Chapter XXX: In Which We Are Repatriated as Lunatics

As has already been told, the War Office promised Moïse his commission as soon as we reached Constantinople. He asked for, and obtained, a month’s leave in order to return to Yozgad, nominally to collect his kit and settle his affairs there, really to find the treasure. He said good-bye to us about the middle of May. I did not see him again until July.

Hill was then doing his month’s “penal servitude” at Gumush Suyu, and I was alone at Haidar Pasha. Moïse took me out into the garden, where I was allowed to go with a responsible escort. The Spook had long since warned him never to talk to me about private matters in the presence of others.

“Oh, Jones,” he said as soon as we were alone, “I am distressed to see you like this. Why, I wonder, is the Spook still keeping you under control?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Where is Hill?”

“He’s dead,” I said. (A visiting doctor had told me this lie, to see how I would take it, I suppose. I replied, “it was a good job, because Hill was always bothering me to pray with him,” so he got “no change.” But as Hill had been very ill when last I saw him I was not sure whether to believe the story or not, and spent several days in secret misery before discovering the truth.)

Poor little Moïse wept.

“Oh!” he cried. “Everything is going wrong! The third clue is lost! Price found it—he dug it up in the garden as the Spook said—and he kept the gold lira (he showed it to me) but alas! he dropped the paper of instructions some where.”

“So he found it all right?” I asked.

“Oh yes. He found it. In a tin, just like the other clues. He told me it was written in characters that looked like Russian. But he lost it again. I spent days and days looking for it. I spent two days in the carpenter’s shop at Posh Castle, searching through the shavings and rubbish. Price helped me. Then the Cook and I looked through all the dust-bins, and went carefully over the rubbish dump under the bridge. But it was gone! Gone! And now Hill is dead!”

I began to twist my button.

“Sir?” said Moïse.

“Hill is _not_ dead,” said the Spook. “Jones thinks he is because the doctor said so, but Hill is alive, in Gumush Suyu hospital.”

“Oh, thank you, Sir!” said Moïse. “And may we still find the treasure? Is the promise for the future still secure?”

“Everything’s all right,” said the Spook, “and all is my doing. I am punishing the Commandant—that is why I made Price lose the paper.”

“What are you punishing him for, Sir?” asked Moïse.

“For greed and disobedience.”

“I know!” the Pimple cried. “I thought it might be that as soon as I heard he had disobeyed instructions. I suppose you are referring to his digging?”

“Yes,” said the Spook. “Tell Jones about it, I’m busy.”

I let go of the button and the Pimple told me of the communication which had just been received.

“You know,” he said, “as soon as the Commandant got my letter telling him the position of the third clue, he decided to dig for it without waiting for me. The letter said he was to wait for me, by the Spook’s orders, but he sent the Cook to dig at once. The Cook pretended to the prisoners in Posh Castle that he was making a drain, and he dug very hard, but he found nothing.”

(I could imagine the delight with which Doc., Price, and Matthews had watched the Cook dig!)

“Has anything else happened at Yozgad?” I asked. I was wondering if the Kastamouni Incorrigibles had escaped yet.

“The Commandant is being very kind to the camp,” Moïse said. “And they are enjoying much hunting and freedom. Miller sends his love to you. O’Farrell is very angry because you are in a madhouse, and says you have nothing but neurasthenia, if that. The Dutch Embassy wrote to Maule asking for the cause of your illnesses, and a short history of them, and Maule has replied to them. Would you like to know what he said?”

“Very much,” I said.

Here is the letter—the italics are my own, and I have added some footnotes.

“TO HIS EXCELLENCY, THE NETHERLANDS AMBASSADOR.

”YOZGAD, 31.5.18.

“SIR,

“With reference to your No. 2396 S.P., dated 15th May, 1918, I have the honour to report that Lt. Hill and Lt. Jones were placed in arrest by the Commandant on March 7th, 1918, _for a breach of the regulations_.[62] They were confined in a two-storeyed house formerly occupied by Colonel Chitty’s mess and now Lt.-Col. Moore’s mess. They had the run of the house but were not allowed to leave it, except to go for a walk _if they wished to_,[63] but I believe they only once took advantage of this. They were allowed to take up all their belongings but were allowed no orderly. Up to _March 17th_[64] their meals were sent over from the _School House_[65] opposite, but after that date they cooked for themselves. After _March 26th_[66] when they were allowed to see him, they were visited every day by Captain O’Farrell, R.A.M.C. They were also seen by the Chaplain on four occasions. They made no complaint as to their treatment. _I saw Lt. Hill and Lt. Jones on the morning of March 7th_[67] and enquired into the case, _and as in my opinion the Commandant was perfectly justified in his action_[68] _I took no steps in the matter_.[69] They both then appeared to be perfectly sane. For the last year both these officers have been going in strongly for mental telepathy, and I believe after being placed in arrest they continued to do so.

”_On April 5th_[70] the Commandant sent to inform me they were released, but as far as I know they never left the house though free to do so. Those officers who went to see them came away with the impression that they would rather not be visited, and on _April 24th_[71] I found _a notice_[72] to this effect pinned to their front door, presumably placed there by them. _The general impression of the camp was that they felt aggrieved at not being looked upon as martyrs._[73]

“On April 26th Lt. Hill and Lt. Jones left for Constantinople and on April 27th _the Commandant sent to inform me_[74] that having come to the conclusion that they had been mentally affected by their confinement for two years as Prisoners of War he had reported the case to Constantinople and had received orders to send them there.

“(_Signed_) N.S. MAULE,
“Lt.-Col.”

“How did you come to see the letter?” I asked.

“Col. Maule showed it to the Commandant,” said the Pimple, “and the Commandant desires to thank the Spook for controlling Maule into writing in these terms, and for supporting his action in imprisoning the mediums. Kiazim and Maule are now on a more friendly footing.”

“Splendid!” I said. “Now tell me about yourself.”

“I obey the Spook,” said the Pimple. “I am living very austerely. I do not even go to the theatre or the cinema. All my leave I have been studying languages as ordered by the Control. I am studying German, Spanish, and Arabic. I know already French and Turkish, also Hebrew and some English. Do you think that is enough?”

“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “The Incas of Peru were great magicians and some of the indigenous American languages might help. I could teach you some Choctaw later on—there’s a lot of Choctaw incantations you should learn some day.”

“What’s Choctaw like?” Moïse asked.

“_Hwch goch a chwech o berchill cochion bychain bach_,” I said. (Which is “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper,” in Welsh.)[75]

“_Mon Dieu!_” said Moïse. “But tell me, how can I study the Art of Government?”

“Read Aristotle’s _Politics_ and Plato’s _Republic_,” I said.

Then I began twisting my button.

“Sir?” said Moïse.

“Good advice,” said the Spook. “But don’t forget _Punch_—add _Punch_ to the list.”

I let go the button again.

“The Spook was talking,” Moïse explained. “He said to read _Punch_. But surely that is what you call a ‘comic paper’?”

“I’m not sure,” I sighed wearily. “I know all our British Statesmen read it. It seems to be part of their work.”

“I see,” said the Pimple. “Now, when do you think we can try the Four Point Receiver?”

“If Hill were only alive——” I began.

“But he is! The Spook told me he is in the Gumush Suyu hospital. The doctor told you a lie.”

“Good!” I cried. “We’ll try it when Hill comes back.” But when some three weeks later the Gumush Suyu doctors tired of their experimenting and Hill did come back, he was too weak to walk a hundred yards.

Moïse had an uncle who was a patient—a malingering one—in the eye ward of Haidar Pasha; he was trying to get his discharge. The Pimple used to come and see him every visiting day (Friday). By this time I had acquired the run of the hospital. It was a simple matter to meet Moïse “accidentally” in the corridor and to get him to take me into the garden. On one of these occasions the Spook said:

“I am going to punish the Commandant still more.”

“What for, Sir?” the Pimple asked.

“For digging without orders and trying to find the treasure before you got back so as to cheat you of your share.”

“The devil!” said the Pimple. “I never before realized that _that_ was his object.”

“Of course it was,” said the Spook.

“Punish him, Sir!” Moïse cried. “Punish him hard, the dirty pig! Here am I, suffering at the military school, while he rolls in luxury at Yozgad! Oh, Sir, punish him!”

“I will,” said the Spook.

About the middle of August Moïse came again. He was much excited, for he had just been to the War Office, and learned some news through a friend there.

“There has been a big escape from Yozgad,” he told me; “twenty-six officers have run away. Only a few have been caught so far.”

The Kastamouni Incorrigibles!—I thought to myself. I could have shouted with joy.

“I’ve seen the telegrams,” Moïse went on, “and neither Kiazim nor the War Office can make out how they got away. But _I_ know. The Spook did it! This must be the Spook’s attempt to get Kiazim punished, but I fear it cannot succeed.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because the Commandant has much influence at Headquarters, and it will all be hushed up.”

The Pimple did not come back again until well on in September—he could not get away from his training school. In the interval Hill came back from Gumush Suyu and we carried on as usual.

* * * * *

Suddenly, for no reason at all as far as we could see, the whole atmosphere of the hospital seemed to change towards us. Turkish officers among the patients, who had always been friendly, suddenly began to cold-shoulder me. The attendants seemed to be watching us with added care. I was forbidden to go into the garden at all, whether with or without an attendant, and as I had not been detected in an escape[76] for some time previously I could not understand it. A Turkish patient in a ward upstairs hung about me for three or four days, pretending to be very friendly towards me, but obviously putting me through my paces. He said he was an Armenian, and informed me I “was very clever but would have to be careful.” I replied, like a good G.P., that I “was the cleverest man in the world.” That evening, by sheer good luck, I saw this man leaving the hospital for a stroll. _He was dressed in the uniform of a Turkish doctor!_ Next day he was back in hospital, dressed as a patient. “Keep it up,” he said to me, “always keep it up.” (He should have followed his own advice, I thought to myself, and not gone for that stroll.) “I want to see you get away and I think you’ll do it. Flatter them—bribe them, if you have the money.”

I stared at him in astonishment, as if I did not understand.

“I’m an Armenian,” he said, “and I love the English.”

“You _what_?” I cried.

“I love the English,” he repeated.

“Then, by God, I’ll kill you!” I shouted, and rushed up to my friend Nabi Chaoush, the _café-jee_, bellowing for the loan of his knife.[77]

My friendly doctor-patient bolted, and I never saw him again. To this day I do not know whether it was an official test or not.

Particularly unwelcome was the sudden attention of the administrative officers of the hospital, who had never before taken any notice of us. The _Insabit Zabut_ (an assistant superintendent) was particularly assiduous. He set a series of traps with “poisoned parcels” and “money from the English,” etc., to see how I would behave. Three times he came into the ward and searched my bed. One day, when I was in the bath, I spotted his orderly watching me through a hole in the roof.

The _History of my Persecution by the English_ (I had written about thirty large note-books full by this time) disappeared for twenty-four hours. I wished joy to whomsoever had taken it because it was all unutterable nonsense specially written for the eyes of the Turk. But the action showed renewed suspicion on somebody’s part.

So far as I could make out—I could not consult Hill for reasons that will appear—the trouble was not with our own doctors of the mental ward. Except that one of the juniors cut down my diet for a few days, their attitude was much as usual. It was the attendants, the administrative authorities, the doctors belonging to other wards, and the other patients, who had altered their attitude. Noticing that whenever I entered our ward animated conversations amongst the other patients came to a sudden stop, I crept out one evening along a ledge which ran round the outside of the hospital, and listened under the open window. They were discussing plans for watching us and catching us out!

I was in one way relieved to hear this, because I had begun to fear that I was imagining things and that perhaps I was going really mad. I wondered if Hill had noticed anything, but in the circumstances any attempt at communicating was too dangerous.

It was not till long afterwards, on one of the rare occasions when we managed a brief conversation in the garden, that I learnt what Hill had suffered during this period. He, too, had noticed the conversations amongst the patients which ceased at my entry, but as he knew very little Turkish he could not understand what was said. One phrase, however, he _did_ understand, and its constant repetition got on his nerves. He told me they were everlastingly talking about “a letter from Yozgad.” But though he correctly repeated the phrase to me in Turkish, I felt certain he must have misunderstood what was said, and that what he had heard was something else, similar in sound, which he had construed into Turkish words he knew. For I could not imagine who at Yozgad could write a letter which would get us into trouble. Kiazim Bey would not dare to do so for he himself was too seriously implicated. The Cook, who still believed in the Spook, was equally unlikely. The Pimple was not in Yozgad, but in Constantinople. And nobody else amongst the Turks knew anything. I said so to Hill, but he stuck to it that the phrase he had heard so often was “_a letter from Yozgad_” and nothing else. And in the light of later knowledge I believe he was right.

Before I proceed to what we now believe is the explanation of this exceptionally bad spell, let me quote Hill’s account of one of his experiences about this time. It occurred during the latter half of August, when he returned from Gumush Suyu, and I believe the persons responsible were the administrative authorities of Haidar Pasha, and not the doctors of the mental ward, who were absent at the time.

After describing how he was taken to the depôt he says:

“A man came and told me to ‘come along.’ He started off along the outside of the building at about three times the speed I could go, making for the entrance to the bath and taking no heed as to whether I followed or not. I wandered along behind until he was out of sight round the corner, and then turned at right angles, sat down behind a rose-bush and read the Bible.

“He found me a few minutes later and we proceeded to the bath together at my maximum speed. Having undressed, I was shown the door of the bathroom and told to go in. I went in and started pouring water over myself. A few minutes later the man and a still filthier Turk came in and had a look at me. They muttered something to each other and went out again. The filthier one came back with a worn-out, blunt and rusty razor, and a strop. He looked at me and proceeded to strop the razor. I began to feel uneasy.

“He then made me soap my face and head, and proceeded to shave both, if it can be called a ‘shave.’ It was more like tearing out by the roots. My head was sore for a week afterwards.

“After shaving all the hair I possessed except my eyebrows, he left me. I sat for about half an hour, and then wandered out, with nothing on. I was met in the outer room by the first man, who sent me back into the bath. I stayed there reading the Bible for about a quarter of an hour, and then wandered out again with the same result. So I settled down and read the Bible until it was too dark to see, and then sat in my usual position with my head in my hands.

“All this time there was a man in the bathroom who was apparently neglected like myself, but probably there to watch me. Many others came and went.

“About 8.30 p.m.[78] a man brought in some pyjamas for me and for some Turkish soldiers who had collected in the bathroom. We were all herded together and taken outside. At the door the man in charge took my bundle of toilet things from me and went through the contents. He threw the things into the corner, one by one, except a piece of very inferior soap, which he gave me. This was stolen from me by someone else during the night.

“We were taken along the passage, past the ward Jones and I were in before, and to the other side of the hospital. Here most of the patients were put into a ward. I and the man who had been with me all the time in the bathroom were kept waiting while the orderly who brought us had a confab with another at the ward. After which we were taken back to the bath!

“After a short time we were taken back to the ward again. I stayed there all night. I was not given any food....”

Even though the bathroom was fairly warm[79] (65° to 75° Fahrenheit I should guess), over five hours naked on the marble floor was a pretty severe ordeal for a man who was just getting over a bad bout of dysentery and was too weak to walk without difficulty. At this period Hill was so emaciated that he could not bear to cross one leg over the other in bed for any length of time because his shinbones felt so sharp.

The object of the Turks seems to have been to see if they could force a complaint out of Hill or get him to show any interest in his own treatment or his surroundings. He was led three times past the ward I was in, probably as a test to see if he would recognize it and come to me for help in his misery. But such was the iron resolution of the man that, though ready to drop from weakness, he managed to appear quite heedless of everything except his Bible.

Of this period Hill has told me since that worse than all the physical sufferings which he had to undergo—and they were many—was the mental agony of knowing that, with the exchange in sight, after all our months of hard work, we were under a darker cloud of suspicion than ever; and for no apparent reason except this mysterious “letter from Yozgad.” What that letter was we never knew and do not know to this day. But that such a letter came we have now no doubt. The author was probably Kiazim Bey’s superior officer, and the contents may be guessed from the following story of what happened at Yozgad, which we learned after our release.

The “Big Escape” from Yozgad took place on August 7th, 1918. Kiazim Bey at once retaliated on those who were left behind in the camp by cancelling all privileges of every description. He locked up the prisoners in their respective houses and gardens. A Turkish official, superior in rank to Kiazim Bey, was sent from Angora to investigate the circumstances of the escape. To him the camp complained of their treatment and endeavoured to secure Kiazim’s dismissal by means of a series of charges of peculation, embezzlement of money and parcels, and so on. But Kiazim was a wily Oriental and had covered his tracks well. These charges were hard to prove, and he looked like getting off. As a makeweight there was added proof of Kiazim’s complicity with Hill and myself. One of the three negatives of the treasure-hunt, to procure which Hill and I had taken so much trouble and so many risks, was handed over to Kiazim’s superior.[80] The negative showed me standing with my arms raised over the fire in the “incantation,” and round me the carefully posed and clearly recognizable figures of the Pimple, the Cook and Kiazim Bey. Together with this damning photograph the Turkish authorities were given some sort of a summary of our séances. To make assurances doubly sure the investigating official got the negative enlarged. Kiazim was recognized beyond doubt, placed under arrest, and ordered to be tried by court-martial. Thus the camp revenged themselves on Kiazim Bey and won back some of their lost comfort.

This explains the “letter from Yozgad” and our nerve-racking experience towards the end of our stay in Haidar Pasha. It looks to us as if Kiazim’s superior officer reported to the War Office, and the War Office asked the administrative authorities of Haidar Pasha about us. That we still managed to deceive everybody I can explain only on the assumption that the specialists were by this time firmly convinced of our insanity. The opinion of experts like Mazhar Osman, Chouaïe, and Helmi Beys, supported as it was by that of many junior specialists like Ihsan, Talha, Riza, and Shezo-Nafiz, and by the whole Exchange Board of doctors, had already been given in our favour and was not lightly to be set aside. So the administrative authorities appear to have contented themselves with a few experiments “on the quiet” at our expense. At any rate, Hill and I got off with some quite undeserved discomfort and a very bad scare.

The surrender of our “evidence” to the Turks was due to a misunderstanding of our wishes. Colonel Maule explained the matter to me after our release, when I grumbled that the camp had come very near to blowing us up in the mine we had so laboriously laid for Kiazim Bey. The facts were these: When Hill and I left Yozgad we had given instructions to Matthews as to the circumstances under which our “proof” was to be used. Once we had got clear of Turkey, we told him, the camp might make use of it in any way it chose, and we pointed out that it might then prove a useful weapon for all sorts of purposes. But so long as we remained in the grip of the Turks it was not to be used on behalf of the camp except to prevent suffering _from our actions_, a circumstance which was not likely to occur except in the improbable event of Kiazim seeing through our plan and realizing we had been duping him all along, when we would be “in the soup” even more than the others. The threat of exposure which Matthews would be in a position to make might then save both ourselves and the camp from ill-treatment, and ensure Kiazim’s silence and good behaviour. Never for a moment did we contemplate sacrificing ourselves or our scheme to save our comrades from discomfort _caused by the actions of others_.

Matthews knew this quite well, and had he remained in Yozgad the photograph and the summary of our papers would never have been given up to the Turks. But unfortunately for us, Matthews was one of the twenty-six who attempted escape, and before he had been recaptured or could interfere on our behalf the damage had been done. Some time before his escape Matthews (with our full permission, of course) had told our story and shown our papers to the new Senior Officer of the camp, who had taken Colonel Maule’s place on the arrival of the Kastamouni party in April. In telling it he had emphasized the fact that the camp had now a grip on Kiazim. Unfortunately for us the new S.O. misunderstood. He got it into his head that it was our wish the evidence should be used in _any_ serious emergency. Himself one of the “Kastamouni Incorrigibles,” with strong anti-parole views, he fostered and aided every reasonable plan of escape, and nothing could have been further from his mind than to put obstacles in our way. He may have thought, as a good many people in Yozgad thought, that we were already safe in England. Be that as it may, it is only just to an officer for whom every prisoner in Turkey had a profound respect to say that in using our evidence he fully believed that he was carrying out our wishes. Indeed, now that it is all over, Hill and I take it as a high compliment that he should have thought us capable of such disinterested action, and much regret the necessity of having to confess that he was quite wrong.

AUTOGRAPH PHOTOGRAPH OF MAZHAR OSMAN BEY (CENTRE, SEATED) AND FIVE
OTHER HAIDAR PASHA DOCTORS.
(PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY TALHA BEY)]

We saw the Pimple only once more. He came to the hospital late in September to enquire of the Spook how much longer his unpleasant military training was likely to continue, when we would proceed with the treasure-hunt, and when he might expect to begin his career as Ruler of the World. He also wanted to know if the Spook really intended us to be sent to England as exchanged prisoners, and, if so, why.

The Spook explained that the strain of being under control for so long had been very severe on the mediums, and he had therefore “controlled” the Haidar Pasha doctors to give us a thorough holiday by sending us to England. The treasure-hunt was temporarily shelved on account of the disobedience and greed of the “double-faced Superior” (Kiazim). But it would not be for long. Very soon we would be back in Constantinople, possibly in the guise of Red Cross officers, with our health re-established, and ready to begin a new series of experiments and discoveries. Until we came Moïse was to continue to be honest, to live austerely, and to do his duty; for this was his training for the glorious future that awaited him.

The Pimple shook hands with me many times over. He walked off at last, his head high, and his eye bright with the vision of his coming omnipotence. As I watched his cocksure little figure striding out of the hospital gates for the last time—the Spook had told him not to come back—I felt inclined to call after him that he had far to go, and that his training would be long—very long—before he could become Ruler of the World. But I did not. I went back to the ward and Hill, and that was the last I saw of the Pimple.

* * * * *

Hill left Haidar Pasha on October 10th to join the sick who were collecting for repatriation at Smyrna. I remained behind—the hospital authorities explained to the Dutch Embassy that I “would commit suicide if placed among the English”—and finally reached Smyrna just too late to catch the first exchange ship, by which Hill travelled, but I got the second exchange ship a few days later, and we met again in a hotel in Alexandria.

The armistice with Turkey had just been signed. We had reached British soil perhaps a fortnight ahead of the “healthy” prisoners.

We shook hands.

“We’ve been through a good deal, old chap, and for very little,” I said, with a smile.

“Never mind,” Hill answered, “we did our best. It wasn’t our fault we had to wait so long for the boat, and nobody could tell the armistice would come like this. Come out on the beach.”

We went for a stroll together. It was good to be free again.

* * * * *

Amongst the repatriated sick on the transport which carried us from Port Said to Taranto was Colonel Maule. With him I discussed many things, including the surrender of our “evidence” to the Turks. He put the matter in a nutshell.

“You ought to have put your instructions to Matthews in writing,” he said. “Indeed, for anyone with a scheme half so complicated as yours, even writing is hardly good enough. My successor did what he thought you wanted, and what practically the whole camp, including myself, thought you wanted.”

At which, when I told him, Hill growled. “They should have known us two better than to think we wanted _that_.”

“Why?” I asked.

He played the Scot and answered my question with three more.

“Weren’t we prisoners of war?” said he, a trifle bitterly. “Aren’t we all selfish? Can you name a single prisoner who is an altruist?”

I knew what was the matter. Our sufferings at Haidar Pasha were still fresh. Hill was thinking, perhaps, of the failure of our kidnapping scheme and of the various unintentional indiscretions by our comrades which had made our path so hard to travel. I left him alone, and walked forward to where I could see the fast approaching shores of Italy.

In a little while he was beside me again.

“I was wrong,” he said, in his quiet tones. “I had no right to say that. There were Matthews, and Doc., and that generous soul whom we shall never see again——” He paused, and for a space stood looking over the sea in silence. I knew the name he had not the heart to utter. Twelve prisoners had died at Yozgad since we left there in April. Amongst the dead were men we loved, and one to whose unselfish friendship we owe more than we can tell. For while we lay in hospital at Constantinople, Lieutenant E.J. Price, R.N., had solved the eternal problem.

Hill’s back was half turned to me, so that I could not see his face. “Yes, I was quite wrong,” he repeated. “There were those three, and many more—many who wanted to help if they had known how.”

Something in his voice moved me strangely. I thought of those he had named, and of the many more who had wanted to help. I thought of all this man beside me had endured in our struggle for freedom, of his uncomplaining patience in the face of trials and disappointments, of his resolute courage that neither starvation, nor sickness, nor ill-treatment could break, and of his unending loyalty to myself through it all; and then my mind turned to a lonely grave in the bare Anatolian hills, and what the man who lay there had done for both of us.

“For me,” I said gently, “our hardships have been worth while. I have found many Treasures.”

Hill understood.

“We have indeed been blessed in our friends,” he said.

POSTSCRIPT

WHAT THE PIMPLE THINKS OF IT ALL—THREE LETTERS

I have been asked to add what has become of our three converts to spiritualism—the Pimple, the Cook and Kiazim Bey. All I know is contained in three letters from Moïse—so far unanswered. Their chief interest lies, not so much in the news they contain, as the attitude of mind they reveal. It is an attitude common to many Spiritualists—a refusal to look facts in the face. Until I read them I never could understand how Sir Oliver Lodge and others like him could go on believing in mediums, such as Eusapia Palladino, who had already been detected in fraud. But now I see that faith—even a faith induced by fraud—is the most gloriously irrational and invincible phenomenon in all experience, and that, as Hill said, “True Believers remain True Believers through everything.”

Here are the letters:

No. 1.

CONSTANTINOPLE,

_8th February, 1919._

DEAR JONES,

I wanted to write to you since a long time but it has been impossible. Happily the British Authorities have allowed us this week to send letters to the Entente countries and the first one I send abroad is for you. I am most anxious to hear of your health and that of Hill. I have not heard of you for six months (September) and it seems such a long while! The last time I saw you you were in such a bad state, and I hope, and very sincerely wish that the strain which you were subjected to, has loosed a little and that your health has improved. I have a lot of news to give, still more to ask. You know that all the officers interned at Yozgad came to Constantinople on their way home. They are the only prisoners who came here. I don’t know why. I had a chat with many of them, especially with Captain Miller and Major Peel. Miller told me that Hill had made a camera with which you took many photographs of Yozgad. I congratulate Hill for his industry! My talk with Major Peel was more interesting. He looked stiff, and I dare say a little furious with me. He said that the Commt. the Cook, I and two other gentlemen were looking up for a treasure amounting to £18,000, the arrest of these two officers, the letter, the enquiry, all that _was a fraud_. The Commandant was acting. He had rehearsed it the day before with the officers. _One of the officers_ told him everything, that Hill has taken a photograph of the Comt. I, the Cook, the gentlemen (!) sitting round a big fire lighted on great stones at the top of a hill near the camp. I could not understand that. How could they have got such a photograph? I very strongly protested against this, it was false and that some officer with a wide fancy has started this rumour in the camp. The gentleman could not have given him the photo since the gentlemen had stopped to see them when the thing is supposed to have occurred. I could not change his mind; the photo is there and he sticks to it. I waited until the Commandant’s arrival to have more explanations.

I am giving you all these details because Peel might put it in a paper. I may not know it and make it clear. I had lived in a very friendly footing with all the officers and I don’t wish to get into trouble for a misunderstanding. I reckon on your friendship to settle the matter clear, if necessary.

The facts are these. While you were in the hospital, here, about sixteen[81] officers escaped from the Camp (among which Cochrane, Sweet (dead), Stoker, Matthews, etc.). Many of them were caught again (it was a pity) but some got home without any difficulty.[82] The Turkish War Office, on hearing it, sent the Commanding Officer of the Army Corps in Angora to enquire. The relations between the two Commandants were far from being good. The latter tried to make as many charges against our Commandant as possible. As he knew some French Captain Shakeshaft was used as interpreter. Many complaints were put forward by Col. Maule who spoke with him about the treasure digging and gave him the photo.[83] I have long wondered how he got it. I cannot make it out. It is not _HUMAN_: How could they get a photo when there was nobody to take it! It is mysterious. None of my Best Friends did know it. If they had done they would certainly have informed me. Among the other complaints there are about his ill-treatment, his making money out of them, his robbing them and so on. Now, the reports were sent to the War Office and the Commandant is going to be court-martialled here. He said that the escapes are in the background now, according to him the money business comes in first and he can answer for everything _but_ the photo. Very cleverly he wanted to put my name forward in the trial! I did not want to get mixed up in such business, I threw away my uniform,[84] and never went again to see him, notwithstanding many wires he sent to me. He does not know where I am lodging and I am not afraid of him.

I am leaving (_sic_) by teaching French and English. It is very difficult to get on with and the mere commodities being at an awful price and there being no prospect of peace signed soon. I applied for a situation at the British H.Q. and as they wanted to send me to Anatolia as interpreter I declined. The pay was good, food free, but I remembered that “a crust of bread where there are people to see you eating it is better than rich meats in the wilderness.”[85] I remained and the situation was lost. What do you advise me? Was I wrong in doing so? What is the opinion of the Control? You liked Turkey and know Turkish quite good. Could you not manage to be sent here with Hill? How happy I will be to see you again! But you prefer of course to go back to India, to Burma, don’t you. Are you discharged? Hill is he in the R.F.C.? Could you send me your and his home address? You can write as many letters as you like and so can give all news you think interesting to me. Besides letters will you try to send me a message[86] every 1st and 15th of each month? I’ll try to do the same. I hope that everything is all right and that nothing has been spoilt. I am working hard to learn English better for our next meeting.[87]

Very sincerely yours,

(_Signed_) MOÏSE.

_Address:
Moïse Eskenazi,
Poste Restante,
British Post Office,
Galata, Constantinople._

(_To be labelled so by order_).

No. 2.

CONSTANTINOPLE.

_22nd February, 1919._

DEAR JONES,

I wrote a long letter to you about two weeks ago. As I am not
certain you will get it I do it once again.

I am very anxious about your health and Hill’s and it will be for me a great relief when I hear of your perfect health. You will not believe me if I tell you I am thinking of you both the whole day.

I cannot forget our experiment. Instead of thinking of the future, my thoughts are going to the happy past elapsed since March, 1918. Goodness! When you get this letter a whole year will have passed and we were going to be so happy long ago but for the double-faced Superior.[88] Notwithstanding the promises of _help_ lavished on me by our _teacher_[4] nothing seems to come out of it. Ill luck is going after me. I do not complain because the end will be good. I trust _him_[89] so much and all’s good that ends good! Is it not so?

I have applied a great many times to your offices here, but as I told you I am not favoured by chance. People who have applied after myself who have not so good knowledge of your language have got splendid and well paid jobs. Could you give me some letter to any of the officers here, if you are aware of acquaintance of you being here?

Before any of your letters of introduction what I wish most is that you don’t forget me and that you honour me of your friendship. Our experiments have bound me to you and Hill. Be assured that it is not only by interest. It is an admiration, a great love for all that you have undergone, with the only object of scientific knowledge.[90] It may be true that you have not lost in the bargain; the knowledge and the power you got came as a reward. You did not expect so much on the beginning. When do you think we are most likely to give an end to our _story_?[91] Is everything all right or has anything gone wrong? Do you intend to come back to Turkey or to go back to India? Would you not like to come here as a Red Cross officer?[92]

I am working hard at the English,[92] but what would make me improve would be to be all day long with English speaking people, that is, to get an employment in an office. But it won’t come. I told you. Luck is shunning me.

Dear Jones. _Do_ send me a letter. Let me know all about you since I saw you last. Could you not send me a _message_ every 1st or 15th (on the evening) every month as you used to send home.[93] _He_[94] could find the way of how to do it.

I just heard today that the British Government has asked the punishment of many camp Commandants but ours is not included in the list. (Anyhow the interpreter who succeeded me is.) As I told you he is going to be court-martialled,[95] and I think will be forgiven.

Send me your home address as this letter will take such a long time to reach you, as I am sending it c/o the Indian Civil Service. Give me the address of Hill too. Hoping to get very soon some news from you.

I remain your most faithful friend,

(_Signed_) MOÏSE.

No. 3.

PROVOST MARSHAL’S OFFICE,

CONSTANTINOPLE. G.H.Q.

_13th June, 1919._

DEAR JONES,

I wrote to you many letters but I have not had any from you yet. As I did not know your address I sent a line to your father asking for your whereabouts.

As I told you before, I am now in the employ of the British here and attached to the P.M. as interpreter. The other day I attended a court-martial, in order to give evidence about the Sup.[96] Most of the questions ran about the two officers sent sick to the hospital at Haidar Pasha. They showed to me a photo[97]: it represents a hill somewhere near the camp; the Sup.[96] is on the left side; a tall officer is holding his hands up as if he were praying.[98] I am near him and the old Cook near me. Those _four_ are the only persons in the picture. It puzzles me a lot as I cannot understand who took the photo and admitting it was taken by OOO[99] how the dickens did he manage to pass it to the camp?

Miller[100] before going to England on his way here, told me that Hill gave it to them with many others. Of course, it is all rubbish[101] but cannot you give an explanation of the riddle?

That affair has formed the subject of many articles published in papers by officers of our camp. I have seen one of them by Captain Forbes in a Glasgow newspaper. I agree that he has a wonderful imagination.[102] But I suppose that the whole camp thought like him. If you could send any copies available referring to our camp and this business, I shall be glad indeed.

How is Hill? Is he in England or is he gone to Australia? What are your ideas? Shall we meet again? I hope you have not forgotten what you promised in the train[103] and that nothing wrong has happened since that could irritate the Controller and that we shall be able to resume our studies.”

[Then follow remarks about the weather in Constantinople. He ends]:

“I want, now that I have plenty of time, to study _those questions_[104] further. Could you send me a few important standard books dealing with this subject? I should be greatly obliged to you and do not forget please to drop a line to your

Very affectionate

(_Signed_) MOÏSE ESKENAZI.

Let me end this postscript with a quotation from a letter of Hill’s acknowledging the receipt of a copy of the Pimple’s last note:

“No, Bones, I am not altogether sorry for the Pimple. I can’t quite forget about the thefts from our parcels at Yozgad and the other things he did. Besides, the Spook ‘did him nothing but good,’ as Doc. used to say. The military training nearly made a man of him, and he has been honest now for over a year. So he’s getting on. As to the ‘standard works on spiritualism,’ I think you had better send him your own book. That should help him to the right point of view—unless he thinks it was written by OOO.”

-----

Footnote 47:

The performance was so amusing that I repeated it at every possible
opportunity on our 120-mile road journey to Angora, and the poor
Pimple was in and out of his cart like a Jack-in-the-box. To his
credit be it said that he succeeded in getting back most of the notes
I distributed so lavishly, and he was perfectly honest in returning
them to us in Constantinople.

Footnote 48:

From the point of view of the professional medium the slower methods
have another advantage. Very little ground is covered at a single
table-rapping séance, and at the end of the allotted hour the sitter
has usually a number of questions he still wishes to put. So he is
likely to come back for a second guinea’s worth.

Footnote 49:

I apologise to the inhabitants of Togoland for comparing their music
(whatever it may be) to the abominable noises made by our sentries.

Footnote 50:

Before leaving Yozgad we had come to an arrangement with Price. If
questioned he was to say that while digging in the garden at the spot
mentioned above he had come on a tin with a false bottom, on opening
which he found a gold lira and a circular piece of paper with curious
hieroglyphics on it. The lira he had kept (we gave him one to
produce), but he had lost the paper.

Footnote 51:

A type of nomenclature common amongst Turkish peasantry. “Hassan’s boy
Ahmed” was a very incongruous name for a Pasha.

Footnote 52:

I gave the name of a well-known Scottish expert on nervous diseases—an
old college friend of mine. It had the effect I desired. Whether they
looked him up afterwards in some medical list or whether, as is more
probable, they already knew of his writings and his reputation in the
treatment of nervous diseases, I do not know. But some days later the
chief doctor, Mazhar Osman Bey, tried to question me about “the Doctor
Bey, M——, of Glasgow.” The “of Glasgow” showed me my friend was known
to them, so assuming as cunning a look as I could, I denied ever
having heard the name before. The Chief smiled to himself and went
away.

Footnote 53:

A pamphlet of his (later, when I had become his favourite patient, he
presented me with an autograph copy of it) was entitled, _Spiritism
Aleyhindé_ (Against Spiritualism). So far as I could understand it (it
was written in very technical Turkish), he sought to prove that the
proper abode for spiritualists is a private asylum, and the so-called
“subconscious” replies to questions given in automatic writing,
table-rapping, etc., and similar phenomena, are as much due to nervous
derangement as are the conversations with spirits indulged in by
sufferers from G.P.I. He challenged me to write a reply to his
pamphlet from the spiritualist point of view. Perhaps this book will
do instead.

Footnote 54:

On the strength of Mazhar Osman Bey’s suggestion to learn Turkish I
promptly ordered “a hundred books on the Turkish language,” and gave
nobody any rest until I was provided with one (at my own expense, of
course). It was Hagopian’s _Conversation Grammar_—a most excellent
book. I had plenty of teachers—every patient in the hospital and most
of the doctors were delighted to give me a lesson whenever I asked for
one—and to the delight of Mazhar Osman Bey I made rapid strides in
Turkish. Needless to say, a sane occupation of this sort was of the
utmost value to me, and my only regret was that, as a madman, my study
of this most interesting language had to be spasmodic and irregular.
Still, I learned enough to become something of a “show patient,” and
to gain from the Dutch Embassy at Constantinople, whose medical
representatives visited us about July, the following quite unsolicited
and rather amusing “testimonial.” It was sent as a “Report” by the
Embassy, and reached my family through the India Office:—

“Haidar Pasha Hospital.—We found here Lieut. Henry Elias Jones,
Artillery Battery (volunteer). The 10 of May, 1918, he was sent down
from Yozgad with mental disturbance. He was quite content and we had a
long talk with him. He wants to be a Turk, and mistrusts all English,
and will not take anything if it comes from his parents or from
England. He wants a Turkish uniform and will settle down in Turkey.
Intelligent as he is, he learnt Turkish with an astonishing good
accent in an exceedingly short time. He will probably be sent back to
England with the first exchange.”

Footnote 55:

This referred to a large drawing of a monstrous machine which was
placed in my (Jones’s) kit for the doctors to find. The machine was
designed to flatten out capes, fill up bays, and uproot all islands,
thereby straightening the coastline and making the sea safe for
navigation. The power was to be derived from the weight of the Great
Pyramid, which was to be removed from Egypt and placed on a raft 500
feet long. The raft would rise and fall with the motion of the waves,
and operate an enormous knife which would cut away capes, islands,
etc. One of the uses to which the machine was to be put was to slice
under the island of Great Britain. We would then turn it over and
start a new England on the other side!

Footnote 56:

Somewhere in Hill’s kit (I don’t know if the doctors ever saw it), was
the following incoherent document, written in a very scrawly hand—

“I, Elias Henry Jones, Master of Arts Assistant Commissioner in the
Indian Civil Service Deputy Commissioner of Kyaukse District Upper
Burma and Headquarters Assistant Moulmein Lieutenant Indian Army
Reserve of Officers in the Volunteer Artillery Battery born at
Aberystwyth and educated at Glasgow University and Balliol College
Oxford CERTIFY and PROMISE by ALMIGHTY GOD that if you will assist me
in my great scheme and do everything I require of you including draw
and inventions of MACHINERY I certainly will be converted by you and
give up all wickedness as you say as soon as my great scheme is
finished and until then you must help me with designs and drawings and
inventions of NECESSARY MACHINERY.

“Signed E.H. JONES.”

Footnote 57:

I think our traps were on the whole more successful than those of the
medical men. The most amusing, perhaps, was what we called “the
chocolate test.” Chocolate at this time was practically unobtainable
in Constantinople. Indeed, anything of that nature was immensely
expensive. Now one of the junior doctors, who had a room in the
hospital, had a sweet tooth. Hill and I had hoped for this, and had
arranged the test before we entered the hospital.

I let it be known in the mad ward that we had a large supply of
“stores” in the depot. (We had saved them up from parcels which
arrived during our starvation period at Yozgad.) This aroused great
enthusiasm amongst the other patients, who suggested they should be
brought up. They were fetched by Ibrahim, the good-natured attendant
who happened to be on duty at the time. When the case arrived I
pretended to change my mind. I refused to allow it to be opened,
because for all we knew the stores might be poisoned. A malingering
epileptic, to whom I had promised some tea, said the doctor could
examine them for us and find out if they contained poison or not. This
was what we wanted. One of the junior doctors was then brought in, and
pretended to examine the stores. He declared them all fit for human
consumption. With my customary lavish generosity (generosity was one
of my symptoms), I started handing tins of tea, coffee, sugar, etc.,
to all the patients, keeping nothing for myself. (A pound of tea in
those days cost a thousand piastres—about £9.) The doctor stopped this
mad act, took charge of the stores, and said he would issue them to
Hill and myself little by little. He took them to his private room
upstairs.

A week later, with the freedom of a lunatic, I burst into his room
unannounced, and found him with his mouth full of our chocolate. He
blushed, said he was “testing our chocolate for poison,” and asked me
if I knew how many tins I had. I said I did not know at all. “You have
two,” he said, looking relieved. (We really had ten, but he had
already eaten eight, I suppose.) “And here they are.” He handed me two
tins, assured me they were not poisoned, and told me to give one to
Hill. He also gave me a little tea and a tin of condensed milk. That
was all we ever saw of the stores. I pretended to forget about them,
but used to make incursions into the private room to note the rate at
which our junior doctor was getting through them. Hill and I were
delighted at the success of our little plot, for we knew that this man
at least would be anything but anxious to prove our sanity to his
Chief, and as he was more often about the ward than any other doctor,
the sacrifice was well worth while.

I purposely do not give his name. In the main he was a good fellow
enough, and in the half-starved state of Constantinople the temptation
to which he was subjected was very severe, while he was very young.
But I hope that, like a good Mohammedan, he thoroughly enjoyed the
tins of “Pork and Beans,” and that he suffered no indigestion from the
bacon.

Later, when fresh parcels arrived, we tried the same trick with
Chouaïe Bey, a new doctor whose attitude towards us we wanted to know.
It failed utterly, I am glad to say, not because he suspected us, nor
yet because his mouth did not water over the dainties, but because he
was an exceedingly fine man in every way. It was only with immense
difficulty that I got him to accept a tin of cocoa as a gift, and he
insisted on repaying us by sending us delicacies from his private
house. He was also the only doctor amongst them all who tried hard to
induce me to send a note to my wife and relieve her anxiety by saying
I was quite well. (I refused, because my wife knew this already.)

We tricked Chouaïe Bey in another way—I had kept up the old pretence
of knowing no French, and had the pleasure of listening with a wooden
face while he described our diseases to a friend.

Footnote 58:

I learned at Haidar Pasha that Hill’s medical history was never sent
to Gumush Suyu, nor did the Gumush Suyu doctors ask for it, although
they knew Hill had been two months under Mazhar Osman Bey. Hill’s
transfer was made in obedience to an administrative order from the
Turkish War Office, without the knowledge or concurrence of our own
doctors, who were off duty when the order arrived. I was sent to
Gumush Suyu at the same time as Hill, and was subjected to similar
treatment. (My temperature on admission was 103° due to influenza.) By
dint of making a thorough nuisance of myself to everybody, I succeeded
in getting myself sent back to Haidar Pasha after thirty-six hours of
Gumush Suyu, but failed to get them to send Hill with me. The reason
for sending me back was stated in a note from the head doctor which
said that Gumush Suyu hospital had neither the trained staff nor the
accommodation necessary for mental cases. It amounts to this: The bold
experimenters at Gumush Suyu were quite ready to practise their
prentice theories on Hill, who was harmless and passive under their
treatment as befitted his malady, but they had no desire to try their
tricks on a lunatic who was active and possibly dangerous, like
myself. When I pretended to take a violent dislike to one of the
doctors, and tried to buy a knife from the sentry, they thought
discretion the better part of valour. This was the sole reason why _I_
was a “case for specialists,” while Hill was not.

Footnote 59:

Colonel F.E. Baines, I.M.S., the British medical officer who saw Hill
at Psamatia, at once put in a strong protest in writing about Hill’s
condition and treatment. It stated that Hill was suffering from
dysentery and acute melancholia, and that he was dying through
neglect, and that he should be sent to England at once. It ended with
the threat that if Hill did die, Colonel Baines would hold the Turkish
Government responsible for his death, and do his best to bring the
responsibility home. The letter was a gallant challenge to the Turks
from a man who was himself a prisoner. It was, of course, a perfectly
_bona fide_ expression of the Colonel’s professional opinion, and is a
worthy example of the fearless way in which our medical men sought to
do their duty. That Colonel Baines, too, was deceived is no reflection
upon him. Another British doctor, also deceived, characterized Hill’s
performance afterwards as “the most wonderful case of malingering he
had ever heard of.”

Footnote 60:

The Embassy report was sent to my parents by the India Office in their
letter M.35342 of October 30th, 1918, and is as follows:

“14th August, Psamatia. We found removed to Psamatia 2nd Lieut. C.W.
Hill, R.F.C., mentioned in our first report on Gumush Suyu Hospital.
As he is not taking any food and his insanity growing worse every day,
we advised to send him back to England instantly together with Lieut.
Jones of Haidar Pasha Hospital or to put him under special treatment.”

Footnote 61:

There were other portraits of Enver in the hospital, and when his
Cabinet fell, about a month before the armistice, they were all taken
down—except mine. On that occasion a Pasha—named, I think, Suliman
Numan Pasha—came to the hospital, took down a life-size portrait of
Enver, put his foot through it and danced on the fragments. His object
was to try to dissociate himself from his former chief, and keep his
job; but I believe he too “crashed.” Still, to me his object did not
matter. How I secretly longed to join him in his dance!

Footnote 62:

A mistake. The charge on which we were convicted was “communication by
telepathy.” See Major Gilchrist’s account of the trial, p. 107,