War Veterans

The years of the First World War — years when hard and bitter days held sway, when the Ottoman State was growing weaker, when enemies were occupying our homeland. As everywhere in the country, the men of our village who could hold a weapon were at the fronts too, fighting heroically.

Our gazi (war veteran) İbrahim Ay, son of Mutallip, was fighting the British on the Iraq front together with his comrades in arms. Most of the comrades in his unit had fallen as martyrs. Some of them had been taken prisoner. İbrahim, who withdrew behind the lines with the few comrades left to him, returned to the village after a journey that lasted days, even months. Back then there were no taxis. No buses. He came all the way from Iraq (from the area around Bağdat) to the village on foot. His clothes worn out, his hair and beard matted together, in a wretched state. And on the road there was no bread, no food anyway. He had grown thin, as you can imagine.

One cannot enter the village looking like this, he says to himself. The season is spring. The crops have grown tall. At the edge of the village, at a spot near the threshing grounds, he hides in a grain field.

But what is this? Two children are grazing lambs on the threshing ground. He watches the children closely. One is his son Rasim, the other his daughter Suude. The little ones he has longed for over the years are a few metres away. For a moment he cannot decide whether to step out of the crops or not. But no heart can bear this — his little ones, whom he has missed for years. He comes out from among the crops and cries out in a trembling voice: Rasim, Suude. The children look towards the voice, and when they see their father with his hair and beard all matted together, they do not recognise him. In fear they run off towards the house. They tell their grandfather Mutallip what they have seen. Mutallip dede is old, an elder who has seen much of life. He grows suspicious. He guesses that it could be one of his children fighting at the front. I said children. Because two of his sons — one İbrahim, the other Galip — are fighting at the front. Which one could it be, he wonders. He asks his grandchildren where they saw the stranger. On the threshing ground, they answer.

Meanwhile our gazi İbrahim, thinking the children have noticed me anyway, walks after them. But he cannot catch up with them. Just then the late Salih İNCE, son of Hacı Ali, one of the people of our village, recognises our gazi İbrahim. He embraces him at once and they make up for the years apart. He invites him to his house. What he has in mind is to surprise Mutallip dede and bring him the good news that his son has come. “İbrahim, my nephew, you catch your breath for a moment. Let me go and bring your father the good news,” he says. Salih dayı (uncle Salih) steps outside. In the street he sees Mutallip dede walking about in a great hurry. “Is all well, Mutallip Ağa, where are you off to?” he asks. Mutallip dede says: “Oh, our lamb has gone missing. I am looking for it.” Salih dayı says: “Come along, the lamb you are looking for is right here,” and takes him to his son. When father and son are reunited, they cling to each other with longing and breathe each other in.

That evening, in the odas (guest rooms) of their house, they sit and talk with the people of the village until midnight.

Mutallip dede has rejoiced that his son İbrahim has come back from the front. But of his other beloved child he can get no news at all. Days pass, months pass, even years pass. It has been a full 7 years since his son Galip left home. He is presumed dead. What is more, matchmakers keep coming to ask for the hand of his wife Müzeyyen.

One day word is sent once again, asking to come and seek the hand of his daughter-in-law Müzeyyen. Mutallip dede says: “Wait a moment, let me go to Karaman and ask at the Military Recruitment Office. Is my son alive, or is he dead?” That day Mutallip dede cannot wait until evening. In the afternoon he performs his ikindi (afternoon) prayer. He gets his horses and his horse cart ready and sets out on the road to Karaman. He arrives at the Recruitment Office. A soldier is standing guard at the office. The commanders are not there. “Never mind, let me stay at the han (roadside inn) tonight. I will come in the morning and find out,” he says. He arrives at the Mustafa Usta Han, which stood where the Karaman Municipality building stands today. He ties up his horses. He goes up into the han. He falls into conversation with the innkeeper Mustafa Usta.

At one point his eye falls on someone sitting on the divan in the corner, his hair grown long, bearded. He gets up from his place and sits down beside the stranger. The man he takes for a stranger is his son, his beloved Galip. Our gazi Galip recognises his father. But he wonders whether his father will be able to recognise him. Mutallip dede cannot recognise his son. It is no wonder. Through years of captivity he has suffered greatly and has become unrecognisable. He had been taken prisoner by the British on the Iraq front.

“Selamün aleyküm. Where are you from, where have you come from and where are you going?” he asks the son he does not recognise.

“Aleyküm selam, uncle. I have come from far away. I will stay here for tonight. Tomorrow we will see what happens,” he says, and does not reveal who he is.

“And you, where have you come from, where are you going?” he asks Mutallip dede. Mutallip dede says: “I am from the village of Mesudiye. I had a son named Galip. He went to the front 7 years ago. I can get no news of him. Tomorrow I will go to the Military Recruitment Office and ask whether he is alive or dead. These days matchmakers keep coming for his wife Müzeyyen. I cannot give them a definite answer.”

At this, our First World War gazi Galip Ay, hearing that his wife is to be married to another man, cannot bear it. In great agitation he rises from where he is sitting and says: “Father, I am your son Galip.”

Mutallip dede and his son Galip embrace each other with longing. Tears are streaming from the eyes of them both. They are tears of joy. It is a father being reunited with his son, and a son with his father.

By now evening has come and it has grown dark. They stay the night at the han. For hours they talk and make up for the years apart. The next morning they set out for the village. Our gazi Galip keeps urging the horses on. He longs to be reunited with his Müzeyyen as soon as possible.

The unit of our gazi Abdullah AKAN comes under attack by British soldiers. The defence lasts for hours. By now the shots from the Turkish side are coming one at a time. Their bullets are almost gone. Our soldiers are falling as martyrs one by one. My God, what a dreadful day it is! Our gazi Abdullah has been wounded too. And by an artillery shell fired from far away, at that. Shell splinters have wounded him in the forehead and in the chest. He collapses to the ground in agony. The sound of gunfire has ceased as well. Enemy soldiers have infiltrated the unit's position. One of them touches our gazi's body with his foot. He thinks he is dead. “He's dead,” he says, and rolls him into the trench beside him.

Our gazi lies unconscious in the pit for hours. He tries to open his eyes. But his strength is almost spent. “Come on, one more effort,” he says. Slowly he raises himself onto his knees. Using his rifle, which lies a little way off, like a walking stick, he gets to his feet. He walks, and walks, and walks. Ahead he sees a flowing stream. He washes his hands and his face. He comes to himself a little. His breathing has become normal again.

In the water he sees a fish lying on its side. The fish is lying on its side. It is about to die. Just like himself. He thinks for a moment and says to himself: “This must be a gift from God.” He takes the fish in his hand. He throws it onto the ground. He waits for it to die. When the fish dies, he cleans it with the bayonet at his belt. He begins to eat it raw. He has no other choice. For hours he has not had a single bite of anything. He eats the fish. Again he uses his rifle as a walking stick. He gets to his feet. The strength has come back into his knees. He begins to walk. Resting again and again, he walks for hours.

He reaches a village. When the villagers see our gazi, they run to his aid. They take him under the shoulders and carry him to a house. In the house they clean his wounds and feed him. That evening they take him in as their guest. When morning comes they send word to the nearest Turkish unit. Two soldiers come from the Turkish unit and take him to a field hospital. He is treated in the hospital for months. He recovers.

When surnames began to be given to everyone in 1934, he asked to be given the surname AKAN, so that it would remind him of the flowing stream (the flowing water, akan su) that had saved his life and would never let him forget it.

During the war two fingers of his right hand were severed.

In the First World War he served in a medical unit. Because he had served alongside surgeons in the treatment of wounded soldiers, in civilian life he treated a great many patients. The treatments he used are still passed on by word of mouth in our village.

Because he was one of the best wrestlers in our village, he is remembered by the nickname “Pehlivan Ağa” (master wrestler).

While our forefathers were still in Rumeli, he took part as a cavalryman in the Ottoman-Greek War that took place in 1897. The war ended on 17 April 1897 with the victory of the Ottoman State.

He fought as a cavalryman in the War of Independence. After the war he settled in İstanbul. When the Surname Law was passed in 1934, he was given the surname CIVATAŞ. In his old age he returned to our village.

In the War of Independence he fought against the Greeks on the Kütahya-Dumlupınar front.