It seemed an ironical end for Peter and me to be done in because we were Boches.

And done in we should be.

I had heard of the East as a good place for people to disappear in; there were no inquisitive newspapers or incorruptible police.
I wished to Heaven I had a word of Turkish.

But I made my voice heard for a second in a pause of the din, and shouted that we were German sailors who had brought down big guns for Turkey, and were going home next day.

I asked them what the devil they thought we had done?
I don't know if any fellow there understood German; anyhow, it only brought a pandemonium of cries in which that ominous word _Khafiyeh_ was predominant.
Then Peter fired over their heads.