A Prisoner in Turkey — Background and Themes

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In Category - World Events
Still, John, 1880-1941 Project Gutenberg 2011 Not confirmed
World War, 1914-1918 -- Prisoners and prisons, Turkish Readers of public-domain and historical texts
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Words 57,320
Reading time 250 min
Text sections 6

The catalog record for A Prisoner in Turkey — Background and Themes provides practical reading context through 57,320 words, 4 hr 10 min estimated reading time, and 6 detected text sections.

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John Still's firsthand account of captivity in Turkey during WWI, blending personal narrative with official reports to expose the brutal conditions, bureaucratic chaos, and moral ambiguities of prisoner life.
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Produced by Heather Clark, Turgut Dincer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

+-------------------------------------+ | Transcriber’s note: Bold characters | | are enclosed within plus “+” signs | +-------------------------------------+

_ON ACTIVE SERVICE SERIES_

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD, W. NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMXX

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY R. CLAY AND SONS, LTD., BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E. 1, AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.

This book, like most books, consists both of facts and opinions. In order to fortify the facts, and so that it may be clearly seen that the opinions are justified, a number of extracts from the “Report on the Treatment of British Prisoners of War in Turkey,” which was presented to Parliament in November, 1918, are included here by the special permission of the Controller of His Majesty’s Stationery Office. So few people read Government publications that this course seems necessary.

In this official report it is stated that out of 16,583 British and Indian prisoners “Believed Captured,” 3,290 are dead, and 2,222 untraced and almost certainly dead. But this report was compiled before the end of the war and is admittedly incomplete. I do not know the actual statistics, which must by now be available, nor do I know where to obtain them. But, as stated in the book, we in Turkey believed that about 75 per cent. of the British rank and file perished within two years of being captured. It may be that we were unduly pessimistic; it is very sincerely to be hoped that we were, and on the whole it seems probable. But I leave the figure unaltered in the text, for it was our sincere belief after very difficult and laborious enquiries made secretly. In the official report the figures show that of a total of 4,932 British believed captured, no less than 2,289 are either dead or untraced. This amounts to 46 per cent. It would be interesting to know the final figures.

The extracts taken from the report have been selected because they are either general in character or have special reference to Angora or Afion Kara Hissar, the two camps I knew personally.

I am indebted to three fellow-prisoners for the photograph reproduced as a frontispiece to this book, for the piece of music, for reading the MS., and for reading the proofs.

EXTRACTS FROM A REPORT ON THE TREATMENT OF BRITISH PRISONERS OF WAR IN TURKEY.

The history of the British prisoners of war in Turkey has faithfully reflected the peculiarities of the Turkish character. Some of these, at any rate to the distant spectator, are sufficiently picturesque; others are due to the mere dead-weight of Asiatic indifference and inertia; others again are actively and resolutely barbarous. It has thus happened that at the same moment there have been prisoners treated with almost theatrical politeness and consideration, prisoners left to starve and die through simple neglect and incompetence, and prisoners driven and tormented like beasts. These violent inconsistencies make it very difficult to give a coherent and general account of the experience of our men. Almost any unqualified statement can be contradicted again and again by undoubted facts; and the whole subject seems often to be ruled by nothing but pure chance.

Yet on the whole there are two principles which may be detected as influencing the behaviour of the Turk in this matter, first and last, one being an affair of deliberate policy, the other instinctive and customary. Mixed in with a good deal of easy-going kindness, there is always to be found the conviction that it can matter little what becomes of the ordinary mass, so long as compliments are paid to the great. It has doubtless been a real surprise to the Turkish mind, even in high places, to learn that the rights of the common soldier are seriously regarded by western opinion--the rights, moreover, of a few thousand disarmed men who could be no longer used in battle. This principle has not always been effective, it must be added, in its application to prisoners of higher rank, as some of the following pages will abundantly show; but it has seldom failed in the treatment of the rank and file. These have had small reason in their helplessness to regard the Turk as that chivalrous and honourable foe of whom we have sometimes heard.

John Still's A Prisoner in Turkey opens with a foreword that immediately establishes its dual nature: a personal memoir interwoven with official extracts from a 1918 parliamentary report on British prisoners of war. Still does not simply recount his own experience; he anchors it in documented evidence, citing the 46 percent death rate among captured British soldiers. This hybrid structure—part testimony, part documentary—shapes the entire work, as Still moves between vivid, often sardonic anecdotes and the grim statistics of neglect and cruelty.

The narrative voice is distinctive: wry, observant, and unsparing toward both his captors and, at times, his fellow prisoners. He describes Turkish officials with a mixture of contempt and dark humor, as when a Turkish doctor assures a patient that a louse-ridden bandage is 'absolutely sterilized.' The tone is that of a man who has seen too much to be shocked but is still angry enough to record every absurdity and atrocity.

Voice and the Texture of Captivity

Still's prose is lean and precise, often understating horror to let the facts speak. When he notes that the Turks 'prepared homes for us by slaying the Armenians,' the sentence is flat, almost matter-of-fact, yet the implication is devastating. He uses irony sparingly but effectively: a Turkish commandant, whose duty is to guard prisoners, telegraphs his resignation after an escape, hoping to shift blame to a 'vicious old gentleman.' The absurdity of the bureaucracy is rendered without exaggeration—it is already absurd enough.

The narrative voice is consistently that of an observer who refuses to be a victim. Still refers to 'the kind we grew to know as typically Turkish,' a phrase that signals both familiarity and contempt. He does not generalize about a nation, but about the patterns of behavior he witnessed: the combination of theatrical politeness, lethal neglect, and active barbarity. This voice—detached yet engaged, ironic yet angry—gives the memoir its distinctive texture.

Pace and the Rhythm of Waiting

The pacing of A Prisoner in Turkey mirrors the experience of captivity: long stretches of stasis punctuated by sudden crises. Still describes the arrival of new prisoners as a moment of relief—'they prepared to take a rest cure'—only to undercut it: 'But they were doomed to disappointment. The next two months were certainly the most trying I have ever spent.' The rhythm is deliberately uneven, with quiet passages of daily life in the Armenian quarter giving way to frantic episodes of escape, reprisal, and forced marches.

One such episode is the escape of three officers. Still narrates the aftermath in a rush of detail: the commandant's resignation, the 'tremendous uproar,' the locking down of the camp, and the 'dastardly' lie about parole. The prose accelerates, mimicking the chaos, then slows again as the prisoners are mustered and marched. This alternation between boredom and terror is not just a stylistic choice; it is the structure of the experience itself.

Setting and the Weight of Place

The physical setting is rendered with stark economy. Still describes the Armenian church used as a prison: 'a fairly large building of grey stone with iron-barred windows and an iron door.' The image is functional, almost architectural, yet it carries the weight of the history that precedes it—the Armenians who were killed to make room for the prisoners. The 'desolate Armenian quarter' appears repeatedly, a landscape of absence.

Place names recur like anchors: Angora, Afion Kara Hissar, the Kara-Hissar rock itself. Still does not romanticize the landscape; it is a backdrop to deprivation. The church is 'so close that a stone thrown strongly out from above might crash through its roof.' This is not picturesque description but a measure of vulnerability. The setting is always seen through the lens of captivity: what can be seen from a barred window, what can be reached on a forced march, what can be used for concealment or escape.

Still's account is best read as a document of witness rather than a conventional memoir. The inclusion of official reports invites the reader to compare personal testimony with bureaucratic record, and to notice where they align and where they diverge. Pay attention to the moments when Still's tone shifts—from dry irony to blunt statement to rare, quiet reflection. These shifts are the map of a man trying to make sense of what he saw, and to make sure it is not forgotten.

There’s a strange quiet in reading John Still’s captivity—how the bureaucracy of suffering feels almost as heavy as the chains. It reminds me of something in the old British Secret Service During the Great War — Key Ideas to Explore, where the fog of war hides not just enemies, but our own tangled intentions. Both leave you staring at the page a while, thinking about the small men behind the big ruin.

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