“I warned him there would be hell to pay,” Lieutenant Cyril Macready said, his voice somber and anxious. “Best wake him if his fever has broken. He’ll need a moment to compose himself.”
Blacklock hastened into one of the small chambers where a dozen British prisoners slept on dirty sheets speckled with the carcasses of lice.
“Sir,” he said, gripping a slumbering man’s shoulder. “Lieutenant Colonel Longcroft, you’d best get your wits about you. Best prepare for the worst, sir.”
Throughout the siege of Kut Al Amara, Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Longcroft had habitually beseeched God to let him live another day. By the time he had reached Afion Kara Hissar as a prisoner of the Turk, he—like many others who shared his fate—sometimes prayed not for life but for a quick and painless death. Only thoughts of returning home to his walled garden in Madras kept him from desperate measures. Thoughts of his beloved Clarissa made survival a necessity.
In the days that followed his arrival in the spring of 1916, Longcroft faced an endless string of inquiries from other captives of the Ottoman Army. He continually recounted the fall of Kut and the long, intolerable trek through Baghdad, Samarra, Shilgat and Mosul. He spoke of standing knee-deep in muddy trenches as the Tigris swelled with rain, of snipers inflicting heavy casualties upon the Anglo-Indian defenders in the redoubts, and of dwindling rations and nauseating meals of horse, mule and camel meat. Longcroft admitted a certain sense of relief when Major-General Charles Townshend finally surrendered Kut Al Amara, and two Turkish battalions entered the city unopposed. By then, disease, fatigue and the ravages of malnutrition had become endemic among the worn and weary fighters.
As desperate as the defense of the British-Indian garrison in the town had become in those final months, the subsequent forced march northward proved an even harsher trial.
The Turkish victors, finding themselves the grudging custodians of thousands of war prisoners, employed one simple tactic: to drive their enemies mercilessly on and on, cruelly on, until almost all were dead, or withered and weakened so that they could not muster any form of resistance. The bones of many of Longcroft’s countrymen rested along that damnable Mesopotamian route, picked clean by the lynx, the fox and the hooded crow—and other monstrous scavengers he could not readily identify.
Some things Longcroft had witnessed on that nightmarish trek he did not dare divulge. Exhaustion, dehydration and starvation coupled with hopelessness provoked one’s mind to dwell upon morbid fancy and evoke gruesome hallucinations—visions of faceless, vague winged entities congregating among corpses, slight as shadow but hungry as vultures. He dismissed the haggard horrors as consequences of delirium, yet the fluttering of the membranous wings sometimes woke him at night even now.
The ordeal seemed singularly malevolent, and the Kut prisoners wondered what had prompted such harsh treatment by the soldiers of the Ottoman Army. As it turned out, their systematic callousness during the campaign was not limited to this one incident: Longcroft learned later that certain Turks had shown even greater malice to the Armenians in 1915, as stories of organized, state-sponsored massacres began to circulate.
In fact, the structure that now served as a detention center for hundreds formerly had been an Armenian church. It sat beneath the massive, solitary rock that squatted like an ancient slumbering pagan god in the middle of Afion Kara Hissar. The Armenians who once worshipped here had been forcibly displaced—some slaughtered, some banished into the most forbidding and desolate provinces of Asia Minor.
Longcroft shambled out of the vestry into the basilica, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He had anticipated a confrontation. Two days earlier, one of the Turkish sentries had chanced upon the bundle of foodstuffs he had stashed behind an Armenian tomb in preparation for an escape. Some capricious prisoner had named him as the ringleader, possibly under threat of torture. Longcroft did not know his accuser, but doubted he was British. The camp held an assortment of Frenchmen, Russians, Ukrainians, Greeks and Jews along with various people of Baltic and Eastern European derivation.
“This should be quite the spectacle,” Longcroft said, joining Macready. Had he not been afflicted by some digestive malady which he initially mistook for cholera, he and his co-conspirators might well have been traversing the Turkish countryside on this crisp November morning, eluding Ottoman and German patrols. “No need for us all to suffer the consequences of this folly. I’m willing to face retribution alone. The rest of you should disappear into the sea of faces. Take refuge in anonymity.”
“No, sir,” Macready said bluntly. Co-conspirators Blacklock and Corporal Wyndham Hutchison had joined them, prepared for the inevitable penalties. “If we’re in for a penny, we’re in for a pound.”
A moment later, the massive iron door of the church swung wide and a small entourage entered the church. Each man bore a solemn expression and an air of palpable antipathy.
The commandant, Ali Fuat Bey, was customarily inclined to be obligingly apathetic. Though criminally negligent in terms of providing basic human needs—and blind to the frequent brutality of the Turkish guards—he seemed disinterested in carrying out his duties. During his reign, he had shown a reluctance to harass his prisoners and had only on rare occasions implemented harsh punishment for even the most grievous transgressions.
As he approached, his eyes divulged a conspicuous shift in attitude: For the first time, he appeared genuinely enraged. His interpreter—a short, fat Turk with a persistent scowl—muttered something unintelligible to his colleagues before addressing the prisoners.
“You,” the interpreter finally barked, pointing at Longcroft. He eyed the assembled British soldiers with contempt. “You have again dishonored your most gracious host. Because this is not the first time you have attempted to escape and because you involved others in your efforts, his Excellency has no choice but to seek other accommodations for you until the hostilities between our two countries have been resolved.”
“You don’t suggest that there is a venue even less agreeable than this one,” Longcroft said, smirking. “Are the guards even more vicious than the ones here?”
“Our German friends have generously offered to transport you and your countrymen to one of their camps in the Taurus Mountains,” the interpreter said, nodding obediently to the German officer. His lips curled with a strange, wicked smile. His dark, malevolent eyes revealed a chilling impression of delight, as though he felt immense gratification at the knowledge of Longcroft’s fate. “Permit me to introduce Oberstleutnant Waldemar von Edelsheim.”
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” Edelsheim looked sly and amused. Tall and broad-shouldered, the fair features of the young German officer’s handsome face had been furrowed by a great scar running down the left side, from his eye to his chin. “It is most unfortunate that our first encounter should be under such regrettable circumstances.”
“Fritz sprechen Sie Englisch!” Blacklock’s poorly timed slight could have earned him a mighty beating, but the commandant restrained himself. He nudged his speaker, evidently eager to rid himself of four troublesome British prisoners.
“By edict of his Excellency Ali Fuat Bey, Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Longcroft, Lieutenant Cyril Macready, Corporal Guy Blacklock and Corporal Wyndham Hutchison will have the great privilege of helping our German allies complete the Berlin-Baghdad Railway at Akdurak.”
Though the men had expected to be reprimanded, the stark decree came as a blow. More so than any other internment camp in Asia Minor, Akdurak evoked thoughts of misery and malevolence. Longcroft had only been at Afion Kara Hissar for a few months, but he had heard more than one wary Tommy muttering this unsettling refrain:
“Should the Sultan send you to a labor camp in the Taurus Mountains, expect death. Should the Kaiser send you to Akdurak, embrace death.”
3
“Apparently, gentlemen, we have arrived.” Nathan Longcroft felt the bitter cold as he stepped off the Büssing Lastwagen transport truck. Dozens of
circular tents sat clustered alongside a steep cliff, its sheer face dropping dramatically to a riverbed far below. Above them, the snow-capped, wind-swept heights of some inhospitable summit towered darkly. Even at midday, patches of frost accumulated in the shaded hollows of the camp and a fierce, glacial wind howled. “Quite a charming little mountain retreat, is it not?”
“At least it doesn’t reek like Afion Kara Hissar,” said Cyril Macready. As he scanned the ridge line toward the western horizon, he caught his first glimpse of the Berlin-Baghdad Railway several hundred feet below the camp. The track skirted the mountain upon a slender shelf carved from the precipice. Despite the squally weather and the severe landscape, Macready felt more at ease than he had in months. “Nice to breathe fresh air for a change. That old church was ill-lit, airless and strewn with litter and filth.”
“Seien Sie still!” A boyish German soldier leered at the prisoners impatiently. He clutched his Gast gun confidently as he inspected the British captives. The twin-barreled machine gun buttressed his bravado and gave him a tyrannical brashness that seemed inappropriate for such a young lad. “Kommen Sie mit!”
The Ottoman Empire had established and maintained an extensive portfolio of prison camps since aligning itself with Kaiser Wilhelm and entering the fray in 1914. Many prisoners of war found themselves involved in railroad construction projects. A few lucky soldiers held cozy supervisory positions. Most found themselves toiling in labor detachments, working in perilous conditions on track beds and tunnel construction. The Turks oversaw most of the working camps such as Aleppo, Belemedik, Bozanti, Entelli and Bagtche.
The Boche ran Akdurak. Oberstleutnant Waldemar von Edelsheim made that fact abundantly clear within moments of their arrival as he addressed them at an oddly informal orientation in his office.
“Akdurak is in German hands,” he explained, addressing his newest laborers in one of four low, flat mud-brick buildings occupied by administrative quarters, a kitchen and refectory. “The Turks, I am told, want nothing to do with this section of the railroad. They are a superstitious people, and they look upon this spur of the Taurus Mountains as being cursed or some such nonsense.” Edelsheim’s exasperated expression betrayed his cynicism. “Nevertheless, this work must be completed. It is a logistical necessity. I will not insult you by pretending that ours will be a pleasant relationship, gentlemen. You are here to do dangerous work, understand?”
“Yes, sir, commandant.” As ranking officer, Longcroft answered for the group. His response lacked enthusiasm but it carried a suitable degree of respect.
“However,” Edelsheim began, his eyes lifting from a blizzard of paperwork. “I wish to assure you the horror stories you have undoubtedly heard are far more bleak and forbidding than reality, gentlemen.” The commandant’s oily voice seemed chillingly placid. His impeccable English—coupled with the accent of the London aristocracy—suggested he had spent a great deal of time in England before the war, possibly as a member of the diplomatic corps. “Do as you are told, and your chances of survival are surprisingly good. Regrettably, those who choose a different path—that of defiance and insubordination—are, in due course, eliminated.”
Edelsheim’s office was Spartan in its simplicity: The chamber boasted a simple Austrian Empire mahogany pedestal desk, a walnut desk chair, a washstand and a baroque bureau cabinet. Longcroft, an incurable bibliophile, could not help but notice a number of ponderous books stacked on the desk’s cherry-veneered writing surface. Though the age and superior quality of the tomes captured his attention, he did not recognize a single title. The collection included cryptically-named editions such as De Vermis Mysteriis, Unaussprechlichen Kulten and Andere Götter.
“Finally, since the four of you were placed in my charge following recurring attempts at flight, you should relinquish all thoughts of escape now.” Edelsheim stood and beckoned one of the guards. “The geography of this country makes it quite impossible. Those who are foolish enough to run never get very far in this wilderness. By the time my patrols track them down, in most instances they are already dead.”
Edelsheim dismissed them, instructing one of his subordinates to fetch them “standard issue dress.” Each prisoner received two pairs of rough work clothes, a single pair of well-worn boots and a black waistcoat. The men had an opportunity to wash themselves—a luxury none of them had enjoyed in months—and then collected a ration of bread and cheese.
An hour later, the four British officers found themselves sharing a single, cramped tent. Each man had a crudely constructed cot topped by a straw mattress, a single fur sleeping bag and a woolen blanket. A wirework cupboard, situated awkwardly between their beds, provided storage space. A sheet-iron tent stove, its pipe extending up through the roof, kept the cold at bay.
“Seems a crime to help Fritz finish a railroad that will take supplies down into Mesopotamia,” Cyril Macready said, breaking the silence. Macready was sturdy, honest and dependable. He always kept his suffering to himself and went out of his way to lift the spirits of his mates. “Where do you suppose all the other prisoners might be?”
“This time of day? Tunneling through that mountain, I would think. Shhh—” Longcroft put a finger to his lips to silence his comrades. When the howling wind subsided for a moment, the sound of rocks tumbling from the ledge echoed through the camp. “They probably do their blasting early in the morning, then spend the afternoon clearing debris. We’ll know soon enough.”
“That must be where all the guards are,” said Corporal Guy Blacklock. Blacklock—the youngest of the group—smiled like a hyena. His once-fetching features had been diminished in captivity. Hunger and maltreatment had left his cheeks hollow, his eyes sunken and his raven locks gray and thinning. “Since we arrived, I’ve only seen three Huns other than Edelsheim.”
“Now that you mention it,” Macready said, “the camp does seem understaffed. Hardly anyone here to notice if we were to slip away before the rest of the prisoners return.”
“No,” Longcroft said, putting a stop to any further conjecture. “Edelsheim might have been exaggerating about the chances of survival in these mountains, but I don’t think he’s lax enough to leave the camp unguarded. There’s a single watchtower at the east end of the camp, and I’ll wager he’s got half a dozen snipers posted on the ridge.”
“For someone who had such ambitious plans at Afion Kara Hissar, you seem awfully pessimistic all of the sudden, sir.” Blacklock regretted his denigrating tone of voice more than the criticism he had uttered. He had been just as keen on escape as the others. “Sorry, sir,” he continued. “I meant no offense. Do you think escape is out of the question?”
“No,” Longcroft said. “I just think it would be wise to get our bearings before doing anything rash. I would like to know more about our host, for one thing. From what I have seen, Edelsheim is no ordinary German officer.”
“I can assure you, he is not.” Corporal Wyndham Hutchison laughed nervously as his fingers fidgeted with the flap of his waistcoat. Generally quiet and subdued in his ways, he glanced nervously over his shoulder as though he expected someone to drag him out of the tent at any moment. “What he is even doing here I cannot imagine. He is a distant relative of the Kaiser. He is quite wealthy, and he lived in London before the war.”
“How do you know all this?” Macready asked. “Why didn’t you say something before?”
“Until we stood before him in his office, I wasn’t certain. My father …” Hutchison hesitated as though struggling with his conscience. “In his last years, my father became fascinated with mysticism and the occult. He fell in with one of those brotherhoods—a secret society, you might say. After a few months, he insisted that I join him at one of their assemblies. After attending a few of their gatherings, I refused to go back. The ideas they espouse, the concepts they present … are terrifying.”
“Edelsheim was a member of this group?” Longcroft wanted to know more about the order’s principles and teachings, but he could see the memor
ies haunted Hutchison. “Do you think Edelsheim recognized you?”
“Edelsheim was no mere member,” Hutchison said. “He founded the Uruk-Choronzon Temple of Fraternitas Argenteus Crepusculum.” He shuddered as he spoke the name of the organization. “I don’t believe Edelsheim would recognize or even remember me. I’ll not soon forget that voice, though. I’ll not soon forget the blasphemous proclamations he uttered. Do not let his intellect and civility deceive you: The man is truly a monster at heart.”
At that very moment, the sound of shuffling feet distracted the men from their conversation. Longcroft extended a hand to silence his companions as he moved toward the slit in the tent. Single-file, barefoot and in rags, the first prisoners came streaming listlessly into camp. Starving and half dead, those at the front of the line appeared to all be from the Indian Corps. Behind them, a sizable contingent of British and French soldiers trailed, equally overstretched though better outfitted. Longcroft winced as these desperate, exhausted, emaciated skeletons staggered through the labyrinth of tents.
Their hollow eyes swarmed with shadows of subjugation. Underneath the dirt on their faces, their vacant expressions revealed perpetual anguish. The Huns channeled them through the camp, gleefully striking any individual who happened to stumble and falter. They marched resignedly toward a mud-brick building where some paltry meal awaited them.
“So much for Edelsheim’s claims of benevolence,” Longcroft muttered, careful not to draw attention. “Conditions here may well make Afion Kara Hissar seem like holiday by the sea.”
Still peering through the opening in the tent, Longcroft witnessed the final stragglers trudge down the path. Behind them, two German officers held on leashes two additional laborers—things that were not quite human. Standing no more than four feet tall on their naked soles, these wretched creatures had olive-colored skin, thin lips and obtruding and jagged teeth. Though as sluggish and depleted as the other detainees, their luminous, sunken eyes moved continually, scrutinizing every aspect of their surroundings.
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