Four-Fifty Miles to FreedomJohnston, Maurice Andrew Brackenreed
History
Four-Fifty Miles to Freedom
Johnston, Maurice Andrew Brackenreed
Prisoner-of-war escapes; World War, 1914-1918 -- Prisoners and prisons, Turkish
At length the sun set, and as the air became cooler our spirits revived
a little. We made up our minds that we would carry on for only part
of the night, so as to be short of the well when daylight appeared. 7
o'clock accordingly saw us once more on the march; the going remained
good, although the country was becoming rather more undulating. There
were still the little fields of dusty plough in the midst of otherwise
hopeless desolation. After a couple of hours we took our long halt
on the edge of one of those ploughed patches. Nobby, wiser than the
remainder of the party, dug himself a shallow trench in the loose
soil, and so slept for five happy hours undisturbed by the cold which
woke the rest; for we seemed to live in extremes of temperature.
Dawn on the 20th August found us very anxious. Having marched for
another two hours or more, we felt that the well must be somewhere
near. As the light grew stronger, we crossed a couple of steep rocky
nullahs, and looking back saw that we had passed not far from a village
in a group of trees. A minute later two stunted trees ahead caught our
eye. We thought there might be water here, but were disappointed. By
six o'clock we were seriously thinking of going back to the village
behind us, when another came into view on our left. This time, however,
there were no trees, and the huts seemed entirely deserted; but next
moment our steps quickened as we recognised the stone circle of a well.
As in other countries in the East, so in Turkey, water is often drawn
up by bullocks: they are harnessed to a rope which, passing over a rude
pulley supported directly over the mouth of the well, is attached to
a large waterskin. The track beaten out by the patient beasts as they
go to and from the well gives a measure of its depth. In the present
instance, we could see by the length of the track that our well was a
deep one; but it was comforting to find that the hoof-marks appeared
fairly recent. So deep, indeed, was this well that no sound could be
heard of the splash of a dropped pebble, but as the eyes became more
accustomed to the dark depths, it was possible to recognise the sparkle
of running water.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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