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Language: English
POEMS IN CAPTIVITY
A PRISONER IN TURKEY
By JOHN STILL
FOREWORD
This book, like most books, consists both of facts and opinions. In
order to fortify the facts, and so that it may be clearly seen that the
opinions are justified, a number of extracts from the “Report on the
Treatment of British Prisoners of War in Turkey,” which was
presented to Parliament in November, 1918, are included here by the
special permission of the Controller of His Majesty’s Stationery
Office. So few people read Government publications that this course
seems necessary.
In this official report it is stated that out of 16,583 British and Indian
prisoners “Believed Captured,” 3,290 are dead, and 2,222 untraced
and almost certainly dead. But this report was compiled before the
end of the war and is admittedly incomplete. I do not know the
actual statistics, which must by now be available, nor do I know
where to obtain them. But, as stated in the book, we in Turkey
believed that about 75 per cent. of the British rank and file perished
within two years of being captured. It may be that we were unduly
pessimistic; it is very sincerely to be hoped that we were, and on the
whole it seems probable. But I leave the figure unaltered in the text,
for it was our sincere belief after very difficult and laborious
enquiries made secretly. In the official report the figures show that
of a total of 4,932 British believed captured, no less than 2,289 are
either dead or untraced. This amounts to 46 per cent. It would be
interesting to know the final figures.
The extracts taken from the report have been selected because they
are either general in character or have special reference to Angora or
Afion Kara Hissar, the two camps I knew personally.
I am indebted to three fellow-prisoners for the photograph
reproduced as a frontispiece to this book, for the piece of music, for
reading the MS., and for reading the proofs.
It need scarcely be said that the level of surgical and medical skill is
low in Turkey. There are good doctors, but not many of them, and it
is only in Constantinople that they are to be found. In the provincial
towns the hospitals are nearly always places of neglect and squalor,
where a sick man is simply left to take his chance of recovery, a
chance greatly compromised by Turkey’s total indifference to the first
rudiments of sanitation. Such hospitals are naturally the last to be
provided with adequate stock or equipment of any kind; and even if
some modern appliance is by fortune forthcoming, it will probably be
beyond the local talent to make use of it. In a very horrible Red
Crescent hospital at Angora, for example, there was at one time
seen an excellent German disinfecting apparatus standing idle
amidst the filth, because no one could tell how it was worked. It is
fair to say that in such places there is no distinction between the
treatment of prisoners and that of Turkish sick or wounded; all suffer
alike by reason of a state of civilisation centuries out of date.
It was characteristic, too, that until the end of 1916, or even later,
the only clearing-station that existed in the city, where the men
discharged from hospital were collected until they could be sent into
the interior, was apparently the common civil prison, a most vile and
filthy place, in which many of our men lay for weeks until the
convenient moment happened to come for removing them. At first
they were lodged there in ordinary cells; later they would occupy the
gallery of a large hall, where their tedium was relieved by witnessing
the vociferous floggings of the criminals on the floor below. This
would seem to be the same prison as that in which certain British
naval officers have at different times undergone most barbarous
punishment (in the name of “reprisals”), by being confined for many
weeks underground, without sight of day, in solitude and severe
privation. As a collecting place for prisoners from hospital it was
superseded in 1917 by a camp at Psamatia, a suburb of the city,
installed in a disused Armenian school and church. This was at first a
dirty and disagreeable place; though supposed to be in some
measure for convalescents, it was always a struggle to get so much
as a wash there; but under a better commandant it was improved
later on.
But before going further we may give what is in effect the substance
of our whole report—the epitome, in unmistakable terms, of the
story of the prisoners’ treatment. The officially announced figures of
the mortality among them, so far as are known up to the present
date, give the exact measure of the meaning of captivity in Turkey.
The total number of officers and men believed to have been taken
prisoners by the Turks from the beginning of the war is 16,583. Of
these 3,290 have been reported dead, while 2,222 remain untraced,
and we must believe that they, too, have almost all perished
unnamed, how or where we cannot tell in any single case. They all
belonged to the force which surrendered at Kut, and it is therefore
certain that they passed living into Turkish hands, but not one word
was ever afterwards heard of any of them. The story we shall now
tell is the only light that can now be thrown upon their fate.[1]
The Turkish Government has announced that in its zeal for the
comfort of the British officers in its hands, the finest situations in
Asia Minor have been chosen for their internment; and if a prisoner
of war were in the position of a summer tourist in peace-time this
consideration would be admirable. Yozgad, Kastamuni, Afion-Kara-
Hissar, Gedis, are places of interest and beauty; the mountain
scenery of Central Anatolia is very striking, the summer climate
excellent. Unfortunately this attractive landscape is buried deep in
snow throughout the winter; the cold is intense, the places named
being from three to four thousand feet above sea-level;
communication with the outer world (Afion alone is on the railway)
becomes difficult or almost impossible; and the picturesque towns,
with their streams and valleys and mediæval citadels, have none but
the most primitive provision against the rigour of the season. This
would be so even in the time of peace. The difficulties of life under
such conditions in war-time can hardly be imagined—difficulties
partly due to the general scarcity of necessities, but also much
aggravated by Turkish incompetence and disorganisation. With each
winter the officers have had to face the prospect of something like
famine and destitution, well knowing that they must rely on their
own hampered efforts, if they were to get through.
In writing of them one must, in fact, put aside all idea that the care
of prisoners is the business of their captors. In Turkey it has
amounted to this—that British officers have been sent to live in
places where at least it is very hard to keep body and soul together
—have there been put under various restrictions and disadvantages
—and have then been left to support themselves as best they might.
They have had to pay for practically everything they needed beyond
bare housing, and sometimes even for this.
Here for the present ceases our information with regard to the
officers’ camps in Asia Minor. There are others—Eskichehir and Konia
—which are reserved for Indian officers only; but of these little is
known beyond the fact that the prisoners enjoy complete local
freedom. Eskichehir was supposed to be the “depôt modèle” of the
empire, and the late Sultan even ordained that the officers there
might keep their swords. But so far as the British officers are
concerned, our sketch will have indicated the main lines of their daily
routine, its security on the whole from the worst forms of coercion,
and on the other hand its exposure to grave risk and hardship. Fully
to understand what their existence is like, one must of course
amplify the picture in many ways, the chief of which is perhaps the
deadly monotony of its isolation. All communication with the world
outside is endlessly uncertain and broken. Between these prisoners
and their friends at home, who only ask to be allowed to send them
the help they need, there lies a mass of corrupt and torpid
inefficiency, a barrier almost impossible to overcome because
incalculable and irrational. The due and punctual censoring of the
prisoners’ mails, for example, has apparently been beyond the
resources of the Turkish Empire. The authorities have never been
able to establish any system by which parcels, letters and books,
might be regularly scrutinised at the various camps. These are all
dealt with at Constantinople, with long and exasperating delays. A
novel for an hour’s reading, say, is delivered to an officer in Asia
Minor; it will instantly be taken from him, returned to the Capital,
and there lost to sight for months before it is discovered to be
inoffensive and allowed to proceed. For a long while the prisoners’
letters were cut down to the barest minimum both in number and
length, because the censor at headquarters could not deal with
more. It appears that it has not been possible to carry out this work
in the camps for the highly Turkish reason that the various
authorities concerned mistrusted each other too deeply.
The housing, feeding, and medical care of the prisoners, the delivery
of their parcels and correspondence, their pay, the exchange of
invalids and others, the inspection of internment camps, and the
thousand and one details of the treatment of prisoners, have been
the subject of constant attention and voluminous correspondence,
hampered not only by the callous obstinacy of the Turkish
Government, but by the failure of Turkish officials even to read the
communications addressed to them.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
THE DARDANELLES 27
CHAPTER II
CONSTANTINOPLE 41
CHAPTER III
THE ARMENIANS 57
CHAPTER IV
THE WANK 72
CHAPTER V
ANGORA 91
CHAPTER VI
THE FIRST WINTER 109
CHAPTER VII
AFION-KARA-HISSAR 127
CHAPTER VIII
THE ARMENIAN CHURCH 144
CHAPTER IX
THE LOWER CAMP 162
CHAPTER X
THE SECOND YEAR 179
CHAPTER XI
THE LAST YEAR IN AFION 195
CHAPTER XII
OUR ALLIES 208
CHAPTER XIII
THE BERNE CONVENTION 220
CHAPTER XIV
SMYRNA 229
CHAPTER XV
THE SHIP 249
A PRISONER IN TURKEY
CHAPTER I
THE DARDANELLES
At dawn on the 9th of August, 1915, the 6th Battalion of the East
Yorkshire Regiment received an order to attack the great hill that
towers above Anafarta. The order was late, hours too late, for the
messenger had lost his way; so, although we did not know it at the
time, we had already forfeited our chance, and were launched upon
a forlorn endeavour.
The rampart of hills to the east of us was black against the chill, pale
sky as we moved out across the grey flats that led up to the foot of
Teke Tepe, towering up to nearly 1,000 feet ahead of us. And we
came under fire from our right flank almost from the very start.
The foot-hills of the range were rough with boulders, and deep cut
by rocky ravines. As we moved on and on, up and up, men got lost
in the prickly scrub oak, holly they called it, and it became
increasingly difficult to maintain any sort of formation. But the
enemy’s fire grew in volume as we mounted, poured into us at ever
decreasing range from the right and from the front.
In that hour my admiration for the splendid courage of the men rose
to a pitch of exaltation. They were Yorkshire miners for the most
part, dogged, hard men of the sturdiest breed on earth. Those who
were hit stayed where they fell, and those who were whole climbed
on. The only complaint heard upon that hill-side was that no enemy
could be seen to fire upon. So there was but little reply from our
rifles as we went on up.
About thirty of us reached the top of the hill, perhaps a few more.
And when there were about twenty left we turned and went down
again. We had reached the highest point and the furthest point that
British forces from Suvla Bay were destined to reach. But we
naturally knew nothing of that. All that we knew was that the
winding ravine down which we retreated alternately exposed us to
rifle fire from the enemy above and protected us. Hid us and
revealed us. A sapper major who walked with me, after a long
silence said, “Are you married?” “Yes,” I replied. “It it were not for
that this would be good fun,” said the major. So we agreed that if
one of us got out he should go and see the other’s wife. And it fell to
me to do it; for he was shot through the ankle soon after that, and
an hour later was bayoneted in cold blood by a Turk.
We hoped that the foot of the ravine would bring us out among our
own supports at the bottom of the hill. But the enemy held it.
Five out of all those who had gone up got down again alive.
We reached the point where the ravine ended, and in the scrub
ahead of us we saw a number of men who fired upon us. For a
moment we thought they were our own, firing in ignorance. Then
we saw that they were Turks. We had run into the back of an enemy
battalion which held the lower slopes against our supports. They had
crossed the range at a point lower than that we had attacked, and
had cut in behind our climbing force. We could do nothing but
surrender.
When we held up our hands some dozen or more of the enemy
charged towards us with fixed bayonets. And we began to
experience that strange mixture of nature, so characteristic of the
Turks, from which we and our fellows were to suffer much in the
years to come.