men who had given themselves to the work of their country: yet

with equal truth it may be said, that it was the vilest form of apathy

and of wanton neglect. Where the taking of a little trouble by the high

officials at Constantinople would have saved the lives of thousands

of British and Indian soldiers, that trouble was never taken. Weak

with starvation, and sick with fever and dysentery (we speak of the

men of Kut), they were made to march five hundred miles in the burning

heat across waterless deserts, without regular or sufficient rations

and without transport--in many cases without boots, which had been

exchanged for a few mouthfuls of food or a drink of water.

 

We officers, who had not such a long march as the men, and who were

given a little money and some transport, thought ourselves in a

bad way. But what of the men who had none? There were no medical

arrangements, and those who could not march fell by the desert paths

and died. The official White Book gives the number 65 as the percentage

of deaths amongst British soldier prisoners taken at Kut, a figure

which speaks for itself.

 

It is a law of the world's civilisation that if a man take the life

of another, except in actual warfare, he must pay forfeit with his

own life. Take away bribery and corruption and that law holds good

in Turkey. Now when a soldier is taken prisoner he ceases to be an

active enemy, and the country of his captors is as responsible for his

welfare as for that of her own citizens. What if that country so fails

to grasp the responsibility that its prisoners are allowed to die by

neglect? Should not its rulers be taught such a lesson that it would

be impossible for those of future generations to forget it?

 

It is not enough to obtain evidence of a cruel corporal at that

prisoners' camp, or of a bestial commandant at this, and to think that

by punishing them we have avenged our dead. These men are underlings.

The men we must punish first are those few in high authority, who, by

an inattention to their obvious duty, have made it possible for their

menials to be guilty of worse than murder.

 

We pride ourselves on the fact that we are citizens of the most just

country of the world. Let us see to it that justice is not starved.

 

FOOTNOTES:

 

[1] "An Escape from Turkey in Asia," by Captain E. H. Keeling.

'Blackwood's Magazine,' May 1918.

 

[2] Now Lieutenant-Colonel.

 

[3] _Vide_ map at end of volume.

 

[4] "Kut," correctly pronounced, rhymes with "put."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER II.

 

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.