Hill’s examination followed. It was much shorter, for Hill’s conduct was in every way the antithesis of mine. He answered each question with a gloomy brevity, and never spoke unless spoken to. The questions asked were much the same as those put later to him by Mazhar Osman Bey in the interview which I quote below, but at this preliminary examination Hill denied the hanging. I could not hear what was said, for they spoke in low tones; in the middle of it I saw Ihsan grab Hill’s wrist, but the phenacetin was doing its work and his pulse revealed nothing. Once Hill wept a little, and several times while Ihsan and MoÏse were talking together in Turkish he opened his Bible in a detached sort of way and went on with his eternal reading. His face throughout was puckered and lined with woe. How he kept up that awful expression through all the months that followed I do not know. But he did it, and from first to last I never saw him look anything like his natural happy self. At the close of his examination he was taken back to bed and Ihsan ran over his reflexes in the ordinary way. Then the doctors left the room.

An hour later the orderly on duty called out, “Doctor Bey geldi!” (the Doctor has come) and every patient in the ward, except Hill, sat up in an attitude of respect. A little procession entered. At its head was the chief doctor, Mazhar Osman Bey. Behind him followed his two juniors, Ihsan and Talha, in their white overalls, and behind them a motley crowd of students and orderlies, the latter carrying trays of instruments which the great man might need on his rounds.

Mazhar Osman was a stout, well-dressed, well-set-up man of about 40 years of age, with a jovial and most confoundedly intelligent face. He spoke French and German as easily as Turkish, and was in every way a highly educated and accomplished man. In his profession he had the reputation of being the greatest authority on mental diseases in Eastern Europe. As we discovered later, he was Berlin trained, had studied in Paris and Vienna, and was the author of several books on his subject,^[53] some of which we were told had been translated into German, and were regarded as standard works. It is of course impossible for a layman to judge the real professional merit of a doctor, but this Hill and I can say: during our stay in Constantinople we were examined at various times by some two score medical men—Turks, Germans, Austrians, Dutch, Greek, Armenian, and British. We were subjected to all sorts of traps and tests and questions. There is no doubt we were often suspected, especially by those who were ignorant of our full “medical history,” but nobody inspired us with such a fear of detection, or with such a feeling that he knew all about his business, as Mazhar Osman Bey.

He seemed hardly to glance at Hill as he made his round. I found out afterwards that it was a favourite trick of his to leave his patients alone for several days after their arrival—but when he got to my bed he stopped, and stood looking at me in silence for some time. Then he put his hand on my heart. It was quite steady.

“I suppose,” I said gloomily, “you are a heart specialist.” MoÏse translated, and Mazhar Osman laughed, showing he knew of my tirade against specialists, and asked me why I looked so cross. I complained bitterly that Ihsan Bey had said I was mad and was keeping me there against my will.

“Ihsan Bey does not understand you,” said Mazhar Osman; “you must learn to speak Turkish.”

“I will,” I said enthusiastically, “I’ll learn it in a month.” (And I did!) “I’ll also learn every other language in the world.”^[54]

Mazhar Osman smiled again, and said something in Turkish to the gaping crowd of students. Then he examined my reflexes, gave an order to his subordinates, and left the room.

Soon after, I learned what the order had been. Ihsan and Talha came back and announced they were going to take my blood and draw off some of my spinal fluid. I had hoped these tests might be omitted, for they would show beyond doubt that I had no syphilitic infection, and I feared that this might prove the first step in the detection of my simulation. But these men were leaving nothing to chance. They were convinced I had syphilis, and were going to prove it, and they said so. If I wouldn’t admit to having suffered from the disease I must submit to the test.

It was too dangerous to make such an admission, for they might—probably would—carry on with the tests in spite of me, and so prove me a liar. My object was to tell the truth in such a way that they would think it a lie.

“I protest,” I said. “I have never had syphilis.”

“Your blood and your spinal fluid will prove who is right,” Ihsan grinned.

“There’s nothing wrong with either,” I said indignantly. So far I had told the truth. Now was the time to add a lie which they couldn’t possibly detect, and which would puzzle them later on. “Both were tested in England by M——, so I know. I’ll tell you what, though, if you are so certain about it, will you bet?”

“Certainly,” said Talha—I think he hoped to make a little money!—“how much would you like to bet?”

“Oh, say a hundred thousand pounds,” said I.

Talha cut it down to a hundred. I submitted gleefully to the test, and while they drew blood from my arm I babbled away about how sorry they would be when they had to pay up, and how I had won money from M—— in the same way. Then they tackled my spine. I saw an orderly blow down the hollow needle and wipe it on the back of his breeches before handing it over to the doctors, and it nearly gave me a fit. If it had not been for Hill I think I would have given in and confessed, for I dreaded infection. I knew enough about needles to be in mortal terror of a dirty one. I believe I gave a start, or looked frightened, for orderlies pounced upon me and held me down in the required position. The student who was practising his prentice hand on me made two boss shots before he hit the bull. It was altogether beastly.

The report of the bacteriologist, of course, stated everything was healthy and normal. I danced with simulated joy, jeered at Ihsan and Talha, called loudly, day after day, for my hundred pounds and demanded to be sent forthwith to Enver Pasha. Ihsan and Talha went through another head-scratching competition. I have never seen two men more interested or more fogged. Meantime Hill was being left sedulously alone—a treatment quite as trying to the nerves of the malingerer as what I had been through. He knew quite well that though no one went near him he was under observation every minute of the twenty-four hours.

On the 13th May, five days after our admission into hospital, they held a Board on our cases. I was examined on much the same lines as on the first occasion, except that they pestered me a good deal more about the hanging, which I continued to deny. They also questioned me about Hill. There was in our kit (it was put there purposely for them to find) the following cutting from the Constantinople paper Hilal of June 1st, 1916:

From the fact that Mazhar Osman Bey began to question me about Hill’s capture I gathered they had found the cutting, and that their interest had been roused, as we hoped would be the case. I replied that all I knew about it was that the Arabs had knocked him on the head so that he became unconscious. (This was quite untrue, as the Arabs did Hill no injury, but O’Farrell had said that a bump on the head would be a good “point” in Hill’s medical history. It certainly created an impression on the doctors, for there was a good deal of whispering after I mentioned it.) Mazhar Osman Bey then asked what I thought of Hill—and I think he hoped I would say he was mad. I replied he was my engineer and was designing me an aeroplane to carry 10,000 men, and I would make 3,000 such aeroplanes and would invade England with 30,000,000 men, etc., etc., etc. I was interrupted and told to go, and after another appeal to be sent to Enver Pasha and to be made a Turkish officer on the grounds that my blood test, etc., had proved me sane, I went.

Hill was then called in. The following is his description of what occurred:

“After about ten minutes Jones came out and I was led in. It was a small room, and choc-À-bloc with doctors of all sizes. There was a stool in front of the head doctor (Mazhar Osman Bey) on which I was invited to sit down. He spoke to me through the Interpreter, who stood beside me.

“I had thorough ‘wind up,’ my nerves being already upset from the first strenuous five days, but pretended to be frightened at finding myself amongst so many strangers. I fingered the Bible nervously, opening it every now and then. The conversation ran something as follows:

At the first opportunity Hill told me he had admitted the hanging. (He had denied it at his first examination.)

“If they confront me with you and your admission,” I said, “I think the right line would be for me to bash you on the jaw. Will you mind?”

“Carry on,” said Hill.

“I’ll have to hit pretty hard and pretty quick.”

“Right-o!” said Hill.

But the assault was never necessary. Although the doctors tried in many ways to get me to admit having attempted suicide, they never told me that Hill had confessed. I think they were afraid of the consequences for Hill.

Later in the same day a lady came to see us. She was accompanied by the Sertabeeb (Superintendent of the Hospital). She was Madame Paulus, of the Dutch Embassy, and Heaven knows it went bitterly against the grain to deceive her and wring her woman’s heart with our senseless gabble, but under the circumstances we had no choice.

“I have come from the Dutch Embassy,” she said. “I always come to see sick prisoners.”

Hill glanced up from his Bible. “I am not sick,” he said surlily.

“No,” I chimed in, “he’s not sick. He’s always like that. And I’m not sick either. They are keeping us here against our wills. I belong to the Turkish War Office, and I’m going to have a Turkish uniform. Tell them to let us go—I say!” (in alarm) “you are not English, are you?”

“I speak English,” said Madame Paulus gently, “but I am not English. I come from Holland. Do you know where that is, Mr. Hill?”

Hill nodded slightly, but went on reading his Bible.

“Oh, won’t you talk to me?” she begged.

“I don’t want to talk,” he said sourly.

“I’ll talk to you,” I cried enthusiastically; “come over here. Don’t bother about him—he’s always like that. Come and talk to me.” I called to an orderly to bring a chair and set it by my bed, but nobody paid any attention to me except the Sertabeeb, who spotted the symptom and smiled.

“Why don’t you want to talk, Mr. Hill?” Madame Paulus went on.

“It is wicked to talk unnecessarily,” Hill growled.

“Oh no, it isn’t. I see you are reading the Bible. It is a very good book to read, and I am sure it does not say it is wicked to talk. Jesus used to talk.”

“Some of the Bible is wrong,” said Hill. “I’m going to re-write it.”

“Dear! Dear!” said Madame Paulus, sympathetically. She turned to me.

“Here are some flowers and chocolate I brought you from the Embassy.”

“Are you sure they are not from the English? Are you certain they are not poisoned?” I cried. After much persuasion I was prevailed on to accept them. (As soon as she had gone I threw away the chocolate, saying she was an English spy and it was poisoned. Some of the Turks retrieved and devoured it.)

“Here are some beautiful flowers for you, Mr. Hill,” the gentle lady went on.

Hill went on reading.

“Oh, won’t you take them? Won’t you put them in water? I brought them for you because I thought you would like them.” She put them into Hill’s hand. He glanced at them without showing the slightest interest and went on reading.

“There,” she said, soothingly. “But you must put them in water, you know, or they will die.”

“I have nothing to put them in,” said Hill. “It was wicked to pick them.”

Madame Paulus got a glass from another patient. Hill stuffed the flowers into it, anyhow, and turned back to his Bible.

“Do you like chocolate?”

“Yes,” said Hill.

“Well, here is some I brought you from the Embassy.”

Hill took it and went on reading.

“Won’t you eat it?” Madame Paulus asked.

“Not to-day.”

“Why not to-day?” she cried, and then—noticing Hill’s breakfast and lunch standing untouched on the table by his bed, “Oh! Why haven’t you eaten your food?”

“It is wicked to eat much,” said Hill, “I am fasting to-day.”

“Oh, dear! dear! When will you eat it?”

“When I have done fasting,” Hill sighed.

“When will that be?”

“After forty days,” said Hill, very mournfully. “Jesus used to fast for forty days.”

With a little gesture of despair Madame Paulus turned to me.

“May I write to your relatives?” she asked. “They would like to know how you are.”

“No!” I said, in a frightened voice. “No! certainly not! They want to kill me. Don’t tell them where I am. They hate me.”

“Oh no! no! No mother ever hated her son. You must give me her address so that I may write. Are you married?”

“Yes,” I said, “I am. But my wife is the worst of the bunch. She puts poison in my parcels, and I’m going to divorce her, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to divorce the whole crowd of them, wife, mother, father—every one of them, and be a Turk, for they are all bad, bad, bad!” (I burst into tears.)

Madame Paulus wrung her hands. She was very nearly in tears herself, poor lady, and I hated the whole business. She turned to the Sertabeeb.

“Il dit qu’il va divorcer sa femme!” she cried.

“C’est comme Ça, cette maladie,” the Sertabeeb said, sympathetically.

Madame Paulus and the Sertabeeb conversed together in low tones—I could not catch what was said—and then she turned to Hill.

“You will be going home soon,” she said. “Will you like that? All sick prisoners are going home in July.”

Our hearts leapt within us. This was the first news we had had of a general exchange of sick prisoners. But we had to keep it up. I could see the Sertabeeb was watching us keenly—as we discovered later, he knew a little English.

“I am not sick,” said Hill.

“You are both to be sent home in July. Don’t you want to be sent home?”

“I don’t care.” Hill’s voice sounded full of sadness. “There is plenty to do in Turkey.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I am going to convert the Turks first. Then I will go to England.”

“But don’t you want to see your father and mother? And your sisters and brothers?”

“I don’t care! They are all sinners—poor lost sheep—but they do not need me more than the people I see about me. I’ll convert the Turks first.”

“Oh, dear! You shouldn’t say that. What does the Fifth Commandment say?”

“‘Honour thy father and thy mother.’”

“Yes. Then why don’t you follow the Bible?”

I thought Hill was getting into a hot corner, and that a counter-attack was necessary.

“Here! I say!” I called. “You’re not thinking of sending me to England, are you?”

“Don’t you want to go?” she asked.

“Don’t you know Lloyd George wants to kill me?” I asked, excitedly. “I thought you knew that! Everybody knows he hates me, and it is all Baylay’s fault.” Once on the subject of good old Baylay I could keep going like a Hyde Park orator, and I did.

Madame Paulus made one more effort to get my home address and failed. She succeeded better with Hill—he gave her some address in Australia.

“Shall I give your mother your love, Mr. Hill?” she asked.

“If you like,” Hill answered, without looking up from his Bible.

“But don’t you want to send your love?”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, dear, dear me!”

The dear lady went away almost in tears. She had tried so hard, and had shown such a fine courage in that ward full of crazed men, and she thought it had all been in vain—that she could do nothing for us. It was hateful to let her go away like that, deceived and unthanked. Little she guessed what joy she had brought us. For all unwittingly she had given us the one piece of news for which we pined—we were to go Home—and in July! I know that Madame Paulus cheered many a sick prisoner in Constantinople, but never did she leave behind her two more grateful men than her lunatics of Haidar Pasha.

Before entering the hospital we had arranged with MoÏse a code of signals by which he was to let us know what the doctors thought of our malady. If they thought we were shamming, he was to shake hands with us on saying good-bye. If they were not sure he was to bow to us. If they believed us mad, he was to salute. Hitherto he had bowed his way out, and left us each day with anxious hearts. But on the morning following the Board Meeting and the visit of Madame Paulus he drew himself up in the doorway, clicked his heels, and saluted us both, in turn.

So far, then, all was well.