MACLINKS AND KIRKPATRICK
The names of two prisoners, Maclinks and Kirkpatrick, recall to my mind
one of the most tragic events of my prison life. Maclinks was already
in the Berlin jail when I arrived in June, 1915. The door of his cell
bore an indication that he was a British subject. He spoke English
fluently, and if one may believe what he said of himself he was for
several years the correspondent of the London Times at Vienna, where
he lived. According to all initial appearances, Maclinks was a loyal
British subject. He associated with the British prisoners, who in turn
would visit him in his cell. He had great talent and intelligence.
Some months later there arrived at the prison a young Englishman named
Russell. He had been arrested at his place of residence in Brussels. A
friendship immediately sprung up between Russell and Maclinks and they
spent much of their time together. One fine day, or rather one bad day,
Russell was peremptorily ordered to leave the prison for a destination
which was not known to him. He was not allowed to take with him any of
his books or papers.
“Put on your overcoat and hat, and follow me,” was the abrupt order
given him by the officer at the door of his cell. A minute later and
Russell had departed.
The incident aroused an intense feeling among us. What had happened?
Why had Russell been ordered away without a minute’s notice? What added
to our apprehension was the fact that at the bottom of the stairs
on the ground floor we saw two armed sentries, and they accompanied
Russell from the prison.
On this same day one of the Kommandantur’s officers, Captain Wolfe,
had visited the jail, and it was known that while here he had an
interview with Maclinks. We were getting very suspicious of Maclinks.
Why? Well, for an infinity of reasons, which I have not space here to
enumerate. The British prisoners would have no more relations with him.
Only one man continued to speak to him from time to time. He was a Mr.
Kirkpatrick.
Confident, perhaps, that Kirkpatrick would continue to be his friend
in any event, Maclinks several days afterwards made a confession. He
showed Kirkpatrick the copy of a letter purporting to be the one he had
sent to the military authorities, and in this letter Kirkpatrick read
that Russell had been denounced by Maclinks as having been a spy in the
employ of the British Government in Belgium. Kirkpatrick was more than
amazed, but before he could make any observation, Maclinks explained
that he was an officer in the reserve of the Austrian army, and that
his conscience had prompted him to do what he considered to be his duty
and denounce Russell. Kirkpatrick could no longer contain himself.
He stood up and threatened that if Maclinks did not leave his cell
immediately he would throw him out.
The news quickly circulated through the prison, creating an atmosphere
which is difficult to describe. The evening was very dismal. We all
felt uneasy and depressed as though our every action was being spied
upon. Who knew what might happen to anyone of us? It might be the fate
of oblivion or it might be condemnation to execution. Life had become
intolerable in the presence of this emissary of the enemy–Maclinks.
On his side, existence was made so miserable for him that he finally
requested to be removed, and a few weeks later he left the jail, never
to return.
One noteworthy feature of this spying business in Germany is that
the authorities can never trust, but are constantly suspicious of
the spies they employ. Maclinks, it is true, was allowed to leave
the Stadtvogtei, but he was not allowed his full liberty. Authentic
information we were able to obtain subsequently was to the effect that
he was moved from one prison to another.
Kirkpatrick, who was the oldest prisoner amongst us, was much liked
and highly respected–he was in fact, as we often told him, our “guide,
philosopher and friend.” And his Scottish humor was of the best quality.
For example, he would see two or three of us sitting together at table
partaking of canned beef and bread, and very seriously he would say:
“Really, boys, I cannot understand how you can be so unfeeling as to
enjoy such luxuries when the poor German people are on the verge of
starvation. Don’t you know, gentlemen, that you are here to purge a
sentence a thousand times merited?”
It was the same Kirkpatrick who, on December 31st, when we asked
him how he hoped to cross the threshold of the New Year, answered,
“You will hear of me before to-morrow morning.” We all wondered what
he meant. None of us had the slightest idea, but the answer came
punctually, as he had predicted. At midnight, while the bells of the
churches in the neighborhood marked the passing of the old year, a
window was heard to open in the darkness near us, and, as the last note
of the bells died away, the first silence of the new year was broken by
a stentorian voice singing “Rule Britannia!”
The patriotic hymn had scarcely ended when another window opened. It
was that of the non-commissioned officer in charge of the prisoners,
and he thundered forth an order for silence. I afterwards made
inquiries amongst my prison companions to ascertain who it was that
entertained and cheered us on the first of the New Year with the
singing of this grand song, but I could not then obtain the information
I sought. Then, at about nine o’clock, Kirkpatrick came into my cell,
looking cheerful as usual. We wished each other a Happy New Year and
I asked him, “Were you the brave man who broke the stillness of the
morning with the echoes of ‘Rule Britannia’?”
He shook his head, but his significant smile was eloquent of the truth.
We had changed the subject when a non-commissioned officer appeared
and demanded to know the name of the nocturnal singer. We were each
of us asked in turn, with the exception of Kirkpatrick. He had never
been heard before even to attempt to sing a note, so the question was
not put direct to him. Hence everybody who was asked, truthfully denied
being the singer the jail authorities were seeking. The joke was a good
one in the circumstances, and we enjoyed it immensely.