The staff was quartered in the lawyer's house. We spent the night
there, and next morning we were allowed to go into the garden. This
was the sight which met our eyes: In front of the house a military
van was drawn up, escorted by a party of unarmed soldiers in service
caps. They went into the house, and others remained by the door, with
hammers, a bag of nails, and a saw. They very quickly knocked together
large packing-cases, and the looting was silently and methodically
carried on around these cases; a piano went into them, the chairs, and
a sofa. Every man was hard at work, sawing, hammering, fetching and
carrying. Then the pictures were brought out, all well wrapped up, and
fragile objects carefully packed in straw. An officer, smoking a cigar,
gave directions. It was all very well done; no professional furniture
removers could have done better. When the van was full it was driven to
the station.
As for us, we continued our journey on foot. We were in the charge
of the police, who sent us with a convoy, where we found ourselves
mixed up with prisoners of all arms, civilians, and Moroccan soldiers
who were obviously dazed and dumfounded at what had befallen them. We
marched all that day, guarded by the mounted police. The police turned
us over to old men of the Bavarian Landstrum, who wore leather caps
with white crosses over the peaks, and who were stiff in their manner
to us, but not unkindly. They were not fighting men, and there was
nothing of the conquering hero about them. Night fell, the third night
since our friend the Chasseur waved his blood-stained handkerchief
at the end of his bayonet. Our poor little party was packed into a
small coachhouse. The captain, a fat and portly little person, before
shutting us in said: "Any one who tries to get out will be shot. Those
are my orders." A Bavarian gave us a little soup, and we stretched
ourselves on the floor to wait for the morrow.
In our march next day we met on our way ammunition wagons, enormous
lorries, ambulances, guns, and cavalry escorts. The carriages were
grey, the guns grey, the uniforms grey, the only note of colour the
dolls dressed in the uniforms of French soldiers, looted from some
shop, on the front of the officers' motors. We met a company of
infantry. One tall fellow left the ranks, and with an oath struck one
of our wounded, who had his arm in a sling, with the butt-end of his
rifle. The poor fellow stumbled, and an officer, without a word, pushed
the brute away. We heard shouts from an officer's motor as it passed;
they cursed us, and as it vanished in the dust one of them shouted:
"You dirty Boches!" Well he knew that there was no worse insult.
* * * * *
We came to a town. Our escort conversed and looked up: they had
just seen an aeroplane. It was a French machine, and coming rapidly
towards us. The German soldiers were much excited, and we heard the
click of their rifles as they pulled the triggers. Then we heard a
whistle, and a deafening volley rang in our ears. Then we had another
painful experience. Bombs had been dropped from the aeroplane, and
we were at once lined up against the wall of a house. The aeroplane
had disappeared. The officers argued for a moment; then the captain
got on his horse again, and gave the order to march. We entered the
town--Cambrai.
The streets looked dead; there were notices on all the walls, in
French, from the _Kommandantur_. People saw us go by without a word.
One woman, who stepped forward to give us some bread, was roughly
pushed away by a soldier. Then we halted in a square, near the town
hall. The bombs from the aeroplane had fallen there, a shop had been
gutted, and dead horses were lying in a pool of blood. We were tired
out, and stretched ourselves on the ground. The townsfolk, who were
allowed to come near us, brought us provisions, chiefly bread and
fruit. Our escort seized them and ate their fill, then beat off the
crowd with the butt-ends of their rifles, and off we marched again. I
saw some women crying.
We had not much farther to go. We were taken to the goods station,
where the Bavarians handed us over to some big Saxon soldiers--quite
young fellows--who handled our poor flock somewhat brutally. There
were all sorts and conditions in this flock which we found there,
filling the station, soldiers and civilians and some old men among the
civilians. A little lad of thirteen, weeping bitterly, was dragged
along by a big fellow in a helmet. The child was found playing in
the street with a case of cartridges, and the Boche explained:
"_Franc-tireur! franc-tireur! Kapout_,"[9] making a sign to the
thirteen-year-old prisoner that he would have his throat cut. That is
their mania; they see _francs-tireurs_ everywhere.
Night fell. We were famished, for we had only been given a handful of
biscuits since the morning, and we were put into cattle trucks. There
were forty-six of us in my truck, among them the poor little lad who
was a _franc-tireur_ and ten wounded men. The train moved off into the
night towards Germany. Where were we going to?
The little boy cried all the time.
(The French prisoner here describes "The Camp"; "The Germans and Us";
"Fighting Depression"; "Telling How the Prisoners Spend Their Time,"
with many other interesting anecdotes.--EDITOR.)