WÜRZBURG TO ENGLAND.
"La guerre est fini pour vous."
The van drove slowly down the road which runs along the outer
fortification of the Castle. Mr Poerringer did not speak again, and I
was silently trying to grasp the reality of the situation.
We stopped at the hut hospital barracks where I had been taken on my
arrival at Würzburg five weeks before. Mr Poerringer got out and saluted
Doctor Zinck, who was waiting outside the gates. The Doctor caught my
eye and grinned from ear to ear, behind the back of some other officers;
probably he would have spoken to me had it not been for their presence.
I smiled at him rather feebly. At this time my mind contained but one
idea--the fear that something would occur to prevent my departure from
Würzburg. I was frightened to speak lest some word of mine might be made
an excuse for detention. The four British soldiers who now got into the
van were evidently in a similar state of mind. Two of them had travelled
with me from Cambrai. We none of us spoke. The door of the van shut
out the face of the still smiling doctor (bless the man! he was perhaps
really pleased to see me safely off), and we jogged slowly on.
Our conveyance stopped in the goods station yard. Three of the soldiers
managed to hobble along without help, but the fourth, the same young
fellow in the K.O.S.B. who had travelled in my carriage from Cambrai,
had to be carried on a stretcher. I followed very slowly across the
railway tracks, and then along the platform to where our train was
waiting. Two first-class carriages were reserved for us, one for the
"Offizier" I heard them say, and another for the men. The train was
full, and passengers at every window stretched out their heads in
curiosity, but none made any remark. We did not stay many minutes in the
station. As the train moved off, Mr Poerringer was talking to some of
the station officials and did not look up. He had not spoken to me since
leaving the gates of Marienberg, and perhaps had mistaken my state of
stupor for sulks.
It is not often that events in life will so be shaped that the highest
state of happiness can be obtained merely from the fact of finding one's
self alone in a railway carriage. The absence of a sentry made itself
pleasingly felt. The sitting on a soft cushion was a long-forgotten
source of contentment. In my selfish joy I nearly forgot the friends I
had left at the Festung.
On the left side of the line as you leave Würzburg, the Fortress stands
out on the hillside at a distance of something over a mile as the crow
flies. The windows of my former quarters, where we used to stand and
watch the trains, could just be recognised, and as I looked a white
sheet was waved up and down from the English room. I answered back with
my handkerchief, waving it until the Festung Marienberg had passed out
of view.
The soldiers in the adjoining carriage, having discovered that a
communicating door between our two carriages was open, came in to
keep me company. M----, in the K.O.S.B.'s, remarked that this was a
pleasanter journey than the last we had performed together. I asked him
about the other men who had been in our party, but he had lost sight of
them. M---- looked thin and pale, and in far worse condition than when
he left Cambrai. He told me that he had been kindly treated in hospital,
but had been given very little nourishing food. Another man who was
wounded in the spine and had been in another ward in the same hospital,
said the treatment was fair but food short. All the other men complained
of the want of food. They said that the able-bodied prisoners were most
willing to work to escape the monotony of prison life, but that they
were given so little food in the work camps that many of them were
unable to stand the long hours, and had to return to hospital.
My recollection of this part of our journey is most vague. I took a
childish pleasure in recognising the country through which we were
passing, and in comparing my feelings on the two journeys. Near the
first little country station after you leave Würzburg there is a large
nursery, and a large notice put up by Herr Somebody with the words
"Baumschule." Farther on the train passes close to a large quaintly
roofed building bearing the inscription "Jägerhaus." On the journey from
Cambrai I had noticed these things, and my thought, anxious to get away
from reality, had speculated about the Jägerhaus and its past history,
and had wondered if the owners of the Baumschule sold plants at a price
cheaper than obtained at home.
But now, during the first few hours of the journey, my mind was
incapable of taking in impressions. We stopped at Aschaffenburg,
probably outside the station. I have no recollection. We stopped many
times in the afternoon, but we took little or no interest. The men had a
very small piece of black bread each, and I gave them my Leberwurst and
the brown bread. Darkness came down soon. We stopped at stations now and
again, and rejoiced each time the train moved on.
Night had long fallen when we made our first change. I do not remember
the name of the station, but the place appeared to be of considerable
size. We were helped out of the carriage by Red Cross attendants, and
saw no soldiers with fixed bayonets. I was offered the choice of a
stretcher or a bath-chair, and chose the latter. The night was dark and
wet, the station badly lit up.
We were taken along the platform and put into the Red Cross
dressing-station, which contained a sofa, two arm-chairs, an
operating-table which looked as if it had never been used, and a glass
cupboard with medicine bottles, rolls of lint, &c. An oil-lamp hanging
from the ceiling threw a dim light.
After five minutes' wait an official looked in at the door, and was
about to pop out again, when I asked a question: "Can we have something
to eat?" The official said "Wait," disappeared, and promptly returned
with three of his fellows. They were surprised at hearing we had not
dined (it was, I think, now about 9 o'clock), and seemed doubtful if
anything could be done in the absence of special orders. The situation
was made easier by my offering to pay. "Für alle?" they said. "Yes, für
alle."
I was wheeled off at once in the bath-chair still farther along the
platform to the station restaurant, a small tidy room with half a
dozen small tables covered with clean white table-cloths. A waiter came
forward, helped me into a chair, and presented the menu. I ordered a
beefsteak, with potatoes and peas. It was pleasant to sit down to a
clean white table-cloth, with a plate (instead of the trough used in the
Festung) and knives and forks and spoons.
Presently the beefsteak arrived, beautifully cooked and daintily served.
I asked for some beer, but this was "verboten." "Well, then, bring me a
tumbler and a corkscrew," said I, withdrawing from my greatcoat pocket
the bottle of stout which Reddy had given me on my departure from the
Fortress.
The price of this excellent dinner was 1 m. 75, including a cup of
coffee. This was at a time when Germany was reported in our papers to
be suffering from shortage of food supplies. The menu offered a great
variety of dishes, and the only evidence of scarcity to be noticed was
the small-sized ration of bread with which I was served.
After the coffee, and cigars! the Red Cross official came in to say that
it was time to take places in the train. This time we had no longer the
luxury of a first-class carriage, but still there was plenty of room,
as we had a whole coach consisting of four or five third-class
compartments. The men said they had been given a very good dinner, for
which no payment was demanded.
Just before the train started our party was increased by the addition
of a sentry. The men had all settled down to sleep in the different
compartments, and the new arrival shared a carriage with me.
He was of a very different type from the soldiers who had guarded us on
the other journey--a young man, probably of good position, and certainly
of good education, very fat, unhealthily so, quite bald, and wearing
gold-rimmed spectacles; he spoke with a North German accent, very
difficult for us to understand. He desired nothing better than
conversation, and told me all about his own adventure with the army that
marched on Antwerp, where he had contracted typhoid fever which had left
him bald and short-sighted. He was now condemned to transport work for
the duration of the war, and did not hesitate to say to me that the
prospect was distinctly disagreeable. We both agreed that war was
unpleasant for every one concerned.
Our ultimate destination was Flushing, but my friendly fellow-traveller
only expected to go with us as far as Osnabrück, at which town we could
not hope to arrive before midday of the day after next. The train we
were now in contained a number of wounded Germans. They came along the
corridor during the night and made friends with our party. Some of them
could speak a little English. Like all the other German soldiers I have
heard discussing the war, these men expressed great reluctance to
return to the front, and were hopeful that the war would speedily be
terminated. This is probably the normal attitude of every soldier on
both sides.
The German soldier is oppressed by the unexpected duration of the war.
He is apparently victorious on all fronts, and still the war drags on.
When he goes home on leave there is not much to cheer him up. Every one
seems to be in mourning, and all his friends of military age are away.
There is one thing only that enables him to face the hardships of war
with unquestionable courage. From childhood he has been taught that the
highest virtue in a man is loyalty to his Kaiser and the Fatherland.
German patriotism finds its expressions in personal loyalty to the
Kaiser, and devotion to the Fatherland which is almost fanatical.
Some people would say that conscription has played a large part in the
development of this national religion of patriotism, but the history of
the German people can hardly be brought to support such a proposition.
Nor does the mere fact that patriotism is taught in the schools provide
a sufficient explanation.
The source of a flourishing, vigorous patriotism may often be discovered
from a study of economic conditions. That patriotism is affected by
economic conditions must at once be admitted. In a State, for example,
where the majority of the population are slaves, patriotism will be
confined to the slave-owners, who will fight vigorously to prevent their
slaves being captured by foreign slave-owners. An agricultural country,
where the majority of its inhabitants are owners of the soil they till,
affords the most favourable environment for the growth of patriotic
sentiment. The Serbians are without doubt the most patriotic people that
history has ever known, and Serbia is a country almost entirely devoted
to agriculture, where the great majority of the inhabitants are owners
of the soil, so that, in the mouth of a Serbian peasant the words "my
country" refer to something more than an abstraction.
But German patriotism stands likewise on a sound economic basis, for
Germany possesses an enormous agricultural population, the greater
proportion of whom are owners of the soil--the figures, according to
last available statistics, being 86 per cent of the total population
of the country. Starting with these favourable conditions, the German
Government worked hard during peace-time to strengthen by education and
discipline the instinctive patriotism of the citizens. Loyalty to the
Kaiser and Fatherland, respect for the army, the duties of a citizen to
the State, are lessons that the German child is taught at school.
In addition to the economic and educational, there is a third
factor--and most essential of all--in which Germany is by no means
wanting. This third factor is the influence of history and tradition.
"C'est la cendre des morts qui créa la patrie."
* * * * *
A consideration of these three influences, economic conditions,
educational appeal to the intellect, historical appeal to tradition,
will help us to understand the power of German patriotism.
In one of the thoughtful editorials to which readers of the 'Irish
Homestead' are accustomed, I find condensed into a single phrase the
idea which I have been struggling to express. "Duty to one's race,"
says "A. E.," "is not inevitable. It is the result of education, of
intellectual atmosphere, or of the social order."
It is very necessary, but very difficult in war, to keep in view the
best side of the enemy's national character. Now among the doctors,
hospital attendants, officers and men of the German army with whom
I came in contact during my stay in Germany, I occasionally met with
straight-dealing and kindness. Three there are among them to whom I
would gladly give my hand. But though in the main the Germans are a
treacherous race, coarse in pleasure, bestial in drunkenness, viciously
brutal in war; they are also brave, disciplined, and patriotic. When the
Fatherland is seen to be in danger they will fight to the last loaf, to
the last cartridge, to the last man. There will be no sudden collapse.
There will be no surrender by attrition. Ours is no easy road to
victory.
The night was well on before our visitors retired to their own
compartment. The gold-spectacled, bald-headed escort fell into a heavy
sleep, uninterrupted by the frequent stopping at cold, dark, and lonely
stations, where the train would sometimes remain quiet and peaceful for
perhaps a quarter of an hour, but always started with a sudden rattle
and jerk just as I was thankfully dozing off.
Of the following day I have little recollection. Early in the morning
we changed trains at a small junction. It was bitterly cold, and the
platform, which was covered with snow, was deserted. No stretchers or
stretcher-bearers were provided, and those of us who could not walk
were wheeled across the station in a truck by two aged porters. Before
starting afresh we had a cup of hot coffee and a very small roll of
bread each.
The railway now ran through a hilly and thickly wooded country, and our
speed, which had never been very rapid, was much reduced by long curved
gradients. Snow lay thick on the branches in the dark spruce forests.
Rosy-faced children, well wrapped up, on their way to school, stopped
on the hard frozen road which ran beside the railway line to watch the
train go by and to wave their hands and cheer. A pale wintry sun crept
round the horizon.
The railway carriage was almost as cold as the corridor in the Festung
Marienberg. Yesterday's feeling of joy merely at the fact of being
outside the Fortress was now giving way to impatience at the length of
our journey and the slowness of the train.
The picture changed in the afternoon. The train was crossing the broad
corn-lands of Westphalia, which, as one huge field, stretch away to the
horizon. Here and there were patches of snow, but no hedges, walls,
or fence of any kind, and scarcely a tree, can be seen to break the
monotony of the landscape. The farmhouses, few and far apart, present a
lonely and desolate appearance.
Yet another month and the newly-sown grain would be sprouting, and six
months would see the rich harvest, and perhaps the end of bread tickets
in Berlin, for Westphalia is the granary of the German Empire.
Shortly after dark we again had to change trains. The platform was
crowded with soldiers and civilians. The snow had given way to a
drizzling rain, and as our train was not yet in, we sat waiting
on high-backed wooden seats, surrounded by a curious and not too
well-mannered crowd. I remember one ugly old man with a pointed grey
beard, who shook his fist at us and was full of hate, until the loud
voice of a N.C.O. ordered him to move on. The moment the order rang out
the crowd lost interest in our presence, and the irascible old man was
one of the quickest to move.
It was a great relief to hear that another night was not to be spent in
the train, as the effects of cold and the fatigues of the journey were
beginning to tell on the weaker members of the party. However, we still
had three hours to travel before reaching the place where we were
to stay the night, and where, the escort said, rooms in a hotel were
awaiting us.
It was about ten o'clock before we reached our destination. I am not
sure of the place, but think it was Cassel. The station was a large one,
and lit up with powerful electric lights. Our train carried a big load
of civilian passengers, chiefly women, a great number of whom--in fact,
nearly all--wore deep mourning. We had to wait till the platform was
clear before the stretcher-bearers came to carry us off.
I do not like being carried on a stretcher without straps. That evening
at Cassel we had the best kind of stretcher, with a pillow and blankets
which were tucked in all round; and then with a big strap across the
chest and another about the ankles, one felt quite secure.
We were first taken to the buffet, which is at the far end of the
station from our arrival platform. On reaching the buffet we were
unstrapped, so we could sit up and take a cup of warm milk, which was
served out by uniformed women attendants. We remained in the buffet
about half an hour. My stretcher was close beside a table at which four
big bony women dressed in black were drinking hot coffee. A typically
German notice printed in large characters hung in a conspicuous position
on the wall:--
Speak German! Do not use enemy language!
"Adieu" is French; say instead--
Gott beschütze Dich.
Gott segne Dich.
Auf wiedersehen.
Auf baldigeswiedersehen.
Auf sehrbaldigeswiedersehen.
Auf ein Rechtherzigesfrohesbaldigeswiedersehen.
We had not seen any official frightfulness for a long time. Some person
in authority now came in to the restaurant and lost his temper--not with
us, but with the fact of our being in the restaurant. There was no
one in charge of our party, so the cursing fell upon the restaurant in
general; and shortly after the irate person had departed we were carried
away by stretcher-bearers to the waiting-room, which was a few yards
farther down the platform.
Here we had to spend the rest of the night, and nothing was said about
the hotel and comfortable beds for which our escort in the train had led
us to hope. The waiting-room was furnished in a style common to most big
Continental stations. The arm-chairs, upholstered in dark-green plush,
were ugly and uncomfortable. The two sofas were designed to repel
the weariest of travellers. Although large and lofty, the room was
efficiently heated by four large radiators, and four enormous crystal
candelabra hung in the centre.
At the far end of the room, which was in semi-darkness, as only one of
the candelabra had been turned on, a lady in mourning was sitting alone
at a small round marble-topped table. When the stretcher-bearers
had gone, the lady spoke to us in perfect English. "Are you the poor
soldiers who are going back to England?" she said. "How glad you must
be! I read about the exchange of prisoners in the paper." This lady was
of German birth, and had lived most of her life in Australia. She said
the nations of Europe had gone mad, and that "this exchange of prisoners
was the first sign of sanity that she had seen since leaving Australia."
She asked if we had had any dinner, and said it was too late now to get
anything to eat, but that if we rang the waiter would serve hot coffee.
In answer to the bell the waiter came at once, and I asked him if we
could have some beer. He seemed to hesitate a minute until I produced a
20-mark note. The beer was brought in tumblers of frosted glass about a
foot high. It was the best Pilsener. Britain can brew nothing to touch
it. There was nothing in the waiting-room just then really altogether
German except the beer (and the ugly, uncomfortable chairs). There was
very little German about the waiter, who while waiting for our glasses
to be emptied, entered into fluent conversation with one of the
soldiers.
And the astonishing subject of his conversation was league football.
The wounded soldiers, who were inclined to be sleepy when the Australian
lady was bewailing the European situation, were now thoroughly enjoying
themselves. The waiter told us that he had toured the North of England
with a German football team during the winter of 1912-13; he knew all
the professional clubs, and was personally acquainted with many of the
favourite players in the north country.
One of the wounded men--Private Henry, Lancs. Fusiliers, who was an
expert follower of league football--started a friendly but determined
argument with Fritz (as they called the waiter) as to the merits of the
different teams.
Fritz was a real football enthusiast. "I shall never play again," he
said; "I am to be called up in a few weeks, and even if I get through I
can never play in England again."
"Cheer up, Fritz!" I said; "you have got the best beer in all the world,
and as we are not likely ever again to get a chance of drinking it, you
had better bring in another round."
Some of the Red Cross attendants who were on duty in the station that
night, young fellows of fifteen or sixteen, paid us a visit but did not
stay long; they could not join in our conversation, and they refused my
offer of beer with a regretful "verboten."
A soldier friend of Fritz's came in to see us. He had been slightly
wounded in Russia some six weeks ago, and was now on his way to the
Western Front, much depressed.
Fritz promised to bring in coffee and rolls at six o'clock (our train
was to leave at seven). Two of the soldiers slept on the floor, and
two dozed in the arm-chairs. Even the fatigue of the journey and the
soporific influence of beer did not suffice to induce sleep on the sofa.
Our escort of the previous day joined us at the train next morning. Only
a single third-class carriage was provided for this part of our journey,
and as it was a very narrow one we were all most uncomfortable. We would
reach Osnabrück at 11 A.M., and there, we were told, "the exchange would
take place." I speculated wildly as to what form or ceremony would be
followed. The local morning paper threw some light on the subject with
a statement "that the wounded English officers and men about to be
exchanged were to be assembled at Osnabrück from all parts of Germany
previous to being sent over the frontier."
The train seemed to go slower than ever. We came to a part of the line
which had been flooded, and a squad of men were repairing the track and
rebuilding a bridge. The men were of military age, and our escort said
they were Russian prisoners. I noticed in many places along the
line that a lot of rough ground had been broken up and brought into
cultivation.
Now this work requires able-bodied, healthy young labourers, especially
when trees have to be felled and roots removed, and there is no doubt
that the prisoners of war are being used for this purpose. Indeed, most
of the agricultural work is carried on by prisoners, so that the full
strength of Germany's enormous agrarian population is released for the
fighting line.
We had to change trains once more (the seventh or eighth change since
Würzburg). Our escort, who like ourselves was impatient at the continued
delay, expostulated with the station-master, who explained that we had
followed a circuitous route in order to leave the main lines free for
the passage of troop trains. Large bodies of troops were at that time
being shifted from East to West or from West to East.
The day dragged on, eleven o'clock passed, the hour we were due to
arrive at our destination, and still the train monotonously bumped along
the single track of the badly-laid country railroad. Our third-class
carriage was very cramped and uncomfortable. Such carriages are really
not "third-class" according to English notions. But we did not worry
about mere physical discomfort. I do not know what my wounded comrades
had in their minds. They hardly spoke. But the expression in the face
of each man had been changing from the moment they had left the hospital
hut _Baracken_ at Würzburg.
In my own mind a change had also been working since leaving the Festung
Marienberg, with its omnipresent sentries, noisy barrack-rooms, and
insolent, ill-mannered commander.
Now that I was no longer treated like a dangerous criminal, I began to
think and act in a more rational way. But the change was very slow. For
long after I had reached my own home I retained a silent and suspicious
manner, which was surprising perhaps to those of my friends who did
not know the full story of the Festung Marienberg. I have drawn no
exaggerated picture of that prison. I am afraid there are places even
worse than Würzburg, although in other prisoner camps, such as Crefeld,
Neu Brandenburg, Stralsund, the conditions are very different, and
from trustworthy accounts I believe that at Stralsund in particular the
officers could not wish for better treatment. They are allowed to play
cricket, football, tennis, &c., whenever they wish. They can even visit
the town under escort, and have a three-hole golf-course, which one of
my friends there tells me is "bogey nine." I am thankful that, owing,
I believe, to the action of the American Embassy in Berlin, the four
British prisoners whom I left behind at Würzburg have been sent to
another Fortress in Bavaria, where they are allowed a considerable
amount of liberty, and where life is much more endurable than it was at
the Festung Marienberg.
On arrival at Osnabrück at 1.30 P.M. on Saturday the 14th February, my
experience as a prisoner of war in Germany came to an end. From that day
to the crossing of the Dutch frontier on the night of Monday 16th, I
was treated with all possible kindness, and every material comfort that
could be wished for was offered or provided. I was no longer treated as
a prisoner.
Two private motor-cars were waiting at the station to take us to the
hospital. Three of our party went off in the first car, and I with the
remaining soldier was lifted into the other, and carefully covered up
with warm rugs by the officer who had come to meet the train. Both cars
were driven off to the hospital, where my companions were to be lodged.
The sun was shining frostily as we drove through the bright clean town,
which is more Dutch than German in appearance.
The car stopped in a narrow street opposite a verandah, with a flight of
steps leading up from the pavement. On this terrace or verandah stood
an old man, short, and heavy about the stomach, dressed in black
old-fashioned clothes. He approached me with a bow, washing his
hands with invisible soap, "Goot Morgen, sir," "Goot Morgen,"--more
washing--"Is there anything I can do for you? You ask me. Komm this
way, please." He crossed a large entrance-hall. The floor was tiled and
slippery, so that I could scarcely walk on it. Sofas were set all round
and down the centre, and one or two wounded German soldiers sat reading.
They paid very little attention to our arrival. I was shown into an
enormously big hall containing about 200 beds. This (from the stage at
the far end) had doubtless been a music hall.
The room, which was lofty, but not well lit up, except at the stage
end, where there was but a single large window, had been freshly painted
white. The beds were ranged all round, and a double row down the centre.
Everything in the room was new. Beds, sheets, blankets, none had ever
been used before. By each bedside was a small iron table, and behind
each bed hung the patient's hospital outfit, the ugly striped pyjamas
and red felt slippers. Everything new and spotless.
The bald, gold-spectacled escort carried in my luggage, and bade me an
almost affectionate farewell. I was becoming quite inured to surprises
of this kind.
In spite of a notice on the wall which said that lying down on the beds
in the day-time is strictly forbidden, I lay down on the bed nearest the
door and tried to forget my excitement in sleep, but before very long I
was aroused by voices from the other side of the screen at the door, and
R. D. R. walked round in his kilt, looking just the same as when I had
last seen him at Joigny la Chaussée.
"Well, I am glad to see you," he said; "we heard you were killed, and
then we heard you were in England."
"How have you got into this party?" I replied; "there is nothing much
wrong with you."
Four other British officers followed in behind R.D. I had expected to
see a far more crippled band. Major D---- was the worst of the four.
One arm was badly paralysed. He spoke with difficulty, a bullet having
grazed his windpipe leaving a nasty scar, and he had one or two other
bullet wounds in the leg.
M---- and W---- were very lame; each had a broken leg, badly set and
short. Captain M---- had nothing wrong with his arms or legs, but a
shrapnel bullet had hit him in the face, gone down through the roof of
his mouth, and stuck somewhere in his neck, which was bandaged up.
The worst case of all was H----, who presently came in, supported and
half carried by two orderlies. No man in this war has had a nearer shave
than H----. He was shot through the base of the neck, and the bullet
chipped the spine, causing partial paralysis on one side and complete
paralysis on the other. I think it was his cheery spirit and sense of
humour that helped to keep him alive.
All of us had long stories to tell. W---- had the most to say, having
been shut up for three months with some Russian officers who knew
neither French nor English. The remainder of the party all came from
Crefeld, which is not many hours by train from Osnabrück.
For some reason the new arrivals were not allowed to have a bath. We
were told that anything we fancied either to eat or drink could be
ordered for dinner, but that if we did not wish to pay for our food,
the ordinary hospital fare would be at our disposal free of charge. We
ordered, and were served, a first-rate dinner.
During the afternoon a party of French officers walked into the ward.
One of them was rather lame, but the others seemed in very good health.
Surprise at the meeting was mutual. They spoke but little English. When
we said that we were the prisoners about to be exchanged, these poor
fellows had just for a moment a gleam of hope that they also by some
mistake were to come with us. We had been together only a few minutes
when a soldier came in and took them away. In the short time I had,
however, found out that these French officers had no complaint to make
of the treatment they had received, and they informed me that a special
difference was made in their favour as compared with the British.
Soon after a most excellent dinner, we were glad to turn in. German beds
are made in some strange manner. The bedclothes are not tucked in at
all, but are folded across the bed in a puzzling sort of way. However,
the bed was extremely comfortable, and I slept soundly, the first time
since leaving Cambrai.
The next day, Sunday 15th, was a very long one. We were not allowed to
leave the ward, which, on account of its huge size, the lack of windows,
and the uniform whiteness, was a most depressing place. In the afternoon
some kind of religious service took place in the adjoining ward--at
least we heard singing of hymns to the accompaniment of a powerful
organ--and the proceedings, whatever they were, terminated with
"Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles."
The event of the evening was the announcement that next morning we were
to appear before a Medical Board, and immediately after would leave for
Holland. This piece of information was received with calm. For my part I
still had some of the old reluctance to believe in good news, and Major
D---- spoke the thought of all when he said, "We are not yet out of the
wood." H----, the most crippled of the party, was the only optimist.
Next morning, shortly after ten o'clock, I was crossing the outer
hall--that is to say, I was creeping round by the wall, not daring to
venture across the well-polished floor--when the Board emerged from a
doorway behind me. They stood and watched me make a laborious circuit
back to our room.
We stood to attention, those of us who were able to stand, while the
seven or eight German officers filed into the room and took their seats
at the table which runs across the whole breadth of the ward, opposite
the entrance door. These were men of high rank, and all of a large size
except one stout, short fellow, who acted as interpreter. Our names were
called, and the examination proceeded in order of seniority. There was
no hesitation about any one until Captain M---- was called. His case was
the subject of a certain amount of guttural discussion. R. D. R. was the
last and longest to be examined, and his fate hung in the balance. The
Board seemed to be of opinion that he was not to be exchanged.
The discussion lasted but a few minutes, during which R. D. stood pale
and with anxious eyes. They again began to question him. "How many
years' service did you say?" "Three." "Can you drill troops?" "Very
little." "Are you qualified to teach musketry?" "No."
Again the withered hand was examined to see if any sign of life could be
found in the blue twisted fingers.
I think the casting vote in R. D.'s favour was given by the senior
doctor, the only one of the party who was in mufti, and one of the few
really human beings I have met while in Germany.
Before going out the senior officer present (a General) made us a speech
in German, which was translated to us by the interpreter somewhat as
follows:--
"It is all right! You have all passed, and it only remains for you each
to come and sign the necessary papers in the doctor's room. The General
wishes to know if you have any complaint to make about your treatment,
and if there is anything you are not satisfied about the way you have
been treated while in Germany you must tell us about it. We wish you to
make now any complaints. We want you to be satisfied. You must go back
to England contented." "We want you to go back to England contented." He
repeated these words several times, walking up and down the room as he
spoke, looking round with a quick glance at our faces, while the Board
in the background nodded approval.
There were no complaints. I thought in silence of my journey from
Cambrai to Würzburg, and of the Rittmeister at the Festung Marienberg.
Here was the explanation of the sudden change which began the day of
departure from the Festung, the explanation of the first-class carriage
at Würzburg station, the indifferent attitude of the crowd on our
journey, the good-fellowship of sentries, the free and friendly
intercourse with wounded German soldiers, the attention and luxuries
provided at Osnabrück. "They" wanted us to go back to England contented.
After the Board had gone the interpreter came back again to make
sure--"Please, gentlemen, mention anything. You are all satisfied. Is
good, that is gut," and out he went at last rubbing his hands.
"They" had evidently given orders that the about-to-be-exchanged
prisoners were to be treated with kindness, just as "They" on a former
occasion had given orders that British wounded prisoners, officers and
men, were to be treated with a special insolence and brutality.
This affectation of kindness now at the very last moment, the
hypocritical pretence, was more repellent than even the insolence of the
Rittmeister Niebuhr.
There was, however, one member of the Board whose kindness was really
genuine. This was the senior doctor in civilian clothes.
When I went along to the room where the papers had to be signed, he
made me sit in his arm-chair and examined my head. I cannot explain the
difference between his manner and that of the others. Kindness, in the
others so evidently sham, official, and by order, with him was second
nature.
"You will get well, quite well in time," he said, "but it will be very
long."
"Let me take your arm, you must not fall on the slippery floor. You
might hurt yourself badly and not be able to leave us to-night."
Even if I had not understood the German words, there was no
misunderstanding the sympathy in the tone of his voice.
The word of deliverance came that evening while we were at dinner. We
were told that two motor-cars and an ambulance waited at the door, and
in a very few minutes we started off for the station. As the night
was dark and wet, there was some delay before the cars could find the
platform our train was due to start from. We drove into the station by a
goods entrance, and the cars halted quite near the train. In addition
to ourselves, a large party of wounded soldiers, about 120 of them, were
bound for the frontier.
As I made my way slowly along the platform I saw several of these poor
fellows standing about on crutches, one or two of whom I had met before
at Cambrai. They were very cheery, and it was cheering to see them and
hear the familiar query, "Are we downhearted?" with its answering roar
from the train-load of cripples. But the thin pale faces and ragged
clothes bore witness to the misery from which they, the lucky ones, were
now to be released.
After waiting for nearly two hours, a German officer of high rank came
along to make a final inspection. He asked us if we had any complaints
to make, and again repeated the hypocritical phrase, "We want you to go
back to England contented." And at last the train moved off. Osnabrück
is only forty miles from the frontier. The suspense and worry of the day
had told on all of us, and when the much-longed-for moment arrived, and
the train actually crossed the frontier, we had all fallen asleep.
Würzburg and all that nightmare in German hands were already slipping
far away into the past. The reaction found expression not in hilarious
excitement or placid contentment, but in an exceeding weariness of
mind and body. Quite early in the morning the train stopped at a
small station well over the German frontier. Two ladies came along the
corridor with baskets full of cakes, oranges, tobacco, and other gifts.
"Oh, you poor men," said a voice in English, "is there anything we can
do for you?" It was the first Englishwoman's voice we had heard for a
long time (it did seem such a very long time since we left Southampton
Water).
The voice and the kind words acted as a stimulant, almost as a shock.
Although the incident may seem to be a trivial one, it is stamped in my
memory, for it awoke the memory of all that England is, of kind human
sympathy, of those qualities so little understood by Germans.
We reached Flushing about 11 A.M. The British Consul and a number of
very kind people came to meet the train and escorted us to the hotel
which is just opposite the station. Owing to a very bad headache I had
to spend the day in bed.
Those of our party who were able went for a walk as free men in the
streets of Flushing. They saw the arrival of German prisoners from
England, and compared their well-fed appearance in smart clean uniforms
with the ragged miserable state of the unfortunate British soldiers.
About seven o'clock we were allowed to go on board the steamer. In the
dining-room of the hotel I met Major Chichester, who had arrived with
all the one-armed and one-legged men from Madame Brunot's Hospital at
Cambrai. Many stretcher cases were carried down the gangway, some
with bandaged heads and smiling faces; but one or two stretchers were
completely covered over, and one dared not think of the burden they
carried. Yet others there were who, going back to England, would
never see England again. "Are we downhearted?"--the cry was raised
at intervals, and from every quarter of the ship came the answer in a
convincing chorus.
During the long and very rough sea passage my mind was taken up with the
misery of the sea, which in a bad sailor is able to dominate all else.
However, the discomforts of the sea journey only intensified the relief
of landing on English soil at last.
It was about 8 P.M. before the hospital train was ready to start for
Charing Cross. At the end of the saloon in which we were travelling a
large gramophone was playing a lively and rather catching air. I asked
an orderly the name of the tune, and he, looking at me with an air of
suspicion and hesitation, not knowing the tune was unfamiliar to us,
replied at last, "It's a long long way to Tipperary."
Indeed the way had seemed long.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
All words printed in small capitals have been converted to uppercase
characters.
The oe-ligatures have been replaced by "oe".
The following modifications have been made,
Page 125:
"Famechon" changed to "Faméchon"
(After lunch, M. le Médecin Chef Faméchon and Capt. Viguié)
Page 152:
"smypathy" changed to "sympathy"
(he showed a real sympathy for my state of health)
Page 165:
"," changed to "."
(than tactlessness or mismanagement. The gossips)
Page 173:
quotation marks inserted
("The Germans did not come back into the camp)
Page 254:
"corrider" changed to "corridor"
(was at the end of the corridor and the door)
Page 255:
"tablecloth" changed to "table-cloth"
(been allowed to buy a coloured cotton table-cloth)
Page 304:
"exggerated" changed to "exaggerated"
(I have drawn no exaggerated picture of that prison)
Not modified but retained as printed:
Page 70:
The date mentioned "23.8.11" might actually be "23.8.14".
(Since Sunday morning, 23.8.11, we have been fighting nearly)
Page 167: "kepi" / Page 211: "képi"
Page 24: "new-comers" / Page 165: "newcomers"