At the time I did not know to what a state of revolt the Syrians had been brought by misery and oppression; and in any case it seemed unwise to let a stranger know that I hoped to escape.
"Naturally," I replied, "I should like to be out of the hands of the Turks, although I suppose they will keep me till the end of the war. For me it is damnable here. But you——"
"For you it is a thousand times better than for me," he said, with intensity, though still speaking in a low voice. "For two years I have been living among people who are half savage and wholly ignorant. Because I am a Christian, they try to treat me like a dog. All the time I was with my infantry regiment I never knew when one of those Turkish beasts would shoot me. Nothing would be done to a Turkish soldier who did shoot me. I am certain I have remained untouched only because doctors are scarce. Several other doctors—Syrians and Jews—ran away and managed to reach the British lines; but I had no chance."
He continued to tell of the disgusting conditions which he had to share with Turkish soldiers, who lived more like animals than human beings. I happened to have met a Syrian doctor who, after escaping from the Turkish army, was practising in Alexandria; at which my bed neighbour was envious and interested. His own intention, if the Turks allowed him to go to his home at Damascus until the broken leg healed, was to slip out of the city with one of the secret caravans, and trek to Akaba, where were the Hedjaz Arabs, allied to the British. He suggested that if he and I were sent to the same hospital in Damascus we might make the attempt together.
So we talked on in the heat of the afternoon, keeping silent for long intervals so as not to excite suspicion. All this while the diseased Turk on my left, who could speak nothing but Turkish and Arabic, was moaning and tossing.
That evening, after thinking matters over, I decided that my slight chances of getting back to the British lines by swimming down the coast could scarcely be lessened, and might be improved, if I asked the Syrian for advice.
He was very sympathetic and quite unsurprised, but he did not think the possibility of success were great, because of the thousands of soldiers in the district through which I should have to pass. Nevertheless, if my leg became stronger I might possibly scrape through, he said. As for him, he would like enormously to come with me, but his leg made him helpless.
My thigh improved very rapidly, and I began to make final preparations. Each day the Syrian and I saved pieces of bread, so that I might have a store to take with me. The supply of water would be more difficult, as I had nothing in which to carry it.
A Turkish general solved the problem for me. One morning the orderlies tidied the room feverishly until it looked almost clean, while announcing that "The Pasha" was coming. General Djouad Pasha, commanding the Turkish Eighth Army, arrived soon afterward, attended by a mixed collection of Turkish, German, and Austrian officers—each of which national groups kept itself separate, and tried to look as if it had no connection with the others. He talked amiably to the Turkish patients—amid a chorus of "Yes, Excellency," and "No, Excellency"—and more than amiably to me. Was I getting better and would I like some wine sent to me? The answer in each case was a truthful "yes."
To the doctor with the smashed leg he was abrupt and aloof when he discovered him to be a Syrian Christian; and a request to be sent home until convalescent was curtly refused.