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On an afternoon late in February 1917 a Turk mounted on a weary horse arrived in Yozgad. He had come a 120-mile journey through snowbound mountain passes from railhead at Angora, and he carried a belated mail for us prisoners of war. I could not feel grateful to him, for my share was only one postcard. It was from a very dear aunt. But I knew that somewhere in the Turkish Post Office were many more-from my wife, my mother, and my father. So I grumbled at all things Ottoman. I did not know this innocent-looking piece of ...

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