"Il n'y a pas trois officiers." Such was the epigram by which Sherif Bey, Turkish Captain of the Prisoners-of-War Guard at Kăstamōni, 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.
 
[4]
 
Officers sang loudly and long to prevent the nearest from hearing the noise of nails being pulled out of a door not many feet away from him, though hidden from view. More dust was thrown in this wretched man's eyes and ears by the James, who during these critical moments described to him, in very 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 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 overcoat were the only "" he used. This was 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 with . Through this Prosser had to get back to his quarters. A Turkish , into whom he ran full , was knocked over . Followed by revolver shots from the angry chaouse, Prosser 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 all suspicion as to the part he had played.
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 of the closing down of the camp at Kastamoni and a move to Changri (pronounced Chŭngri)—a 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 . 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 would be brought back to Kastamoni within a week. In their opinion those who had escaped were madmen. What could be more than the life they were running[6] away from,—one could sit in a chair all day quietly smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, far away from the 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 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 , and home-made beds, tables, and chairs pulled to bits for convenience of transport; and crockery were packed, and all of us were living in a state of refined , when we were told that the move had been , owing to lack of available 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[7] 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 for oneself. Many of us marched every step to Changri. Our departure took place at 1 P.M., and a procession we must have looked—carts and mules loaded high with all manner of furniture, stoves and stove-pipes sticking out in all directions.
 
The poor Greeks of the town were very sad to see us go. The . Harold Spooner, through the Greek priest, had been able from time to time to distribute to these people fair sums of money supplied by voluntary 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 . 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 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.[8] 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 , 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 . 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 . The lower-storey rooms, which were to be our mess-rooms, had been used for cattle, and the cellar out to us as our kitchen was at least a foot deep in . Only one wing of the barracks had window , and these were[9] 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 barrack rooms. The 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 ;
Captain V. S. Clarke, 2nd Batt. Royal West Kent ;
Captain J. H. Harris, 1/4 Hampshire ;
and the two authors. Throughout the remainder of our these six will be denoted by their respective nicknames: Old Man, , 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; to the Russian front, 250 to 350 miles; to the , 300 miles southward, or 400 miles . Compared to the others the distance to the Black Sea was small, but 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 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 hands.
 
[10]
 
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[11] 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 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 told us that the winter at Changri was intensely cold, and that the temperature often fell below zero. Altogether the for the next few months was anything but pleasant.
 
During our most 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.
 
[12]
 
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 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 in Turkey did we not appeal for a stern justice to be 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 form of and of wanton neglect. Where the taking of a little trouble by the high officials at Constantinople would have saved[13] 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 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 that if a man take the life of another, except in actual , he must pay with his own life. Take away and 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[14] 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 commandant at this, and to think that by punishing them we have 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."