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.”