WÜRZBURG.
"Turbatus est a furore oculus meus; inveteravi inter omnes inimicos
meus."--_Psalm_ vi. 8.
On our arrival at Würzburg, before leaving the railway carriage, all
the soldiers except myself were handed a slip of coloured paper marked
"Hütte Barracken No. 14." A most unpleasant-looking person, who spoke
a little English, and wore a very superior air, was in command of the
stretcher-party that carried me across the station. I kept asking for my
luggage, a hand-bag and a fragment of the German sausage which had been
left in the carriage, and was told it would follow later, and meantime
was, like myself, safe in good German hands. However, my valuable
belongings were eventually put on the stretcher beside me. While
waiting on the platform my English-speaking attendant volunteered the
information that there were already over 200 British officers in the
place. This was lying for lying's sake, or perhaps it was a lie told
to the wrong person, and should have been reserved for the citizens of
Würzburg. The morning was a bitterly cold one, and the arrangements
made for our transport from the station gave us the full benefit of the
freezing north-easterly wind. The vehicle into which the stretchers were
lifted does not deserve the name of ambulance, nor had it any pretension
to the title, for it was not even honoured with a Red Cross. It was
just a common lorry, such as is used in the district for carting wood,
covered with a tarpaulin supported by a longitudinal bar on transverse
stays. The tarpaulin, which had been rolled up on one side while the
stretchers were being placed in position, was rolled down again. A
German ambulance man jumped up behind and off we went. Each stretcher
was provided with a blanket, which afforded some small protection from
the cold blast which blew through the open end of the cart. None of the
soldiers with whom I had travelled from France were in this cart, and at
first I thought that all the occupants were Frenchmen. But the man next
me was an Englishman, dressed in French uniform, who had been with me in
hospital at Cambrai. His face was so drawn and haggard that I had some
difficulty in recognising him. This poor fellow would not answer me
at first, and then whispered that he did not want the German Red Cross
attendant to know that he was an Englishman, and hoped to pass for a
Frenchman as long as possible, so as to get better treatment. The other
Frenchmen lay silent and motionless, worn out with exhaustion and want
of food. By slightly rising on my side, I could see following far behind
us a long string of carts similar to our own. The wind, which was now
chasing here and there some few fine drifting snow-flakes, had doubtless
kept the streets clear of pedestrians, and there were few spectators of
the dolorous procession. Some small boys fell in behind, and played at
soldiers escorting a convoy, marching in step and singing in tune, only
to be chased away presently by a watchful policeman. We crossed a stone
bridge over the Main and almost immediately turned in, on our left,
through the high wooden palisade which surrounded the hospital huts--our
temporary destination.
The tarpaulin was quickly rolled up, and my four companions lifted down
on their stretchers and taken away. My stretcher was lifted on to the
ground, and remained there for five or ten minutes, close to a group of
officers, one of whom appeared very annoyed at my having been brought to
the wrong place; he presently came up and politely asked me my name and
rank in very good English. This, I afterwards discovered, was Dr Zinck.
He told me that I was to be sent up to the fortress. I was helped off
the stretcher, and, owing to the cold, had great difficulty in hobbling
along, and was very relieved to find that I was to drive up to the
castle in a comfortable motor _coupé_, probably the one used by the
doctor himself. A hospital orderly got up beside the driver, and a very
tall sentry, who had great difficulty in getting in his rifle with the
bayonet fixed, squeezed in beside me.
The Festung Marienberg, about a mile outside the city of Würzburg, is a
place of great architectural and historic interest. Previous to the days
of heavy artillery, the hill on which the fortress is built provided a
naturally impregnable site, which had been used for defensive purposes
from the earliest times of which any historic trace has been recorded.
When St Kilian in the seventh century brought Christianity to Franconia
from far Iona, he was at first very successful at the "Castellum
Virtebuch," and converted the Frankish commander. A few years later a
chapel was built within the walls, dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary,
and the fortress became known as Festung Marienberg.
In the middle ages the castle was famous as a stronghold of the warrior
bishops of Würzburg, and stood firm during the revolutionary periods
which followed on the teachings of Huss and Luther, even when the
surrounding country had been laid waste, and the town of Würzburg
captured by a rebel army. Once after the peasant army had been betrayed,
surrounded, and almost annihilated, the unfortunate survivors were
taken away to the Festung Marienberg. "Thirty-six of them," says a
contemporary writer, "had their heads cut off, and the council and
aldermen have been taken prisoners; God only knows what will be done
with them." It was a common punishment in those days for a prisoner to
have his eyes gouged out, or his fingers chopped off. At the present
time these somewhat barbaric customs have been considerably modified,
and although the Rittmeister who was in command of the fortress during
my residence there did not resort to such extreme measures in dealing
with his prisoners as had been found necessary in the sixteenth century
by the Margrave of Brandenburg, he did his best, as I was soon to find
out, to make us feel the burden of captivity.
As the motor began to climb a rather steep gradient, the silent sentry,
with a wave of his hand, introduced me to the outer battlements of the
Festung Marienberg. Between this outer wall and the castle moat, the
long steep slope on the west side has been laid out as a garden with
shrubs and well-grown trees. "There," said my sentry, "is where the
officers can make their daily promenade." This I need hardly say was not
to be our privilege. The second wall is of great thickness, so that the
entrance is like a tunnel, the gradient of the road being so steep as to
bring the car down to the first speed. We cross a courtyard with stables
on the three sides, and then pass through a third doorway, and drive
over the moat into the main court of the castle.
This inner court, of oblong shape, is some 60 to 70 yards long and about
30 broad.
On two sides were the soldiers' quarters, built in the middle of the
eighteenth century. The ground floor on the left was used as a stable,
and above the stables were the prisoners' rooms. A fifteenth-century
chapel stands in the far corner on the site chosen by St Kilian. An
aggressive watch-tower, dating from the eleventh century if not earlier,
tall and massive, is the most interesting feature in the curious medley
of architecture, which presents a graphic picture of the castle's
history.
The motor drew up at the far end of the court. I was then helped out of
the car and formally handed over to a German N.C.O. named Poerringer,
who had charge of the prisoners, collected their letters, &c., &c.,--in
fact he was our jailor.
[Illustration: The Courtyard and Chapel, Festung Marienberg.]
We entered the fortress buildings through a small doorway in one of the
old towers, and the broad spiral stairway proved almost too much for my
powers of locomotion. However, with a helping arm under each shoulder,
they got me along. Half-way up the stair we turned through a door on our
right, which led into a large and very medieval-looking guard-room, a
long, low room faintly lit up by narrow windows deeply set in immensely
thick walls. In one of these window recesses was a desk and chair barred
off from the rest of the room with temporary wooden cross-bars. I was
led into this cage, and told to sit down and wait to be interviewed by
Mr Poerringer. My luggage was brought up and put down beside me, and a
sentry took his position near at hand.
After a few minutes' rest I began to look around, and as my eyes got
used to the dim light I saw my friend the French doctor sitting on
a chair farther up the room within speaking distance. A thoughtless
_Bonjour, Docteur_, raised the wrath of the sentry, who turned in my
direction and grunted out a sentence which ended in _verboten_.
The guard-room then began to fill with soldiers; the loud tramping,
the guttural words of command, the curious antique unmilitary-looking
uniform, the crowd of squat, slouching, and for the most part bearded,
round-bellied creatures, formed in the dim light a picture that might
have belonged to a land of gnomes, wicked princes, and enchanted
castles.
Such at least was my first impression. Our middle-aged sentries in broad
daylight were anything but romantic. Their uniform consisted of Hessian
boots, civilian trousers, and dirty green jacket, and always a big black
leather belt to keep in the rebellious stomach. They appeared most of
them to be wood-cutters, charcoal-burners, workers in the beautiful
forests of Franconia, who did not take kindly to the monotonous duty of
guarding prisoners, and to a discipline little less strict than that of
the prisoners themselves.
After the ceremony of changing the guard had been completed, and all
arms had been examined to make sure they were loaded, Mr Poerringer, who
was in undress uniform, and did not go about with a ridiculous bayonet,
came back with some papers which had to be filled in, and by virtue of
which my official status as a prisoner would be completed. My luggage
was examined courteously and as a matter of form. I was asked if I had
any fountain-pens, maps, or firearms! concealed in my belongings.
So far, conversation had been carried on in English, of which my jailor
could speak but little.
Before leaving Cambrai I had forgotten to look up the most commonly used
German word for "paralysed," and the friendly Highland sentry in the
train, whose German was no doubt not of the best, had told me that the
correct word was "Gicht." I tried this word when explaining the cause of
my lameness to Mr Poerringer, and was much astonished at the result. "Is
that all that is the matter?" said he; "you will soon get cured
here." Weary of trying to make myself understood, I protested somewhat
impatiently in French that there was not much point in bringing a
half-paralysed man into such a carefully-guarded prison. With a most
Parisian accent he replied: "Oh, vous êtes paralysé, moi qui croyai que
vous aviez la goutte!"
We now, of course, got on very much quicker with the filling-in of
papers. One entry, headed "Request to Prison Governors," I wished to
fill up with a request to be sent back to England, according to rules
laid down in the Hague Convention. Mr Poerringer shook his head, and
said there would be no exchanges until the war was over. My request for
a room to myself, so that I could hope for sleep, was not passed, no
such room being available, and the column was left a blank. In this
first interview Mr Poerringer was trying hard, probably under orders, to
put on a fierceness of manner which was obviously quite foreign to his
nature. I subsequently found that in dealing with the prisoners, both
French and English, he always displayed a kindly courteousness which was
strikingly in contrast with the behaviour of his superior officers.
Still escorted by a watchful sentry armed to the teeth, I was assisted
up the broad spiral staircase to the door leading into the prisoners'
quarters. Mr Poerringer pressed an electric bell, and yet another
heavily-burdened warrior appeared who led us into a broad,
stone-flagged, whitewashed corridor, well lit with large windows
overlooking the courtyard, a cold inhospitable-looking place. A more
welcome sight than any I had for a long time been accustomed to was that
of two British officers hurrying forward to meet me, one of whom was
Irvine, who had been with me in the Civil Hospital at Cambrai, and was
much surprised to see me on my feet again. We all marched along to the
room which had been allotted to me--the smallest of the five rooms which
opened into the corridor, occupied by nine French officers, who were
then seated at a long table enjoying their midday meal. My new-found
British comrades introduced me to the senior officer, Colonel Lepeltier,
who welcomed me with the greatest kindness, and offered me the best that
could be supplied from their private store of food and drink, including
a bottle of very excellent Bavarian beer, for which, after the
exhaustion of the past few days, I felt most thankful. The room, which
served as living and sleeping room for ten officers, was none too large.
The furniture consisted of the large wooden dining-table, a small wooden
table and chair for each officer, two washhand-stands, and two chests of
drawers shared among the lot. We had, of course, no carpets, wall-paper,
or curtains, and no facilities for getting hot water. Two windows looked
out over the Main, between them a large and very efficient stove. I
looked with apprehension at my "bed"--a wooden plank scarcely three feet
broad, on iron trestles; at the "mattress"--a coarse linen sack open on
one side, and stuffed with straw, renewed, I was told, once a month. The
two English officers, Irvine and Reddy, with an English civilian, Parke,
lived in a large room adjoining ours, along with ten French officers.
Two other large barrack-rooms were also occupied by French officers, the
total number in the fortress at the time being between forty and fifty.
It was arranged that I should take my meals in the adjoining room, where
the Englishmen had their three beds together in a corner known as "the
English Club." On the day of my arrival the "Club" held a long sitting,
which was attended by many of the French officers, eager to hear what
news there might be from Cambrai. Time passed quickly that afternoon.
Irvine had much to tell me, and many questions to ask about friends
at Cambrai, and Captain Reddy and Parke gave me an outline of their
misfortunes. Reddy had been more unfortunate than any of us. He was
travelling in Austria before the war broke out, and was arrested on his
way home before war had actually been declared. Along with Parke and a
number of British civilians, men and women, who were travelling in
the same train, he was stopped at Aschaffenburg and taken first to the
police station and then to prison. The whole party were locked up in
separate cells to be searched; even children of eight or ten years were
dragged screaming with terror from their mothers, and locked away by
themselves. I do not remember many details of the story, but Reddy and
Parke told me that it was a very near thing for them both; they were
suspected and vehemently accused of being spies, of which baseless
charge there was, of course, not the faintest shred of evidence.
I was glad to learn that the austerity of our prison life was mitigated
to some extent by permission to buy extras in the town. A list
of commissions was made up weekly, and might include jam, honey,
cream-cheese, dried fruits, articles of toilet, and beer. Every prisoner
was entitled at this time to write one letter a day. A hot bath was to
be had once a month, prisoners being taken down in batches under strong
escort to public baths at Würzburg. The doctor came once a week to see
all who needed attention; an occasional inspection, and a weekly visit
from the hairdresser, completed the list of important events in the
deadly dull routine.
The food supplied by the authorities was, on the whole, of bad quality,
badly cooked, and insufficient.
Breakfast at 7 A.M.--A roll of potato bread, and a cup of tea,
coffee, or milk.
Lunch at 12.30--Soup, which varied from day to day in colour but not
in taste, or rather lack of taste.
One dish of meat with cabbage and a potato. The meat was almost
always pork, disguised in strange manner. Once a week we had "beef,"
very tough and quite uneatable. Probably horse-flesh.
Dinner--Cold pork and cabbage, sometimes varied by scrambled eggs
and salad.
Lights out at 10.
II.
The English Club usually spent the interval between dinner and bed in
a game of cards, but on this my first night I was too tired to make a
fourth at bridge, and hobbled off to my own quarters under the severe
gaze of three unfortunate sentries who had to spend most of the night
marching up and down the cold clammy corridor.
On arriving at "Room 52" the noisiest game of cards in the world, known
as "La Manille," was in full swing, the air was thick with tobacco
smoke, and empty bottles of beer stood in serried ranks on the table.
Monsieur l'Abbé was playing with the Doctor against Colonel Lepeltier
and another officer whom I privately nicknamed "Granny." Granny's main
ambition in life seemed to be to escape from fresh air, and even in the
close atmosphere of tobacco smoke and fumes from the red-hot stove he
was wearing all the underclothing he could put on, and round his neck a
huge muffler.
The presence of M. l'Abbé in the uniform of a private soldier was the
result of an appeal by the Pope to the German Emperor to allow priests
serving in the French army the same privilege when taken prisoners as
are accorded to officers.
I cannot describe Colonel Lepeltier better than by saying that he
represented the typical soldier of Napoleonic days. His career in
Saharan and Moroccan campaigns had already proved him to be a leader of
no ordinary merit. He possessed a great number of medals, which, as a
prisoner, he did not wear, and had been wounded almost as many times as
he had been decorated. It was impossible to get from him any account
of his adventures in the present campaign, but I gathered from what
his brother officers told me that he had behaved with extraordinary
gallantry at Charleroi, and fell riddled with bullets when leading the
last remnant of his regiment in a counter-attack to save the rest of the
Brigade. He had been hit in the leg, his right arm, pierced by a bullet,
was withered and useless, and three other bullet-holes in different
parts of his body brought to fifteen the total number of wounds received
during his military career. His wonderful cheerfulness was an example
and a consolation to us all. I remember when we were all discussing
how long the war would last--this problem was always a subject of
speculation and conversation--Colonel Lepeltier declared that no one
should give any thought to themselves, or worry about the probable
length of their imprisonment. "I don't care," said he, "if we are here
for seven years. J'ai confiance dans la France. La France triomphera
et tout le reste m'est egal." The doctor was quite remarkably like
the white rabbit in 'Alice in Wonderland,' plump, short, blonde,
closely-cropped hair, a tiny moustache, an apologetic air, and an
aggravating habit of continually saying, "Ah, pardon." At 10 o'clock
M. l'Abbé, who was the last up, put out the lamps on the table. Candles
were blown out one by one until the only light left was that of a single
candle by the bedside of a young cavalry officer who spent most of his
time reading in spite of the continual noise. To keep a candle alight
after "lights out" was an offence which, in our room, met with instant
punishment. "Rosteau, Rosteau!" some one shouted, and I never knew if
this was a slang word of warning, but it was always followed, as in this
instance, by a whizzing boot hurled at the offender's head. This was the
signal for the despatch of projectiles of all kinds,--tin boxes with a
bit of coal inside hurtled across the room and fell on or by the enemy
with a deafening crash, hair-brushes, slippers, stale rolls of bread,
were flying in the dark from one side of the room to the other. The
performance was generally closed by Colonel Lepeltier, whose orders for
silence were always instantly obeyed. To break the silence of the night
was against the unwritten law, except for one purpose--to stop snoring.
Here it was Granny that was the chief offender. In spite of the hardness
of my bed, and the impossibility of turning round without falling out, I
think that I might have got some sleep if it had not been for Granny--a
most kindly, lovable man by day, but an aggressive, vulgar fellow at
night, for whose blood I have often thirsted in the early hours of the
morning. The usual method for stopping snoring was to whistle loudly. If
this did not produce the desired effect, a clever shot with a boot was
sure to be successful in rousing not only the snorer but the whole room.
Shortly after six o'clock the day began with the entry of our French
orderly--we had one to each room--with the morning ration of bread on
a large tray: two small rolls to each man. After the rolls had been
distributed round the five rooms, the cups of coffee, tea, or milk were
brought along in the same way. This was breakfast. I tried the coffee
one morning, found the tea just as bad, and finally settled down to hot
milk. Getting up was of necessity regulated by the fact that we only
possessed two washhand-stands among ten people. With washing, dressing,
and shaving, I generally managed to spin the time out to about 10
o'clock, at which hour I used to take up quarters in the English Club
for the rest of the day. The room which my English comrades occupied
possessed many advantages over my own: it was far larger, and owing to
the presence of a strong fresh-air party, the windows were kept open
continually. In my room, where the stove was always at a white heat,
fresh air was looked upon with disfavour; the windows were opened a few
inches while the room was being dusted, or when tobacco smoke was too
thick, and I, as a lover of fresh air, was in a minority of one. In "53"
room the partisans of fresh air included not only the three Englishmen
but the senior and more assertive of the French officers. In spite of
the unanimity which reigned in room "53" on this debatable subject of
windows open or windows shut, party strife was nevertheless very much in
evidence, and centred chiefly round the question of noise. The room
was divided into as many sections of opinion as the French Chamber of
Deputies. Five officers hailing from or about Marseilles, who lived in
a row at the far end of the room, represented the ultra Radicals. They
declared for the unlimited freedom of man, and elected to make as much
noise as suited them at all times of the day or night. O---- belonged
to a party by himself. He was to sing and whistle whenever the spirit
moved, but when he engaged in writing and reading, as fortunately was
often the case, the rest of the world was not expected to interrupt. The
English party, openly setting its face against noise of any kind at all
times, was supported somewhat weakly by two or three adherents who were
not strong-minded enough to accept the whole of our Party Policy,
and were inclined to advise moderation in all things. Our political
opponents--the Meridional ultra Radicals--were known as the Gollywog,
the Calendar, the Owl, the Pup, and Consul. The Owl and the Calendar (so
called because he only shaved on Sundays, and the day of the week could
therefore be known from the colour of his chin) were comparatively
silent partners to the conspiracy of noise, but the Gollywog, Consul,
and Pup made up amply for their deficiencies. Their favourite occupation
consisted of inane discussion shouted across the room. "Et autrem_ain_
je dis que dans le service il faut tutoyer les hommes. J'ai trente-cinq
ans et je sais ce que dis." "Eh! mon bon." This to the protesting Pup.
"Vous n'avez pas le droit de parler, vous êtes jeune, vous sortez de
l'oeuf, vous sortez de l'oeuf." This expression of contempt for the
youth of the Pup was always the last word of the Gollywog, who would
strut up and down the room shouting, "Maintenant vous n'avez rien à
dire, vous sortez de l'oeuf, vous sortez de l'oeuf." Consul, so called
chiefly on account of his agility and quickness of movement, famous also
for an entirely original method of consuming bread and cheese, took part
in noise along with the others of his party more often in chorus than in
solo, but none of them except the Gollywog had any idea what a nuisance
they were to the whole room.
III.
At 10.30, in answer to a great shouting of "Promenade, Promenade"
from room to room, those who wished to go for a walk in the "garden"
assembled together at the end of the corridor. The garden entrance was
at the far end of the courtyard, and in spite of the moat and the triple
lines of battlement, the promenading party always crossed the court
under escort. It took me about five minutes to cross the yard. Irvine
and Reddy always stayed behind to help me along. We were never allowed
to start without an extra guard, sometimes two or three, but generally
one soldier, rifle loaded and bayonet fixed. Our sentry must have felt,
and certainly looked, extremely ridiculous escorting a cripple at the
rate of seventy yards in five minutes. What we used to call the garden,
Baedeker briefly refers to as follows: "Visitors are admitted to the
terrace (view of town) on application to the sentry (fee)." The terrace
extended about a hundred yards in length between the barrack buildings
and the moat. The total breadth is not more than about fifteen feet.
Most of the space is taken up with flowerless flower-beds, extending
the whole length of the terrace, with a double row of vines. A narrow
pathway about four feet broad was all the space available for exercise.
Doubtless the view from the terrace is very fine, and perhaps worth a
"fee to sentry," but we were very tired of it. On the right, across
the valley at the highest point of the wooded hill, stands the
Frankenwarte--a hideously ugly watch-tower; lower down, about half-way
to the river, the "Kapelle," a pilgrimage chapel, looked after by
religious, whom we could sometimes see walking about their garden, black
dots on the far hillside. The Ludwigsbrücke crosses the Main far away
below, and twice a week at the same hour we used to watch a regiment of
infantry cross the bridge, and the strains of the "Wacht am Rhein"
could faintly reach our ears when the wind was favourable. A group of
factories form an ugly background to the whole picture, but we found in
them a cause for rejoicing, the tall smokeless chimneys bearing witness
to the stoppage of work and to the power of Britain's fleet. Three
sentries were always on guard during our daily walk, one at each end of
the garden and one in the middle, although the only means of exit was
to drop down a precipice. The wall on the moat-side bore an interesting
inscription to the memory of four French soldiers who had fallen at the
spot when the castle was stormed in 1796.[2] A number of cannon-balls,
half embedded high up in the masonry of the barrack buildings, testify
to the inefficiency of artillery in the days when our great-grandfathers
were at war. There was one feature about our terrace promenade which
attracted more attention from the promenaders than the view over the
town or the fresh air from the hills. I cannot give a fair picture of
the Festung without referring to it and to some unpleasant details
which the fastidious reader may like to skip. In the very centre of the
terrace, hard up against the path, is a large cesspool covered over
with two very badly fitting iron lids. The sanitary arrangements for the
whole fortress--that is to say, prisoners and guard--are contained in a
wooden shed, which stands in the centre of the courtyard just opposite
the windows of our corridor. Alongside this shed is another cesspool,
fortunately properly closed in. This cesspool is emptied once a week or
once a fortnight into an _open cart_, which then proceeds to our garden
to be emptied. This process goes on the whole morning. On this day it is
impossible to keep the windows open in the corridor, and a visit to the
terrace is, of course, out of the question. Even on the next day the air
is most unpleasant, and if there is any rain the cesspool in the garden
overflows, and the narrow path is turned into a stream of sewage.
[2] General Jourdan was surprised and heavily defeated at Amberg and
Würzburg on the 24th August 1796 by Archduke Charles, brother of the
Emperor of Austria.
As the castle clock strikes eleven, the terrace party are marched back
across the courtyard by a strong guard, and I follow slowly in rear,
with a sentry all to myself, dodging manure-heaps and tacking to avoid
pools of dirty water and tracts of nameless mud, so that my snail-like
progress causes no little worry to the attentive sentry. I spoke to the
doctor one day of the absurdity of not allowing me to crawl across the
yard without a soldier with bayonet fixed, but the doctor rather had the
better of me, for, said he, "The sentry is not provided as an escort,
but as a guard of honour!"
Opposite the old doorway entrance leading up to our cold corridor there
is another door with a stair leading up to some rooms which are occupied
by the permanent staff of the fortress, perhaps by the men who, in times
of peace, collected fees from visitors to the castle. In the morning, on
our way out, the window above the doorway was always filled with three
smiling baby faces, and on a fine day two of the children always took
their stand outside the door. Francie was the name of the eldest little
girl. She was not more than eight years old; she wore a neat little blue
frock; her hair was of beautiful fairness. She was a great friend of
Reddy, and always answered his "Guten Morgen, Francie," with smiling
shyness. The fat baby, not very clean, with tousled, flaxen curls, could
only just walk, and held nervously on to his sister's little finger.
Francie at first was very frightened at my appearance, hobbling along
on crutches, and the poor little baby fell right over and began to howl
right lustily. But Francie soon got to know me nearly as well as Reddy,
and her pretty smile was the brightest thing in the whole of Festung
Marienberg.
The midday meal was at 12.30. Brown bread, ground-nut butter, and
Gruyère cheese were extras that could be ordered at every meal; and the
French orderly, when he came in to lay the table, was greeted with cries
from all in the room, each officer shouting out for what he required.
"20 pf. de beurre" brought a small pat of quite edible butter, 25 pf.
was the price of a fairly large-sized helping of brown bread, and 10 pf.
for a thin slice of cheese. Cheese and butter were expensive items, as
by the time all the thumb-marks had been scraped off, the ration was
much reduced in size. The soup was doled out in the kitchen, which, I
have forgotten to mention, was at the end of the corridor and the door
guarded by a sentry. The loaded soup plates were brought in on a large
tray carried by two orderlies. The plates were generally full to the
brim, and the orderly would seize one plate in each hand, planting a
large and very black thumb right into the swirling soup. Waves of soup
then splashed on to the floor or disappeared up a dirty sleeve. I never
ate soup while at Würzburg, and even now seldom do so without thinking
of the black thumb. The next and final course came in on the trays as
before, and was served on oblong plates divided up into four square
compartments--meat in one corner, potatoes in the second, and sauerkraut
in the third, the fourth being left to eat out of. A knife and fork was
provided for each officer, who had, however, to buy his own glass;
and in our room, by very special favour, we had been allowed to buy a
coloured cotton table-cloth. It was very seldom that any satisfaction
could be got out of the meat course, which was almost always pork in
some shape or form, and the mainstay of every repast was provided from
our private stores of cream, cheese, honey, and brown bread. Supper was,
as I have said, merely a slice of cold ham or a sausage and potatoes.
The "Gehaltsabrechnung" for this not very luxurious fare was 31 m.
70 pf. per month. Officers of the rank of lieutenant were paid 60 m. a
month, from which a deduction was made for board.
We were allowed to see two German papers--the 'Kölnische Zeitung' and
the 'Lokal Würzburger Anzeiger.' These papers arrived after lunch, and
anything of interest was translated aloud for the benefit of the club
by Reddy, who knew German thoroughly. The former showed a disposition
to break forth into sensational headlines, and was rabidly and sometimes
comically anti-English. On the occasion of the Heligoland fight, one
paper announced in large print that the British battle-cruiser _Lion_
had been sunk. In next day's paper we discovered, hidden away in a
corner, the statement that the _Lion_, crippled beyond repair, had been
towed into port, and that the _Blücher_, owing to an accident in the
engine-room, had unfortunately sunk on her way back to harbour. News
from the British front was not often given much space, and it was
easy to guess that at the time there was nothing much doing in that
direction. The news from Soissons was naturally made the most of, and
was very disheartening reading.
I remember how amused we were at the account of a coal strike in
Yorkshire. This, we were all convinced, was an ingenious German lie.
Much as we used to long to see English newspapers, I am now thankful
that we were not allowed to see them, and that my fellow-prisoners are
still confined to sceptical reading of the 'Kölnische Zeitung' and can
enjoy undisturbed their own imaginary picture of Britain at war, which a
knowledge of the truth would quickly dispel. The long dull days of life
at the Festung Marienberg recall a memory of much yearning for news of
England, of speculation as to the date of our liberation, and above all,
of an intense desire to witness some day the defeat and humiliation of
our insolent enemy. But the misery of inactivity when so much is needed
to be done, the monotony, the aimless futility of existence that is
no longer useful, this is the real trial which makes imprisonment
intolerable. There are few prisoners in the Festung Marienberg who would
not joyfully exchange their lot for that of a Welsh miner, and work till
they dropped for enough bread to keep body and soul together. The mental
sufferings of those who are imprisoned in Germany is intensified by the
fear that others who have not learnt the truth from bitter experience
will not believe. We, in the fortress, knew the power of Germany--could
feel it in every incident of our lives. We lived in the very midst of
an organisation which moves as one for one purpose--the destruction of
European civilisation and the substitution of Teutonic conceptions.
The truth which years before had sounded incredible, when voiced by the
authority of Lord Roberts, and had been dismissed by the majority of the
nation as the senile vapourings of a decrepit Jingo, this truth was now
as familiar to us in the Festung as the air we breathed.
What if the nation still fails to understand? If a message could come
from our imprisoned countrymen in Germany, from our long-suffering
allies in Belgium, whose integrity we guaranteed by a solemn promise
which we made no arrangements to keep, from all who know by hard
experience how Germany treats those whom she has conquered, such a
message would declare that no sacrifice can be too great provided the
military domination of Prussia is finally destroyed. Those who have felt
the power of the enemy know also that if we are to be successful nothing
less than the maximum effort is demanded. What this means Britain as yet
does not begin to understand.
IV.
EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY, EXPANDED AND EXPLAINED.
"_Sunday, Jan. 10th._--Mass, 8.30. Snowed a little."
M. l'Abbé officiated. Very nearly all the French officers attended Mass.
From my room two were either too ill or too lazy, and Granny, who, in
the early hours of the morning, was frightened of catching cold, did not
appear outside the bedclothes. The officer who used to read at night,
at whom boots were thrown every evening on the stroke of ten, declared
himself to be a Pagan, and so he also remained in bed. The choir loft of
the chapel had been set aside for the use of the prisoners, and thither
we were escorted down a dark stair and long corridor by the usual armed
sentries, one of whom remained with us in the church. The body of the
church was filled with German soldiers. During Mass the organ was played
and hymns were sung by the German part of the congregation. After Mass
was Benediction, when it was our privilege to sing. Colonel Lepeltier,
with a very powerful voice, acted as leader of the choir, the Frenchmen
singing with great _entrain_, as if to let the enemy know they were not
downhearted. On this Sunday M. l'Abbé preached a short sermon on the
gospel of the day, but this privilege, no doubt displeasing to the lower
part of the congregation, was afterwards withdrawn, and on the following
Sundays we had to endure a discourse from a German priest.
* * * * *
"_Monday, Jan. 11th._--Snow. A sentry committed suicide last night in
the corridor. Great excitement among the Germans."
It was very early on Monday morning, long before daylight, that a noise
of running feet outside the door of our room showed that something
abnormal had happened.
Colonel Lepeltier ordered every one to stay in their beds, and we
speculated vainly as to the cause of the uproar until the orderly came
in with "Breakfast." A sentry had shot himself through the head, and
was lying where he had fallen at the far end of the corridor, guarded
himself now, poor fellow, by a brother sentry. No one was allowed out
of his room until the corpse had been removed, which was not done until
several officials had inspected the remains. When the inquest was
over and the corridor cleaned up, a stain on the stone floor and a
bullet-hole in the wall remained to tell the tragic story. Snow was
falling that afternoon, and there was no chance of getting out to the
terrace, so that the rest of the day had to be devoted to Poker and
Bridge, games of which all were heartily sick. Reading was difficult on
account of the ceaseless noise kept up by Gollywog and his merry men.
Our game of Bridge was played at the end of the dining-table, the other
end being occupied by chess, of which the Gollywog and Consul were the
chief exponents. In the hands of these experts chess became the noisiest
of all parlour games. They played on the co-operative system, two
players sitting at the board, the others standing up at each side of the
table. No piece was moved without great discussion, conducted in a
loud voice, with much gesture. As soon as a piece had been moved the
chess-board became a sort of storm centre into which even non-players
seated at the far end of the room would recklessly plunge.
As a result of one of these discussions two of our southern friends
quarrelled in real earnest, and most dramatically vowed to fight a duel
at the close of the war. Reddy suggested it was a pity to put off the
encounter indefinitely, and meantime proposed the use of coal buckets at
fifteen paces. Strangely enough this real quarrel brought peace to the
room for a few minutes, but the parties soon made friends again and
the noise went on with renewed vigour. At seven o'clock the table was
cleared and laid for dinner.
Dinner as usual, cabbage and cold sausage, the latter somewhat more
palatable when fried on the stove to black crusty cinders.
* * * * *
"_Tuesday, Jan. 12th._--Doctor's visit. I asked to be exchanged. There
seems to be some hope."
This first meeting with the doctor was to me a cause of much
apprehension. In the event of an exchange of prisoners, it was in this
man's hands that the final decision would lie as to what prisoners were
unfit for military service.
Shortly after 11 A.M. a French officer told me that the doctor was
visiting my room. The corridor was very cold that morning, and, partly
from the cold, partly from nervousness, my entry into the room where the
doctor was waiting was most impressive. For the moment I lost control of
my limbs, and nearly collapsed into the doctor's arms.
Dr Zinck is a small fair-haired man, about thirty years of age. He
speaks English with fluency, having lived for some years in New York.
He had visited Scotland, and stayed, he said, at Skibo with Andrew
Carnegie. When no other German officer was present his speech and manner
with me was always polite, sometimes verging on kindness. Whilst I
was resting on a chair he made an examination of my head, and read the
certificate which Dr Debu had given me at Cambrai. This document, I was
glad to see, seemed to create a favourable impression. He then asked me
to try and walk with one stick only. In attempting to do this, which at
times I was well able to do, my right leg, fortunately, refused to move
forward. The doctor took down some notes in his book and seemed to have
quite made up his mind as to the hopelessness of my condition. In answer
to my inquiry, "There will be no exchange of officers," he said,
"and you will never get any better." The latter part of this not very
cheering remark was fairly satisfactory, as it meant that if ever there
was to be an exchange, my name would be on the list. The hardships at
the Festung which I felt most keenly were the hard straw bed and the
impossibility of getting the hot baths which at Cambrai had afforded me
so much relief. The doctor offered to give me some morphia pills; but
these I refused to take, and asked to be given a proper mattress, or to
be allowed to buy one. On a subsequent visit he informed me that this
could not be permitted, adding that he "dared not do too much for the
English." Such, to the best of my remembrance, were the very words he
used, seeming genuinely ashamed at having to refuse such a request.
When Dr Zinck paid me his next visit, he was accompanied by the
Rittmeister Niebuhr, the officer in command of the fortress. It would be
an unwarrantable insult to the German army to say that the Rittmeister
was a typical German officer. Medium height, sparely built, sallow
complexion, dark hair and moustache, with his burlesque swagger and
affectation of dignity and authority, he was such a caricature of a
German officer as may be seen in a comic illustrated paper. Hatred
of the English and a bullying manner appeared to be his chief
qualifications as Fortress Commander. A safe occupation this to worry
defenceless prisoners, and one more suited, perhaps, to his capabilities
and inclination than a soldier's work at the Front. My first
introduction to this unpleasant individual was when the doctor brought
him to see me in answer to my request for hot baths. I was lying in the
English room on the corner bed, known as the Club Sofa. I struggled
up into a sitting position, and saluted the visitors to the best of my
ability. The Rittmeister did not deign to take the slightest notice. Dr
Zinck explained that I had asked for hot baths three times a week, and
requested permission to hire a carriage down to the public baths. The
Rittmeister, with an insolence of manner worthy of Hudson Lowe, told the
doctor to say to "Dem Mann" that the monthly bath, graciously allowed
to officers, according to the wise German regulations posted up in every
room, for the purpose of personal cleanliness, quite sufficient was.
During the whole conversation I was continually referred to as "Der
Mann," which, according to German etiquette, is, from one officer to
another, the height of insolence.
Once a month eight officers at a time were allowed down to the public
baths in the town. Those who could walk were escorted down by half a
dozen guards, and the walk must have been a welcome relief from the
monotony of the fortress. Later on, after I left, Reddy got leave to be
taken down to the dentist, and wrote to say how delightful it was to
be seated for a short time in an arm-chair. It is not often that a
dentist's chair is looked upon with such favour. Those who could not
walk down to the town were driven in a sort of prison van; most of
the invalids were from my room--Colonel Lepeltier, Granny, and
three officers, who were still very lame, one of whom has since been
exchanged. Irvine, who was not quite up to walking, and myself, very
nearly filled up the van. After we had got in there was not much room
for the two sentries, who, like most of their kind, needed a lot of
accommodation. It was, however, quite impossible to get the rifles in
with the bayonets fixed. After one or two attempts, and after sticking
the point of their bayonets nearly through the roof of the van, they
finally gave it up, unfixed bayonets, and sat holding them in their
hands. The windows of our carriage were of frosted glass, barred right
along inside and out, so that we could see nothing of the town as we
went along. A quarter of an hour's drive brought us to our destination.
The van turned into a large covered yard, in one corner of which was a
large motor waggon and a pile of worn-out knapsacks, boots, and military
kit of various nature. From this yard a flight of stone steps led
down into a basement where some men were making packing-cases. A long
corridor led to the bathing establishment, which was very clean and
tidy. The accommodation was, however, limited--four baths and four
shower-baths. Irvine very kindly helped me in and out of my bath and
assisted me to dress, the sentries meantime keeping a sharp look-out
outside my door. When we had finished, the old woman in charge of the
establishment came round with Mr Poerringer, who had driven down on the
box-seat, and collected a mark from each of us. As I was ready dressed
before the rest of the party had quite finished, I made a start down the
corridor, so as not to keep everybody waiting. This was at once noticed
by one of the sentries, who zealously followed behind me; whereupon I
reduced my speed to the slowest possible crawl.
On our return journey one of the party produced a flask of what is known
in the fortress, and perhaps elsewhere, as "Quetsch," a very fiery,
sweet-tasting, white liqueur. We all took a nip, and I ventured to offer
some to our melancholy guardians. To attempt such familiarity was, of
course, a serious breach of regulations, and they shook their heads
regretfully. They were a most amusing-looking pair, sitting very
squeezed up, opposite each other, in the corners nearest the door, each
gripping firmly to his bayonet, both of them short and round and solemn,
like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
* * * * *
"_Jan. 15th._--Inspection."--A general inspection of the fortress was
carried out every two or three months. The inspection on this day--the
only one which took place while I was a prisoner--resulted in my getting
into trouble with the inspecting officer, who, as I had been warned by
my fellow-prisoners, would be on the look-out for any pretext to punish
the English. I was sitting at the dining-table in the English room, with
my back to the door, when the inspecting party came suddenly in. I could
not turn round to see, and did not know who the noisy visitors were
until I saw that every one in the room was standing to attention. I
slowly rose from my chair and, leaning both hands on the table, managed
to keep a fairly good balance, which I nearly lost in taking my pipe out
of my mouth. When the group, which consisted of the Inspecting Colonel,
the Rittmeister, and Mr Poerringer, came opposite to where I was
standing, they stopped and looked at me. "Who is that fellow?" said the
Colonel. "What is he doing here? He is surely not an officer. He is not
standing at attention, and has only just deigned to remove a pipe
from his mouth. Has he been wounded?" "No," promptly responded the
Rittmeister, but Mr Poerringer stepped forward and corrected him. They
then passed round the room and went out without further observation.
Five minutes later Mr Poerringer came in and said that the Colonel
wished to speak to me in the corridor.
Outside the door was the inspecting officer--large, not very tall,
somewhat red in the face, no doubt a pleasant enough man after his
second bottle of wine. I leant against the wall and saluted by lowering
my head on one side and endeavouring in vain to raise the right arm to
meet it. Mr Poerringer and the Rittmeister stood frozen to attention,
whilst the Colonel delivered a long statement to the former in order
that he might translate it for my benefit. I was being severely
reprimanded. Apparently the meanest soldier in the German army was a
better-mannered man than I was. Of course, bad manners was only what
might be expected of a British officer. If I did not know how to behave,
they would soon teach me, &c., &c., &c. Every word of this tirade, most
of which I understood, was then repeated in French by Mr Poerringer, and
his translation was certainly milder than the original. The Rittmeister
stood by with an evil grin. When they had all finished, I told Mr
Poerringer that I was physically incapable of showing such outward signs
of respect as were due the inspecting officer, and that my failure
to show him honour was not due to any desire to be discourteous. My
explanation really seemed to me--unable as I was even to stand without
crutches--almost an insult to such common-sense as a German officer
might be supposed to possess. My court-martial of three then withdrew
further up the corridor, consulted together, and sent Mr Poerringer to
me to say that "in view of what I had said, the Colonel had very kindly
agreed to overlook my offence, and therefore I would be let off the
punishment of cells."
* * * * *
"_Jan. 16th._--Hairdresser. The Rittmeister calls again." Once a week
came a gold-spectacled, middle-aged hairdresser, accompanied always by
a sentry with the ever-loaded rifle and the everlastingly fixed bayonet,
who stood behind the chair in which the officers took turns for a shave
and hair-cut.
In the afternoon we had another call from the Rittmeister, whose visit
this time was the most exciting incident which took place during my
stay at the Fortress, and was for a long time the subject of animated
discussion in all the rooms. The whole affair really began and ended
with Gollywog. Mr Poerringer came in about four o'clock and said that
the Rittmeister wished to speak to Lt. C----. Gollywog went out into the
corridor, remained absent for fully five minutes, and came back with the
Rittmeister, who advanced into the middle of the room and ordered "All
English officers to leave the room." This was most interesting, and the
four of us went out into the corridor greatly wondering what new game
was being played. After about a quarter of an hour the Rittmeister came
out and went off down the corridor, whereupon we hastened back to hear
what had happened. The Rittmeister had made a most genial and polite
speech. He had heard that the English officers had not been behaving
properly, that they were quarrelsome, disagreeable men, and so on, for
a good few minutes, ending up with a request that the French officers
would kindly come to him if they had any complaint to make, however
small, concerning the conduct of the English, who would then promptly be
put in cells. "Bobjohn," a Lieutenant de Reserve, who knew German very
well, replied briefly on behalf of the French officers--that they
were all, English and French, brothers-in-arms and firm friends. The
Rittmeister then went off in a very bad temper, disappointed that his
clumsy plot to get the English into trouble had been a total failure.
We were all indeed more amused at, than angry with, the Rittmeister's
impertinence, but many of the French officers thought that Gollywog's
part in the affair was open to suspicion; in fact, he was suspected of
having complained to Mr Poerringer. I think it, however, more likely
that the sentries, who were always spying and trying to see what was
going on in the room, had something to do with it. Next morning I
happened to meet O---- in the corridor and immediately started swearing
at him in a loud voice. He grasped the idea at once, and I could see the
nearest sentry watching us narrowly. Sham fights between the French and
English were started at intervals during the day, with the door left
wide open so that the sentry could get a full view. In my room great
annoyance was expressed at the whole affair, and Colonel Lepeltier
declared that the Gollywog's conduct was open to very grave suspicion.
As a matter of fact, hardly any of the French officers were on speaking
terms with the Gollywog, and so this rather unpleasant incident did not
make any difference to his relations with his fellow-prisoners.
V.
"Send me a post-card when you have time," writes a friend from Germany;
"letters and post-cards are the only things we live for." And so it was
at the Festung Marienberg. Two or three times a week Mr Poerringer would
come in with a bundle of letters and call out the names of the lucky
ones, the officers all crowding round with eager faces, listening,
waiting, hoping. Two officers only sat apart and watched, not without
envy. One, a Frenchman from Lille, could never hope to hear from
his wife or family, as communication with invaded territory is not
permitted.
The day after my arrival at Würzburg I wrote three letters--one letter
home, one to X.Y.Z., one to the American Ambassador in Berlin. At that
time there was no restriction as to number, although later not more than
one letter a week was allowed. I could not hope for news from home till
the end of February, as six weeks was generally the time which elapsed
before an answer came from England. Irvine told me that on arriving at
Würzburg he had written informing the American Embassy at Berlin of
his position, and that in reply the Ambassador expressed a wish for
information concerning the whereabouts of British officers. I therefore
wrote to the Embassy stating the fact of my arrival at Würzburg,
explaining the nature of my wounds, enclosing a copy of the certificate
from Dr Debu also--and this was the part I feared might not pass
the Censor--asking the Ambassador to put my case before the German
authorities at Berlin.
By the same post I wrote to X.Y.Z., whose letter to Captain S---- had so
providentially fallen into my hands at Cambrai. In this letter I gave
a list--in answer to her inquiry--of all officers and men of whom any
information had reached me at Cambrai. I also drew a pathetic picture
of my own situation, enclosing a copy of the much-copied medical
certificate, and begging X.Y.Z. to use influence on my behalf.
While at Cambrai and Würzburg two questions were constantly in my
mind--first, Would there be an exchange of officers? second, If there
was to be an exchange, how was I to make sure that my case would not be
forgotten?
Pope Benedict XV., although I knew it not, was working hard to obtain
a satisfactory reply to the first question. The happy solution of
the second must depend on my two letters to Berlin and on the wide
circulation of my medical certificate.
This certificate was a most alarming piece of evidence as to my
condition, and I am glad to say that the event has so far proved the
medical diagnosis to be a pessimistic one.
Medical men have told me that in nine cases out of ten such injury as
is mentioned in this certificate results in the inconvenient habit of
a spasmodic falling on to the floor, attended with foaming at the mouth
and other unpleasant symptoms, all of which are included under the
mysterious title "Jacksonian epilepsis." On account of this medical
certificate, which more than hinted at the probability of my acquiring
such unpleasant accomplishments, I was known to my friends in the
fortress as "Jackson."
My two letters had been sent off on the 10th of January. Mr Poerringer
very kindly gave me this information, he himself being the Censor. On
the 26th January my first letter arrived, the first letter since my
leaving England six months ago. It was from the American Embassy.
Reading my name and address on the envelope, I began to feel a "person"
again. The world outside the fortress was more real to me from that
moment than it had been for many months. The letter dated 21st January
acknowledged receipt of my communication of 9th January, and regretted
to inform me "that the question of exchange had not yet become an actual
fact, and that the exact provisions whereby exchanges, when actually
effected, will be governed have not yet been determined.... As regards
the approximate date in the future at which the exchange of wounded
prisoners will take place, the Embassy regrets to be unable to give you
information. Negotiations are on the way, but no definite agreement has
yet been reached." During that afternoon my letter was a subject of much
argument. Never did I dare allow myself to read into these sentences any
hope of freedom. It is better for a prisoner to live with no prospect of
release than to hope vainly and be disappointed. So the letter was put
away and kept out of mind as far as was possible.
A few days afterwards I happened to meet Mr Poerringer in the corridor.
He bade me good morning with even more than his usual kindness, and
produced a letter. This was from X.Y.Z., and reading this letter over
now, it seems hard to believe that when I read it in the fortress I
dared not find in it any hope or any reasonable ground for hope. "I will
certainly do my very best," says the letter, "to get you included among
those for exchange. I gave your medical report to the American Consul,
... and he has promised to go into the whole matter thoroughly with the
authorities. The matter of exchange will take some time to arrange, I
believe, so don't be too disappointed if you don't hear something at
once." Here, at any rate, was the definite statement that there was to
be an exchange, yet it was still a struggle in my own mind between
hope, and fear that dared not hope, and fear was still the conqueror. Mr
Poerringer came into our room with some papers very shortly afterwards,
and I asked him if it would be any use asking for an interview with the
officer commanding at Würzburg. Mr Poerringer's reply roused the whole
room to attention: "Vous allez probablement aller en Angleterre."
Nothing more would he say, except that a letter had arrived about me
from the War Minister. All my friends crowded round to discuss whether
any credence might be placed in Mr Poerringer's information, and the
verdict was that it would not be safe to take him at his word. Little
belief existed among my fellow-prisoners, even after Mr Poerringer's
statement, of the possibility of any exchange taking place. The odds
laid during my first week at the Fortress against my being exchanged
were 20 to 1. That evening, in spite of all the favourable signs, odds
of 10 to 1 against were offered and taken.
VI.
Life in the Festung was becoming very hard. Snow had fallen heavily. For
several days, owing to alternate frost and snow, the courtyard, whether
a mass of slippery ice or of penetrating melting snow, was now a barrier
to the garden, across which I dared not venture. The corridor was so
intensely cold that it was no place for me to take exercise in. My only
relief at this time from lying on a bed was to take a few turns up and
down the room during the hour of the promenade, when all windows were
wide open. Every inch of the picture as seen from those windows is
familiar to me. Far away, beyond the low vine-covered hills, now deep in
snow, the spruce woods stand out pitch-black on the all-white horizon.
More distinct than usual in the snow were the quaintly-shaped roofs of
ancient houses and the numerous steeples and church towers for which
Würzburg is celebrated in guide-books. Traffic on the river had ceased,
for the big, broad barges were ice-bound, and only in the centre of the
stream the yellow water ran freely, hustling along great lumps of ice
and melting snow. Over the bridge ran the electric tram lines that
connect the town with the large suburbs on our side of the river, and
the cold air--it was now freezing very hard--carried with distinctness
the clanging, whining sound of the passing trams.
Wooden huts, surrounded with a high paling, lay right below, but the
distance was just too great to enable us to see if they were inhabited
by French or English prisoners. Away beyond the huts were large stone
and brick barracks, from where on Sundays a band was wont to come forth
and march close up to the fortress,--a real German band this, they
played extremely badly.
During the time of the hard frost a field close by the barracks had been
flooded and turned into a skating-rink, where all day long the skaters,
black dots in the distance, circled round on the white board.
The steep avenue leading down from the fortress through the wooded slope
was at this time an object of interest. A number of small boys were
enjoying themselves tobogganing down the rough uneven surface, running
races, upsetting and rolling down the slope head over heels in the snow,
with cries of joy and laughter. Some forty feet below the window, along
the parapet of the inner battlement, two sentries stamping out a path
on the snow looked up from time to time with suspicion at the figure
leaning out of the prison window. Night was falling. The two sentries
were impatiently waiting to be relieved. At last the relieving party
appeared, escorted by a corporal; with due ceremony the guard was
changed and the new sentries began their dreary tramp with rifle slung
over their shoulders, beating hands and stamping feet against the
ever-increasing cold.
Large electric arc-lamps had recently been fixed outside the windows,
so that a strong light was thrown on the parapet and wall below, and the
sentry could see to shoot any one, utterly foolish, who should attempt
to climb down from our window to the parapet--a place, even when safely
reached, from which there was no possibility of further escape. Electric
light is used most lavishly by the town of Würzburg, and the effect
of the twinkling lights of the city, seen from the fortress, is very
beautiful, but one must be in the right mood to appreciate such things.
"Shut the window, Jackson, and let's have a game of poker." This was the
voice of "Bobjohn"--the best of friends. I have said too little of these
friends of mine--both French and English--too little of their kindness,
patience, and unselfishness with one who was often irritable and
unreasonable.
* * * * *
"_28th._ Zeppelin. A great rush for the windows."--I did not realise
before how tremendously big these Zeppelins are. It was a grand sight
to see the grey-white ship, big as an Atlantic liner, sailing over the
river, and to see it turn and come straight towards the castle on a
level with our windows. When only some few hundred yards away, so near
that we could see the features of the men in the passenger car, the ship
turned again and circled round the fortress, and from the windows of the
corridor we watched it disappearing into the sunlight over the distant
hills.
This evening was marked by the arrival of a parcel of books, Tauchnitz
edition, which we had been allowed to order. No doubt the publishers are
glad of the chance to unload their stock of British authors, as,
after the war is over, there will not be much demand for the Tauchnitz
volumes.
Early in February another guest arrived at the fortress--another member
for the English club. This was Foljambe, from L'Hôpital Notre Dame,
Cambrai, who had made a very good recovery from severe wounds. Our new
comrade, still very weak, only able to walk a short distance,
arrived late in the afternoon, and was allotted a bed in my room. His
experiences on the journey from Cambrai were very similar to mine.
Although I have little direct evidence of how the Germans treat our
soldiers, the information which Foljambe gave me on the subject is
conclusive.
Foljambe, before coming up to the fortress, was put by mistake and left
for nearly an hour in a soldier's Lager on the outskirts of Würzburg,
and his story confirmed what the French orderlies had told us about the
ill-treatment of the English soldiers.
"The English soldiers," said Foljambe, "go about like whipped dogs."
Most of them were ill from want of food and warm clothing. Any excuse
was seized upon to inflict hard punishments, and the constant bullying
which was permitted, if not actually ordered by the officer in charge,
made the men's life a perpetual torment. Foljambe had no time to get
many details from the men, as the Germans hastily removed him from their
company as soon as they found out that he was an officer.
On the field of battle no danger could silence the cheerful jest of
these brave men; in hospital no suffering had been able to damp their
cheery courage. The picture of these same soldiers cringing, looking
from left to right when spoken to, as if to avoid a blow, is one upon
which I cannot allow my thoughts to dwell.
* * * * *
"_Feb. 11th._--Nothing to record." This is the last entry in my diary.
The doctor came again with the Rittmeister, and spent a long time by the
bedside of Lieut. C----, who had been shot through the sciatic nerve,
and was apparently permanently lame. They left the room without taking
any notice of me. This was depressing.
It was understood that C----'s case for exchange was being considered.
Dr Zinck had taken no notice of me on this occasion, probably because my
case had already been decided; but this view did not occur to me at the
time. A rumour had been going round the rooms that an exchange of French
officers, but not of English, would shortly take place.
The afternoon, my last in the fortress, passed slowly and sadly, like so
many others. Poker had long ago been abandoned. Bridge was played with
small enthusiasm.
A visit to the big room near the end of the corridor helped to pass away
the evening. Here Captain D----, owner of some big mills in the north of
France, showed me a working model loom which he had made out of firewood
with no other tools than a penknife. With the loom he was weaving a
"carpet" the size of a small pocket-handkerchief.
* * * * *
_Feb. 12th_--_Der Tag._--At 9 A.M. I was shaving at the toilet-table
in the window recess when Dr Zinck came into the room alone, which was
unusual. He walked over to where I was sitting, and the following was
our brief but exciting conversation--
"You are happy now."
"Why should I be happy this morning," said I, "more than any other
morning?"
"But don't you know? You are going back to England."
Then for one brief moment I believed, but yet tried to keep from showing
my joy, lest perhaps the news were false.
The doctor walked up and down the room in silence, then turned to me
with a worried look. "Don't say anything about what I have told you. You
and C---- are going away, but I should not have told you. I did not know
you had not been told." And then he left the room.
Some one announced that the van in which we used to go down to the baths
had arrived in the yard, presumably to take me away. On going into the
corridor to see this welcome sight I met Reddy and Irvine hurrying to
hear the news, which, of course, had at once been spread throughout the
Fortress. We were standing in the corridor talking, when Dr Zinck ran
up. "_Nix, nix_," he said, with his Bavarian accent, "there will be no
exchange with England, on account of the submarine blockade. A telegram
has come from Berlin. You are not going away."
Hope and despair now fought confusedly; where was the truth? Colonel
Lepeltier comforted me with his assurance that the doctor's last
statement was a lie; that Dr Zinck had become frightened lest the
Rittmeister would be angry at my having been told the good news too
soon.
Certainly the van was still in the yard, the horses had been unyoked.
There might be hope after all. I went as usual to room "53," lay down on
the corner bed--the Club sofa--for the last time took up the book I had
been reading the day before, found my place--the last chapter of 'David
Copperfield.'
I had reached and nearly finished the last page, when the door was flung
open and the Rittmeister entered in the well-known manner, suddenly, and
with a quick look round the room, as if hoping to catch somebody up to
mischief.
As soon as he came into the room I knew instinctively what he had
come for: while trying to get off the bed to salute I heard the
much-longed-for word "Austausch." "You must leave at once," he said--"at
once."
Reddy helped me off the bed and down the corridor, to say good-bye to my
friends and get my luggage.
Mr Poerringer and the Rittmeister followed behind, the latter, as Reddy
remarked, eyeing me narrowly. I took longer than usual in this last walk
down the corridor.
The Rittmeister followed into the room, went over to C----, and told him
he was to leave next morning, then walked round the table past the bed
where I was sitting, and left the room without further sign or word.
I said good-bye to Colonel Lepeltier and my new friends, and as it was
midday Mr Poerringer suggested that I should stop for a few minutes in
room "53" to get some lunch.
The meat course on that day was a dish of tripe which few of us could
face, and while I was eating my bread and cheese Reddy made up a parcel
of bread and Leberwurst for me to take along.
Mr Poerringer stood by the window watching, orders having been given
that I was not to be left alone.
When Mr Poerringer remarked casually that the train left in half an
hour, and that if I missed it there would be no other, I did not wait to
finish the bread and cheese.
Reddy put the parcel of food into one pocket of my greatcoat, a small
bottle of beer in the other, and I bade adieu to my friends, feeling
quite ashamed of and yet unable to hide the joy of my going.
Reddy for the last time helped me down the stairs and into the van. Mr
Poerringer got in beside me.
I said good-bye to Reddy, and for a moment felt miserable at leaving so
kind a friend to endless days of a misery from which I was now free.
As the van moved off he waved his hand with a cheery smile, and then
turned away up the spiral staircase.
Mr Poerringer sat silent in a corner of the carriage (the same vehicle
in which we had gone down to the baths). We crossed the courtyard,
passed the entrance to the terrace, the sentries guarding the bridge
over the moat. We entered the tunnelled archway, went slowly down the
steep hill, and drove through the last barrier. These things I could
see, for the window was open.
My thought was still struggling with the realisation of what these
things meant, and of what lay beyond these prison walls, when, as we
drove into the main road, Mr Poerringer broke the silence, and there was
a tinge of envy in his voice, "La guerre est fini pour vous," he said,
"La guerre est fini pour vous."
[Illustration: Festung Marienberg--Entrance to Inner Courtyard.]