No pause, no rest! Forward the column pushes Across the stern and unproductive plain— And Thirst, Satan's archfiend, darts at the brain And the weight of the great heat their spirit crushes To deeper silence and the tired feet bleed— While the ruthless Turk with yells and sometimes blows Urges them on beside his impatient steed To a Future where and how no soldier knows Beyond the dust-cloud on the horizon's rim, Beyond the range of Hope—to memories grim. But neither desert thirst nor fiercest sun Nor dust-storms, nor the unknown miles ahead Can touch their heart or clog its valves with dread— These English lads that fought at Ctesiphon.
"Sparkling Moselle." From Smoke, the Kastamuni Punch.
The following pages were actually written during thesiege of Kut or during captivity. The original manuscriptwas concealed in Turkey and recovered monthsafter the Armistice. I have been persuaded by my friendsthat to recast or add to the story would detract from whateverappeal it may have as a human document. As such,with all its limitations, it is offered to the public.
The exigencies of a captivity such as mine, even morethan in the field, determine from moment to moment one'sfocus and perspective, and what to-day presents itself forrecord is to-morrow ignored or forgotten by concentration onthe few things and the few moments that count. Added tothis there is for the prisoner the pressure of existence when,so far from being allowed a pencil, he is considerably occupiedwith selling his last fork.
One moves on from minute to minute between walls thatrecede or converge, and one's experience, therefore, is a seriesof inciden