IN ENEMY HANDS
IN ENEMY HANDS SOME EXPERIENCES OF A PRISONER OF WAR
_October 15, 1914._ Hospital, Bavai, France.--Woke up to find the ward
seething with excitement. One of the English wounded had escaped in the
night, leaving his greatcoat neatly placed in his bed in such a manner
as to suggest a recumbent figure. How he succeeded in evading the
attentions of a night-nurse, an R.A.M.C. orderly, a German sentry at the
main gate and two others in the courtyard outside the ward, is a
complete mystery. The situation for the French hospital authorities is
serious. So far, although the Germans are in occupation of the town,
have garrisoned it with a company of "Landwehr" and have appointed a
"Governor" with a particularly offensive polyglot secretary, they have
left the running of the hospital in the hands of the French staff. Bavai
has been looted but not sacked, no inhabitants have been shot and no
fine inflicted. But what will happen now?
Technically, of course, responsibility for the custody of the patients
rests with the Germans, since they have posted sentries at the hospital
and in the town. But conventions and technicalities do not count for
much in these days. The doctor, five or six nurses, and the lady by
whose charity the hospital is maintained hold a conference, animated by
many dramatic gestures and an astonishing flow of eloquence. They are
torn between fear of the consequences which may recoil upon the hospital
and admiration for the daring of the man who stole forth into the rain,
unarmed, and without a coat, to face the dangers of an unknown country
infested with the enemy--alone.
"Quelle betise!" cried one. "Oui, mais quel courage!" answered another.
"Si les Allemands l'attrapent, il sera fusille, sans doute."
It is decided to inform the Governor, and a deputation is formed for the
purpose. In less than a quarter of an hour a squad of stolid Teutons
arrive and search the hospital from attic to cellar. They even enter the
apartments of the nuns, to the horror of our kind old priest. Of course
they find nothing. It is by now eight o'clock. At nine the edict is
given. In two hours every patient in the hospital who is able to crawl
is to be ready to leave. I ask my friend the doctor if he can in any way
pretend that I am worse than I am. "Pas possible," he replies, shaking
his head sadly.
So it is over--this long period of waiting and hoping; waiting for an
advance which never came, hoping where no hope was. Seven weeks have
passed since I was brought in here, left behind wounded when the tide of
war ebbed back towards Paris, and in that time I have gathered many
memories which will never fade. I have seen strong men racked with pain
day after day, night after night, until sometimes at last exhausted
Nature gave up the struggle and the nurses would come and whisper to me,
crossing themselves, "Il est mort, le pauvre. Ah! comme il a souffert."
I have realised to the full the compassion of Woman for suffering
humanity, irrespective of creed or nationality; and I have known the
blessing of morphia. Once, very early in the morning, just as the dawn
was beginning to creep in and light with a ghostly dimness the rows of
white beds and their restless, groaning occupants, I heard the tinkle of
the bell announcing the approach of the priest bearing the Host; and
drowsily (for I was under morphia) I watched Extreme Unction being
administered to a dying German officer. Death, the overlord, is a great
leveller of human passions. The old _cure_, whose face was that of a
medieval saint and in whose kindly eyes there shone a pity akin to the
divine, muttered the sacred words with a sincerity of conviction that
one could not doubt. A few hours before I had heard his sonorous voice
rolling out the Archbishop of Cambrai's prayer for victory: "Seigneur,
qui etes le Dieu des armees et le maitre de la vie et de la mort, Vous
qui avez toujours aime la France...."
11 a.m.--We are ready to start. The dining-hall (in times of peace this
hospital is a school) is crowded as we are given our last meal. The
nuns, the doctor and his wife, the nurses, the village shoemaker who was
our barber and who always used to have a reassuring rumour of some sort
to retail--all are there to wish us a last sad "Au revoir." They ply us
with food and drink, but we are too miserable to take much. Then the
word is given--we file out slowly through the courtyard into the sunlit
street where two transport wagons are drawn up opposite the gate. There
are nineteen French soldiers, two English privates, and myself. Our
names are called by a German officer. Those who cannot walk are helped
(by their comrades) into the wagons. We three English are carefully
searched, but our money is not taken. It is decreed that the Englishmen
must be separated by at least two Frenchmen. Does our escort (twenty
armed men under a sergeant) fear a combined revolt, I wonder, or is this
done merely to annoy us? I suspect the latter. A crowd of inhabitants
forms round us, pressing close to say good-bye. Suddenly the German
officer notices this and in one second is transformed into a raging
beast. He wheels round upon the crowd, waves his stick and pours forth a
torrent of abuse. The people cower back against the wall and his anger
subsides. It is the first display of German temper that I have seen. To
hear women reviled, even in a strange tongue--and for nothing--is
horrible.
We start. At the corner I look back regretfully at the hospital where I
have received such kindness as I can never forget. From a top window a
handkerchief is waving. It is the nurse who, when I was really at my
worst, never left my bedside for more than five minutes during two long
nights and a day. To her, I think, I owe my life. For a moment the face
of the cobbler distinguishes itself from the others in the crowd. He
makes himself heard above the rattle of the wagons on the _pavee_
street. "Vous reviendrez apres la guerre, mon lieutenant," he shouts.
"Oui, je vous assure--a bientot," I call back as we turn out into the
open country and face the straight poplar-lined road that leads to
Maubeuge. Halfway we stop at an _estaminet_ for beer. The prisoners,
even the English, are allowed to purchase some. The German sergeant
chucks under the chin the attractive-looking French girl who serves him.
She smiles, but as he turns his back I note the sudden expression of
fierce hate which leaps into her eyes.
It is after 3 p.m. when we reach the outskirts of Maubeuge and cross the
drawbridge over the old moat, made, I believe, by Vauban. Inside the
town there are many signs of the devastation of war--buildings gutted,
whole streets of small houses laid flat in ruins. The pavements are
crowded and people throw chocolates and cigarettes to us. German
officers, wrapped in their long grey cloaks, swagger about, brushing
everyone aside in haughty insolence. From the windows of two or three
hospitals French soldiers peer out and wave to us in obvious sympathy.
Approaching the railway station we go past the identical spot where,
eight weeks ago to the day, the battery detrained. The logs on which we
sat to eat our belated breakfast after the long night journey up from
Boulogne are still there. Oh! the humiliation of it all; a week in the
country, one hour's fighting, seven weeks in hospital, and now--prison.
In the open space outside the station we are drawn up by the pavement.
The French are allowed to sit down on the curb; not so we three
unfortunate English. On our attempting to do so the sergeant in charge
shouts at us and one of the escort threatens us with a bayonet. Some
inhabitants who approach us with offers of food and drink are driven off
harshly. A crowd of German soldiers, some half-drunk, collects round us.
They all know the English word "swine." Pointing us out to each other
they use it without stint. One man has a more extended vocabulary of
abuse. Having exhausted it he proceeds to recount for our benefit the
damnable story that English soldiers use the marlinspike in their
clasp-knives to gouge out the eyes of German wounded. We have already
heard this allegation made before. The English-speaking secretary of the
Governor at Bavai was very fond of it. But he, who was educated and who
had lived in London for years, knew, I'm sure, that it was a malicious
lie invented by the authorities for the express purpose of exciting the
Germans against us. But these men undoubtedly believe it. They produce
knives of their own from their boots and threaten us with them. The
expression on their faces is that of angry, untamed beasts. And yet, I
dare say, at home these very men who now would like to tear us to pieces
are really simple, harmless working folk. Such is war.
It is an awkward moment. If either of my compatriots loses his temper
(which is not improbable, for the British soldier will not stand insult
indefinitely) he will let fly with his tongue or even his fist, in which
case we shall all three be put against the nearest wall and shot. So I
keep muttering, "For God's sake take no notice; try to look as though
you don't hear or understand"--knowing that besides being the safest
attitude this will also be the most galling for our revilers.
Contemptuous indifference is sometimes a dignified defensive weapon.
Finding that we are not to be drawn, the crowd gradually disperses, and
for an hour and a half we are kept standing in the gutter. Then another
long procession of dejected prisoners winds its way into the yard and we
are taken with them into the station. The wait inside is enlivened for
me by a conversation with a German N.C.O. who speaks English perfectly.
He has lived, he tells me, eighteen years in South Africa and fought for
us against the Matabele. Until this war he liked the English, he frankly
confesses. Now nothing is too bad for us. _We_ started it, _we_'re the
bullies of Europe, it's _we_ who must be crushed. Germany can't be
beaten. Napoleon the First couldn't do it. "We Germans," he says, "fight
without pay for love of our country, but you are mercenaries; you enlist
for money." From motives of personal safety I refrain from making the
obvious retort: "On the contrary, we are volunteers--you go into the
army because you're dam' well made to."
A diversion is caused by a wounded French soldier who faints, has to be
given brandy, and is discovered to be far too bad to travel. Why not
have left the poor devil in his hospital? He's surely harmless enough
from a military point of view.
6 p.m.--We file across the line on to the other platform. On the way one
of the English privates is kicked, hard, from behind by a passing
German soldier. His whispered comments to me are unprintable. Our train
appears to consist entirely of cattle trucks. Just as I am about to
enter one of these in company with some French soldiers, a German
captain touches me on the shoulder. "You are an officer, aren't you?" he
says in French, and motions me aside. Pointing at me, the sergeant who
had brought us from Bavai says something to the officer, the purport of
which, I gather, is that his orders were to put me in with the men.
Fortunately, however, this captain has gentlemanly instincts; he ignores
the sergeant, leads me down to the other end of the platform and
deposits me in a second-class carriage with three French officers. We
begin to exchange experiences. Two are doctors, the other a captain of
Colonial Infantry wounded during the siege of Maubeuge. They tell me
that there is another English officer on the train. I now begin to
realise that I am hungry and half dead with fatigue. To march eight
miles and then to stand upright for nearly three hours, after having
walked no more than the length of the hospital ward for weeks, is no
joke. The above-mentioned English officer comes in from the next
carriage and introduces himself as Major B., cavalry, wounded at the
very beginning and put into Maubeuge to recover; of course he was taken
prisoner when that place fell. He and the French officers give me food
and a blanket, for both of which I am more than grateful. An elderly
Landsturm private armed with a loaded rifle and a saw-bayonet occupies
one corner of our carriage, so that there is not much room to lie down.
We start about 7.30, but I am so over-tired and so cold that I get very
little sleep.
_October 16._--Woke to find that we had only gone about 20 miles and had
not yet reached Charleroi. A long, wearisome day, during which we
exhausted our supplies of food. Passed through Namur and Liege but were
unable to see signs of the bombardment of either place. In the evening
reached Aix, where we were given lukewarm cocoa and sandwiches made of
black bread and sausage--particularly nasty. But by this time we were so
hungry that anything was welcome. The guard in our carriage, finding
that we were not really likely to strangle him if he took his eyes off
us for a moment, relaxed considerably, accepted cigarettes, gave us some
of his bread, confessed to one of the Frenchmen who could speak a little
German that he hated the war and heartily wished that he was home
again; finally he put his rifle on the rack and slept as well as any of
us.
_October 17._--All yesterday and all this morning we passed train after
train of reinforcements going to the front; some of the carriages were
decorated with evergreens, and nearly all of them were labelled "Paris"
in chalk. Many of the men looked very young--hardly more than boys.
Several trains, crammed with wounded, overtook us. The sight of English
uniform was always enough to attract a crowd at any station where we
stopped. I wonder if the inhabitants of the Maori village at Earl's
Court experienced the same sensations as I did--sitting there to be
stared at, pointed at and not infrequently insulted.
At about 11.30 we were taken out of the train, and locked into a
waiting-room with about half a dozen Belgian officers, all wounded, who
had arrived from some other direction. An extremely fussy N.C.O. had
charge of us and persisted in counting us every ten minutes. Got into
another train about 1 p.m. and eventually arrived at our destination,
Crefeld, at 1.30. We were taken out of the station almost immediately,
marched through a large and rather hostile crowd and put into a tram. In
this we went up to the barracks--about two miles. Male inhabitants
shook their fists at us, females put out their tongues: so chivalrous!
In spite of the relief of at last being at the end of our journey, there
was something terribly depressing in the sound of the heavy gate
shutting to behind us. We were first taken up to an office and made to
fill in our names, ranks, regiments, and monthly rates of pay on a
special form; then put inside the palisade and left to find our way
about. There are about sixty French officers here, a dozen or so
Belgians (including the commander of Antwerp and his artillery general),
and seven English, one of whom is a retired captain who happened to be
in Belgium at the outbreak of war and who was arrested as a spy on no
evidence whatever. Spent the remainder of the day settling down and
writing home. It is a comfort, at any rate, to think that I can at last
let people know what has become of me. Comparing notes with the other
English here, we discover that they were all wounded early in the War,
on the Aisne. We learn for the first time details of the stationary
trench warfare into which the campaign is developing and hear all about
the German preponderance in heavy artillery. We feed here in the big
dining-hall attached to the canteen (in which by the way a great variety
of things can be bought, including beer, wine, and tobacco). We live and
sleep in the barrack rooms and we have the whole space of the barrack
square--200 yards long by about 80 wide--to play about in! Subalterns
are paid 60 marks a month, higher ranks 100. Every one is charged 2
marks a day for messing. The unfortunate subaltern, therefore, finds his
accounts flat at the end of the month--unless the month has thirty-one
days, in which case he owes the Imperial Government 2 marks! Am glad
I've got about a fiver with me, which ought to last until I can get more
from home. Slept like a log on a bed as hard as iron.
_October 18._--Five more English officers arrived this morning,
including Major V----. They were all more dead than alive, having spent
three days and three nights in a cattle truck, the floor of which was
covered with six inches of wet dung; the ammonia fumes had got into
their eyes and they could hardly see; they had had practically no food
and all through the journey they had been submitted to every conceivable
insult. The cattle truck contained fifty-two persons--officers,
privates, and civilians. Such treatment is beyond comment. From Major
V---- I heard for the first time of the tragic fate of the battery on
September 1. He could give no details beyond that it was surprised in
bivouac at dawn by eight "dug-in" German guns at 700 yards' range, that
it was simply cut to pieces, but that the guns were served to the last,
that the hostile batteries were silenced, and, in the end, captured. All
the officers were killed or wounded. It's too awful to be ignorant of
further particulars. Went to bed more depressed than I have been all
these weeks. I daren't think that "Brad"[16] has been killed.
[16] The late Captain E. K. Bradbury, V.C., R.H.A.
_October 19._--This morning we were made to parade at 10.30 to be
counted; this is to be a daily amusement. The food here might be worse
and at present there is plenty of it. Took some exercise round the
square--a deadly business. In the afternoon shaved off a month's beard
with a cheap German safety razor, which was a painful operation! Ordered
some underclothing from the town.
_October 20._--Employed a pouring wet day writing many letters,
including one to Bavai, though it is questionable if it ever gets there.
_October 22._--Two more English officers arrived, one wounded. Both
seemed to think that things were going well but neither knew much. This
morning the new commandant took over. He looks like an opulent and
good-natured butcher disguised as a Hungarian bandsman. Actually, I am
informed, he is a retired major of Hussars. In the course of a chatty
little discourse at the roll-call parade he informed us that in future
we are to be counted at 7.45 a.m. and 10 p.m.; further that alcoholic
liquors will no longer be obtainable. Thus we are robbed of two of our
luxuries--drink and sleep! Two new arrivals at midday, whose only news
is that British troops are now in N.W. Belgium. Football started on the
square. The monotonous horror of this life is just beginning to make
itself felt on me. The worst part of the whole thing is the total lack
of privacy. There is no room, no corner of a room even, where one can go
to escape the incessant racket and babble of talk. Reading and writing
are practically impossible.
This evening twelve more English arrived. Learned from them of the
transfer of our army from the Aisne to Belgium and realised from their
accounts the appalling losses that many regiments seem to have had. One
of these new-comers told me of Brad's heroic death when "L" was smashed
up. To the regiment and to the army his loss is great; to those of us
who knew him well and were privileged to serve with him, it is
irreparable. In everything he did he set up a standard which all of us
envied but none of us could attain. He lived as straight as he rode to
hounds--and no man rode straighter. To his brilliant mental gifts he
added a conscientiousness, a thoroughness, and a quick grasp of detail
which seemed to augur a great future. His was a personality which
stamped itself indelibly upon all with whom he came in contact, and the
influence for good which he wielded over both officers and men had to be
seen to be believed. The men feared him, for he was strict and was no
respecter of persons; but they loved him too, for he was always just. By
his brother officers he was simply worshipped. He was not a typical
British officer, he was far more than that, he was an ideal one. He died
as he had lived--nobly. And he was an only son.
_October 28._--A vile cold has added to my depression of the last few
days. A good many new prisoners have been brought in lately--mostly of
the 7th Division, which appears by all accounts to have had an awful
doing. The battle W. and N.W. of Lille still rages. A French officer
retails a rumour that he had heard before being captured that the Allies
had retaken Lille; a Belgian, that the Germans are retiring on the West
and that our fleet are doing great execution along the coast.
Am now sharing a room with an infantry captain and three subalterns of
the same regiment. We have bought cups and saucers and have tea in our
room every afternoon. New regulation that we may only write two letters
a month.
_October 31._--General von Bissing, commanding the district, inspected
the Landsturm battalion here to-day. Afterwards he visited some of the
prisoners' rooms. Seeing one English officer who, having only just
arrived, was far from clean, he asked him through an interpreter how
long he had had his breeches. The officer, who imagined that he was
being asked how long the British army had been clad in khaki, answered
politely, "Nearly fourteen years!" Whereupon von Bissing was pleased to
call our uniform "Dirty-coloured, disgusting, and bad." However, I hear
his son is a prisoner in France, so perhaps this undignified
vituperation relieves his feelings.
_November 1._--The Belgian officers departed to-day for some other camp.
Rumours of the arrival of 200 Russians not yet fulfilled. Have bought
some books, Tauchnitz edition, and tried to settle down to read. We have
started the formation of an English library, which will be a blessing.
_November 2._--We have often jokingly said: "We've got English, French,
Belgians, and Arabs here--all we want to complete the show is a party of
Russians." Well, now we've got them--200 arrived this evening. Such a
scene in the canteen before roll-call! The roar of voices, the
atmosphere of tobacco, and the pushing crowd in the bar reminded one of
the Empire on a boat-race night--minus the drink!
The authorities with their usual thoughtfulness for our comfort have
decreed that the English or French and the Russians are to be mixed up
in the rooms in approximately equal numbers. So three of us (G----,
T----, and myself) migrated to another block this afternoon and
installed ourselves in the beds nearest the window before the arrival of
our "stable companions." These when they did turn up seemed pleasant
enough, but as they could talk no English and only a few words of
French, conversation was limited. They could give us no news, having all
been prisoners in some other place for two months. One, however,
produced a map of Europe and showed us how the German columns were being
swept aside--one apparently to Finland, another to Constantinople, and a
third to Rome! Evidently an optimist! "_Neuf millions_" is all the
French he knows; it is his estimate of the strength of that portion of
the Russian army which is at present mobilised.
_November 3._--Letter from home--the first since I left England on
August 16. Infinitely cheering; no news, though, owing to fear of the
censor, except a few details about the battery on September 1.
_November 9._--Overcrowding becoming desperate. A seventh added to our
room to-day--a French lieutenant whom we nicknamed Brigadier Gerard,
because he's always twirling his moustache in front of the glass. There
are so many prisoners here now that we have to have two services for
each meal--_i.e._ breakfast 8 and 9 a.m., lunch 11.45 a.m. and 1.15 p.m.
supper 6.45 and 8 p.m. One does a week of each alternately, with the
idea presumably that constant change is good for the digestion. But the
day consists of fifteen long waking hours all the same. There are
moments when I hate all my fellow humans here. A youthful Russian who
inhabits this room irritates me almost beyond endurance by singing and
whistling the same tune all day long. Poor devil, he's got no books and
nothing on earth to do--but if only he'd go and make his noises outside.
I find myself unable to fix my mind on anything and sometimes I feel
that this life will drive me mad. It's a _hell_ of moral, physical, and
mental inactivity. I'd rather do a year here with a room to myself than
six months as things are at present.
_November 11._--Somebody got a bundle of old _Daily Graphics_ past the
censor, I can't think how. As they were the first English papers we'd
seen for ages they were most interesting.
_November 14._--Howling gale and heavy rain all yesterday and the day
before. Hope the German fleet is at sea in it! Have made great friends
with Tonnot, the French captain of Colonial Infantry with whom I
travelled from Maubeuge. He talks interestingly on a variety of subjects
and I am learning a certain amount of French from him. Curious how much
more well endowed with the critical spirit the average Frenchman is than
the Englishman of a corresponding class. The latter is more inclined to
take men and affairs and life for granted.
Am getting anxious about the non-arrival of my parcels. Clothes, books,
and tobacco are what I want. Dozens of officers who arrived after me
have received parcels. In my saner moments I know that it is purely a
matter of chance, but I have a tendency, when day after day a list of
names is put up and mine is not amongst them, to grind my teeth in rage
and regard it as a personal spite on the part of the German Government.
The arrival of letters and parcels is the only event of any importance
in this monotonous life. An officer who receives two or three of either
on the same day is regarded in much the same light, as, at home, one
regards some lucky person who has inherited a fortune. Every pleasure is
relative and depends on circumstances. Here, a tin of tobacco and two
pairs of pyjamas are joys untold.
_November 21._--The same continuous stream of rumours and
counter-rumours continues to flow in. Heard this week that Lille had
been retaken and that four French corps were marching on Mons. The
latter theory borne out by the arrival of some very badly wounded
prisoners from the hospital at that place. No confirmation, however.
Learnt of the Prime Minister's speech on War loans, in which he stated
that the war will not last as long as expected. This is comforting, as
he is not given to exaggeration. Perfect weather--dry, frosty, sunny.
Long to be on mountains instead of trudging round this damnable square.
_November 23._--Immense excitement this evening. Two Russians attempted
to escape; they had obtained civilian clothes, passports, and a motor,
but were given away by the man whom they had bribed to help them. They
now languish in the guardroom. The German authorities spent two hours
this evening searching all the rooms, I suppose for money.
_November 26._--All the bells in Crefeld ringing this evening and extra
editions of the papers announcing the capture of 40,000 Russians. Won't
believe it. That's always the tendency--to believe any rumour favourable
to us, however wild, and to discredit anything and everything the
Germans say.
_December 1._--The "Allies" who live in this room have now been more or
less educated by our pantomimic signs of disapproval and make less
noise. Have bought some more books and read all day except for an hour's
walk in the morning and another in the afternoon or evening. Daren't
play football owing to the bullet in my neck.
_December 15._--The deadly "even tenor of our way" continues. Have now
bought a small table and a lamp of my own. Ensconced in the corner
behind my bed I can read or work at French in comparative peace. But
C---- has had a box of games sent to him--amongst them (horror of
horrors!) "Pit." I do draw the line at the room being made into more of
a bear-garden than usual by the addition of various strangers who wish
to gamble on "Minoru"--and I foresee trouble and unpleasantness over it.
Of course it's selfish of me, but there is no other place where I can go
for peace and quiet, and--well--we're all inclined to be irritable here.
It's a marvel to me that there haven't been more quarrels already.
Wild rumours that Austria is suing for peace with Russia. As usual, no
confirmation.
_December 18._--To-day Major V---- escaped. Having gone down to the
dentist's in the town with two other officers and a sentry, he somehow
managed to slip past the latter into the street and find his way out of
the town. He speaks German like a native and was wearing a civilian
greatcoat. A very sporting effort, as he'll have a bad time if he's
caught, I'm afraid. If he can get home and lay our grievances before
our authorities there is a chance that, through the American Embassy,
the Germans, fearing similar treatment for their prisoners in England,
may make things pleasanter for us.
_December 19._--Wild scene in the canteen following the announcement
that no more tobacco would be sold after the 26th of this month. "The
prisoners are being too well treated," is apparently the popular clamour
in the town. Fierce scrimmage round the bar to purchase what was left.
However, the patriotism of the canteen contractor (who, need I say? is
making a fortune out of us) was not equal to his love of gain. He bought
up an entire tobacconist's shop, so that we were all able to lay in
three or four months' supply.
Rumours that Major V---- had crossed the frontier into Holland. Later,
that he had been caught in that country and interned.
Somewhere about this date a score or so of English soldiers arrived
here. This was the result of our repeated applications to be allowed to
have servants of our own nationality as the Russians and French have.
The appearance of these men horrified me. It was not so much that they
were thin, white-faced, ragged and dirty, though that was bad enough;
but they had a cowed, bullied look such as I have never seen on the
faces of British soldiers before and hope never to see again. Apart from
what they told us, it was evident from their appearance that for months
they had not been able to call their souls their own and that
temporarily, at any rate, all the spirit had been knocked out of them.
Better food and treatment will doubtless put them right again.
_December 25._--Christmas Day is Christmas Day even in prison. In the
morning we held a service and sang the proper hymns with zest. At lunch
we were given venison (said to be from the Kaiser's preserves) and had
some of an enormous plum-pudding which T---- had had sent him. Then
suddenly we rose as one man, toasted the King (in water and lemonade)
and sang the National Anthem. The French officers followed with the
Marseillaise and until that moment I had never realised what a wonderful
air it is. Then the Russians, conducted by an aged white-haired colonel,
sang their National Hymn quite beautifully. And we all shouted and
cheered together.
Into our room this afternoon, when we were all lying on our beds in a
state of coma after too liberal a ration of plum-pudding, there burst
the N.C.O. of the guard and four armed men. He shouted at us in German
and we gathered from his gestures that he was accusing us of looking out
of the window and making faces at the sentry. However, as we all went on
reading and took not the slightest notice of him, I think we had the
best of it. I imagine that, it being Christmas Day, he had "drink
taken," as one says in Ireland. We complained to the senior British
officer, who saw the commandant about it. This sort of thing is becoming
intolerable. The other night the guard entered a room, seized an
unfortunate English officer (it is always the English), accused him of
having had a light on after hours, although actually he was asleep at
the time, and dragged him off to the guardroom, where he spent the night
without blankets.
This evening we feasted on a turkey which we had bought and had had
cooked for us in the canteen, and more plum-pudding. Afterwards we sang
various songs, including "Rule, Britannia" (which the Germans hate more
than anything) until roll-call. I think "Auld Lang Syne" produced a
choky feeling in the throats of most of us--so many are gone for ever.
The authorities, fearing a riot, doubled all the pickets--and it was a
cold night!
_December 27._--It has been announced that, as a punishment for the
escape of Major V----, all smoking will be prohibited from January 2 to
15; all tobacco is to be handed in at 10 a.m. on the 2nd. I wonder if
we'll ever see it again. I dread this fortnight's abstention.
_December 28._--Received L5; also parcels containing food, books,
clothes, and tobacco.
_January 2, 1915._--Tobacco duly handed in and receipt given for it.
Some mild excitement caused over a letter which I had received from F.
P----, who is in India, part of which had been censored. The commandant
here wanted it back again. Fortunately I had destroyed it. I had not
been able to read the censored part, but had gathered from the preceding
sentence that it was something about the Indian troops. Wonder what the
Boches are after. Anyway I was hauled up before the permanent orderly
officer, who is an aged subaltern of at least sixty, known to the French
as "l'asperge" because he is long and thin and looks exactly like an
asparagus stalk when he's got his helmet on; and to us as "the chemist"
because he has rather the air of a suave and elderly member of the
Pharmaceutical Society. As a matter of fact, he is a baron! For a
German, he was quite polite, believed me when I told him I had
destroyed the letter, and seemed relieved when I mentioned that it was
dated September 13--which was true.
News gets scarcer and scarcer, German papers emptier and emptier. But
there are signs of shortage in the country. No more rolls or white bread
for us, for example.
_January 5._--Managed to smuggle through the parcels office a tin of 100
cigarettes which had arrived for me, but resisted the temptation to open
it. If any one was caught smoking during this fortnight it would mean no
more tobacco for any of us for months if not for ever. All the same, I
find the privation hard to bear.
_January 8._--It has become evident that the authorities do not desire
to take further steps in the tobacco question. Yesterday "the chemist"
searched various rooms. Entering one he found several Russians
smoking--whereupon he left without comment. This was the act of a
gentleman. This evening, therefore, we broached my tin of cigarettes.
Crouching round the stove we smoked them very carefully, blowing the
smoke up the chimney. Rather like school-days and very ridiculous.
Tobacco never tasted so good to me.
To-day one of the Russians who was implicated in the attempt to escape
some weeks ago returned here. His _role_ in the affair had been to stand
at the gate and keep watch while the other two slipped out to the motor.
All three of them, he says, have been kept handcuffed, in solitary
confinement, ever since, and fed only on black bread and weak
coffee--and this _whilst awaiting trial_! Eventually his case was
dismissed, as it was not proved that he was attempting to escape. The
other two are to undergo imprisonment for six more weeks. They are
desperate and want to commit suicide. And this is civilised warfare in
the twentieth century!
It is nearly a month since we had any fresh German official
_communiques_ posted up in the dining-hall. Perhaps it is a sign that
things are going badly for them. From rumours it appears that Turkey is
getting a bad time from Russia--and so is Austria.
The quality of the food is rapidly deteriorating. The bread is black,
sour, and hard, with a large proportion of potato flour in it. The meat
is generally uneatable. Fortunately supplies are coming fairly regularly
from home and we subsist almost entirely on potted meats, tongues, etc.
_January 14._--The Russian New Year's Day. Went to their Church service
and was greatly impressed by the solemnity of it; also by their
beautiful singing. Toasted the Russian army at lunch; much bowing and
scraping and a great interchange of compliments.
_January 25._--Heard to-day of the second battle of Heligoland and of
the sinking of the _Bluecher_--Good. Amused to notice that the German
papers claim this fight as a great victory--a Trafalgar, they called it.
Prefer to believe the statement of our Admiralty--quoted by the Crefeld
paper with many sneering comments and notes of exclamation interspersed.
There is, I think, no doubt that Germany has begun to feel the pinch.
The altered manner of our "kindly captors" towards us is remarkable.
There is a good deal less of the haughty conqueror about them.
The authorities here are compiling a list of those prisoners who are
wounded and unfit for further service. An astonishing number of officers
were brought forward by the doctors of each nationality for examination
by the German medico! Particulars of our cases were taken down, to be
forwarded to Berlin. I fear that, as far as I am concerned, there is not
much chance of getting sent home.
_February 3._--Permission granted to us to write eight letters a month
instead of two. Perhaps this is due to pressure brought to bear since
the arrival home of V----. We knew he'd reached England safely some time
ago, but have heard no details as to how he did it. Women conductors on
the trams in Crefeld now; and Carl, a German waiter, late of the
Grosvenor Hotel and at present underling here to the canteen manager, is
under orders for the front. Both facts are significant, especially the
latter, seeing that the aforesaid Carl is as good a specimen of the
physically unfit as one could wish to see.
_February 7._--Marked improvement of German manners continues unabated.
Carl still here. The civilian who heats the furnace for the bathroom
(doubtless an authority!) confesses quite openly that Germany is beaten,
that he has been convinced of it for months and believes nothing he sees
in the papers.
Our hosts having now condescended to allow us to hire musical
instruments, and having even granted us a garret to play them in, we
enjoyed quite a pleasant concert this evening. But the crowd and the
atmosphere were awful. The orchestra surprisingly good, considering its
haphazard formation: and a Russian peasant chorus beautifully rendered.
_February 8._--Fine day with a grand feeling of spring in the air.
Heading in a German paper: "The enemy takes one of our trenches near La
Bassee." But what an admission! Am convinced that at last the German
_people_ are beginning to realise what their Government must have known
from the time when the first great rush on Paris failed--namely, that
there can only be one end to this war for them--defeat.
_February 10._--Received a second L5 from Cox within three weeks. He
must have lost his head on finding me with a balance credit for about
the first time in my career.
_February 11._--There was a rumour to-night, apparently with some
foundation in it, that the first batch of wounded to be exchanged (two
English and nine French) are to go on Monday. I continue to hope that I
may get away later on, but can't really feel there is much chance, as
there is so little permanently wrong with me.
_February 12._--The incredible has happened. I'm to be sent home! I
hardly dare believe it. This afternoon Major D----, R----, and myself
were sent for by the commandant and told to be ready to start at 9
o'clock to-morrow. He further informed us that the authorities knew that
our wounds were not very serious, so that he hoped we would realise the
clemency of the Imperial Government. We were made to give our word of
honour not to take any letters, etc., from prisoners with us. Finally,
after an interview with the paymaster, who squared up our accounts, we
went through a ceremonious leave-taking with the commandant and "the
chemist." Felt quite sorry for the latter; he looks so old and careworn
and has lost two sons in the war, I believe. Spent the evening packing
my few paltry possessions in a hamper I managed to buy in the canteen.
Found it very difficult to conceal my elation from all the poor devils
we will leave behind to-morrow. Far too excited to sleep.
_February 13, Saturday._--The Germans evidently have been instructed to
make things as pleasant as possible for us. A taxi provided at 8.30 and
a most suave N.C.O. to accompany us. A large crowd of fellow-prisoners
assembled at the gate to see us off. In spite of the depression they all
must have felt at watching us go, not one of them showed a sign of it.
They were just splendid--French, Russians, and English--and wished us
"Good luck," "Bon voyage," and whatever the Slavonic equivalent may be,
as though they themselves might be following at any date, instead of
having to look forward to months and months more of that awful dreary
life.
At 8.35 turned out of the gate for ever.
At the station H---- joined us from the hospital; being partially
paralysed he was carried on a stretcher. R.'s kilt caused considerable
interest, but the onlookers, evidently knowing our circumstances, were
not in the least offensive--very different from four months ago. We were
taken charge of by an N.C.O. whom we knew well, as he was employed at
the barracks. He became most friendly, aired his small knowledge of
English, and continually asked us if we were glad to be going home. What
a question! When we changed trains and had about an hour to wait he
ordered our lunch for us and saw that we had everything that we wanted.
Travelling via Muenster we reached Osnabrueck at about 4 p.m. and were
conveyed in a motor to the hospital. Had thought, ever since last night,
that I could never be depressed again, but the sight of the ward with
nearly fifty empty beds in it, the smell of iodoform and the whole
atmosphere of the place had that effect on all of us for a bit. Found
another English officer here, wounded in the head months ago, and still
partially paralysed, but recovering. He is to join us. Gathered from
listening to his experiences that one might have been in much worse
places than Crefeld. No information as to when we are to move on. Later
in the evening another officer arrived--one leg shorter than the other
as the result of a broken thigh. Found the soft, comfortable hospital
bed most pleasant after the hard mattresses of the prison.
_February 14._--Spent a long dull day confined to the ward; occasionally
we were visited by some of the German wounded, of whom there were many,
more or less convalescent, in the hospital. They were quite agreeable.
Have noticed that the hate and malice engendered by the authorities
against the English manifests itself more amongst those Germans who have
not been to the front. Men who have actually been there and have come
back wounded are far more inclined to sympathise with fellow-sufferers
than to make themselves offensive. Moreover, I take it that by this time
the front line troops have acquired a wholesome respect for the British
army.
About midday we were all examined by a German doctor. This was nervous
work, especially for R---- and myself--we both being far from
permanently disabled. However, we seemed to satisfy his requirements. In
the evening an aged Teuton in shabby waiter's evening dress came and
informed us that we could order anything we liked to eat or drink if we
chose to pay for it. Evidently he was acting under instructions to make
himself pleasant. Anyway we ordered a good dinner but confined ourselves
to beer. Still no news of when we are to start, but presumably it will
be soon because of the "blockade," which starts on the 18th.
_February 15._--This morning a board of four German doctors made a
careful examination of all of us. They came in so unexpectedly that I
was obliged surreptitiously to withdraw the plug from the hole in my
palate and swallow it! However, I managed to convince them that I could
neither eat, drink, nor speak properly, and they passed me without
demur. Am sure that I went pale with fright at the prospect of being
dragged back to prison again, and perhaps this fact was of assistance to
me. There was a long consultation over R----. He was asked if he was
capable of instructing troops in musketry; whereupon he proceeded to
explain that, in spite of his three years' service, he himself was still
under instruction! In the end we were all passed as incapacitated.
We were told this afternoon that we might start to-night, but nothing
definite. At 7 p.m. were ordered to be ready in half an hour. Hurried on
our specially ordered dinner and split three bottles of wine amongst us.
At 7.45 started for the station in motors and were then put on board an
ambulance train. The "sitting-up" cases had distinctly the best of it
here; we were in comfortable second-class carriages, whereas the others
were put in slung-stretchers in cattle trucks. As this same train is to
fetch back the exchanged German wounded from Flushing, there was
evidently no malice aforethought in this rough-and-ready accommodation;
presumably it is the best they can produce. On the train are seven
officers, 200 or so N.C.O.'s and men, a few German nurses and Red Cross
men, and one civilian doctor. Started at 8.45 and reached the Dutch
frontier just after midnight.
_February 16._--Had dozed off but woke up when we reached the frontier
and was much amused when the Dutch Customs officials came and asked us
if we had anything to declare! They even pretended to search our few
miserable belongings. Can never forget the kindness of the Dutch both
here and everywhere we stopped all through the journey to Flushing. They
crowded into the carriages; they showered food, tobacco, cigarettes,
sweets, fruit, even English books and papers on us; they forgot nothing.
If they'd been our own personal friends they could have done no more for
us. Dutch doctors and guards boarded the train at the frontier, and also
an English newspaper correspondent with whom we talked for a couple of
hours, gradually picking up the thread of all that had happened since we
were cut off from the outer world. An exhilarating feeling to have left
Germany behind and to be amongst friends again.
Reached Flushing about 10.30 and were welcomed by the British Consul and
by several English people over there in connection with Belgian relief
work. Their hospitality was unbounded. Had a merry lunch with them in
the hotel, and then strolled out to see the town--followed by a large
and noisy crowd of school children. But what a joy to be a free man, to
be able to go where one likes and do what one likes! Wired home.
In the afternoon the boat which is to take us back arrived from England
with the German wounded. The two batches of men were close together on
the platform. What a contrast! the Germans, clean, well-cared for,
dressed either in comparatively serviceable uniform or new civilian
clothes; the English, white-faced, pinched and careworn, in threadbare
khaki (some even in tattered French or Belgian uniform) with no buttons,
most of them with no hats or badges. At first our men were
indignant--they had suffered much, and it was evident to them that the
treatment of prisoners in the two countries was very different. But soon
the inherent chivalry of the British private soldier overcame his other
feelings. The Germans were enemies but they were wounded--cripples for
life most of them--and they too were going Home. It formed a bond
between the two groups. In five minutes cigarettes were being exchanged
and conversation (aided by signs) in full swing.
There was an English corporal, paralysed, lying on a stretcher in the
waiting-room. I helped one of the English ladies to take him some tea.
She knelt beside him, put the cup to his lips, and, when he had drunk,
asked him how he felt. For a moment he didn't answer but merely stared
at her with great dark wondering eyes. Then he said slowly: "Are you
English?" That was all, just those three words, but they expressed
everything--the misery of all the months he had been in foreign hands,
his patience, his suffering, and now at long last his infinite content
at finding one of his own country-women bending over him. His head
dropped wearily back on to the pillow and he closed his eyes; he was
happy.
Had dinner at the hotel where we met the doctors who had come over with
the Germans and who were to go back with us. Afterwards went on board
the boat which, however, was not to start till the morning. To my dying
day I shall remember sitting in the saloon and watching the sad
procession of two hundred crippled N.C.O.'s and men being brought on
board. There were paralysed cases on stretchers, blind men, deaf men,
men with an arm or a leg gone, dozens hopelessly lame manoeuvring their
crutches with difficulty, helping each other, laughing at each
other--happy enough for the moment. But oh! the pity of it. What of the
future of these maimed and broken men? They are happy now because
they're thinking only of to-morrow, but what of the day after? what of
the thousands of days after? England is proverbially ungrateful to her
lesser kind of heroes as well as to her greater kind of poets. Geniuses
have been known to starve in garrets--and so have Balaclava survivors.
These men deserve well of their country. Will they be remembered or
forgotten?
Went to bed late, again too excited to sleep. Feel at last that it's a
reality and not a dream.
_February 17._--Woke to find that the boat had started, that it was
blowing half a gale, raining hard and that we were in for a vile
crossing. Too happy to be ill, however. A large number of Belgian
refugees on board. Talked to several of our men. All their stories
tallied in essentials. They had been underfed, under-clothed, singled
out for all the disagreeable work and all the abuse--_because they were
English_. Watched them playing cards, helping anxious Belgian mothers
with their sea-sick children. Listened to their talk and laughter and
choruses, of which the most popular was a version of "Tipperary" which
stated that the Kaiser would have a long way to go to St. Helena. At
intervals, every half-hour or so, a mighty shout would go up, "Are we
downhearted?" and all the crutches would rattle on the deck before the
crashing answer, "No!"
Disembarked at Folkestone Pier at about six p.m. No fuss, no worry,
everything done in perfect order. A buffet on the platform provided us
with English tea and English buns (there can be great joy in a common
penny bun) served by English ladies. The rain streamed down out of the
inky sky as the long ambulance train puffed its way out of the station
at 8 p.m. Even the weather was typically English, as if to welcome us!
Everything for our comfort had been thought of. In our saloon were
flowers, great bunches of violets, and a gramophone. And so at last,
just before eleven, we rolled over the darkened Thames and drew up in
Charing Cross--Home!
HENRY
His real name was Henri Roman, but we called him Henry because it was
easier to pronounce. His status in the French army was not high--he was
a private in the 1st Territorial Regiment; it was his custom, however,
when in conversation with unsuspecting strangers, to omit the word
Territorial and by merely pointing to the "1" on his _kepi_ lead them to
suppose that he belonged to the First Regiment of the Line--a rather
more distinguished unit than his own. Like ourselves, he was a prisoner
of war, and in his capacity of _valet de chambre_ he was, if not
perfect, at any rate unusual. We first became conscious of his
possibilities as a source of merriment when, owing to the arrival of a
fresh batch of prisoners, we were ordered to change our room.
"Je viens avec messieurs," Henry announced simply, and proceeded to help
us pack our things. It is a fact that my hair brushes and razor made
the journey in one of his trouser pockets, G----'s pipes, a half-empty
pot of jam and a face towel in the other.
To us, accustomed to the diffidence of the English soldier in the
presence of his officers, it was refreshing to watch Henry enter our
room in the afternoon bearing on his shoulder the daily supply of coal.
He would lower the large bucket carefully to the ground and then wipe
his huge hands on his baggy and discoloured red trousers with the air of
a man who has done a hard job of work conscientiously and well. From a
pocket, the bottom of which was apparently somewhere in the region of
his knee, he would produce a half-smoked and much worn cigar, readjust
any loose leaves that might be hanging from it, and then light it with
all the care that a connoisseur bestows upon a corona. Having opened the
door of the stove to satisfy himself that the fire was "marching well,"
he would draw up a stool and sit down amongst us for five minutes' rest.
Conversation with him was of course an unequal contest. Our French was
weak--his, on the contrary, was powerful--in the sense that an express
train is powerful, that is, rushing, noisy, and only to be stopped by
signal. He was thirty-five, he told us, and it was obvious, from the
way he referred to himself as a _pere de famille_ that he considered
himself as a man well past the prime of life, looking forward hopefully
to a complacent but always industrious old age. He came from Commines,
which is north of Lille on the Belgian frontier, and he had worked all
his life in a braces factory, for ten hours a day, six days a week,
earning thirty to forty francs, which he considered good wages. On the
outbreak of war his regiment had formed part of the garrison of
Maubeuge, which place, in his opinion, was undoubtedly sold to the
enemy. He had spent about a month at a prisoners' camp in Germany, and
then had been sent to us with twenty other French soldiers who were to
act as our servants and waiters. He confessed that he found the change
agreeable because he was better fed and had some work to do. The
idleness at the soldiers' camp had bored him. All of which led us to
believe that he was that kind of man to whom work is a necessity. Facts
proved otherwise.
He used to appear in our room in the morning at any time between seven
and half-past. His first objective was the fire. It had happened once
that the Russian officers who shared the room with us had in our
absence banked the stove up so high over-night that it was still burning
on the following morning; in consequence Henry had been saved the
trouble of laying and lighting the fire afresh. Just as a terrier who
has once seen a cat in a certain place will always take a glance there
when passing by, so Henry, hoping daily for a recurrence of such luck,
made straight for the stove. He was invariably disappointed; but the
action became a habit.
His next act was to go through the formality of waking us. His procedure
was to stand at the foot of each bed in turn and place a gigantic hand
on some portion of the occupant's anatomy. As soon as the sleeper
stirred, Henry would mutter, "Sept heures vingt, mon capitaine" (or "mon
lieutenant," as the case might be--he was most punctilious about rank),
and pass on to the next bed. The actual time by the clock made no
difference. He always said, "Sept heures vingt." All this, as I have
stated, was pure formality. His real method of waking us was to make a
deafening noise clearing out the grate and laying the fire. Having done
this he abandoned us in favour of his own breakfast.
He reappeared about 9 a.m. to give the room what he called _un coup de
balai_--his idiom for a superficial rite which he performed with a soft
broom after scattering water freely about the floor. The resultant mess
he picked up in his hands and put into the coal-box or pushed under a
cupboard if he thought no one was looking. He spent the rest of his time
till his dinner hour at eleven in cleaning the boots, making the beds,
and pretending to dust things--all the while giving vent to his opinions
on life in general and prison life in particular. In the afternoons we
seldom saw him after two o'clock, by which time he had brought the coal
and washed up the tea things, left dirty since the day before.
Henry possessed neither a handsome face nor a well-knit figure. When he
stood upright--which he only did if he had some really impressive
anathema to launch against the Germans--he was not more than five feet
eight. His skimpy blue blouse disclosed the roundness of his shoulders
and accentuated the abnormal length of his arms. The ends of his wide
trousers were clipped tight round his ankles, so that his heavy
hobnailed boots were displayed in all their vast unshapeliness. In
walking he trailed his short legs along, giving one the impression that
he had just completed a twenty-mile march and was about to go away and
rest for some hours. When we first knew him he had had a scraggy beard
of no particular colour, but he startled us one morning by appearing
without it, grinning sheepishly, and exposing to view a weak chin which
already had a tendency to multiply itself indefinitely. Except on
Friday, which was his bath day, his long moustache draggled
indiscriminately over the lower part of his face; but after his douche
he used to soap the ends and curl them up, giving to his rather foolish
countenance a ludicrous expression of semi-martial ferocity. On these
occasions he seldom failed to pay us a visit in the evening, shaved,
clean, and palpably delighted with himself.
The first time we saw him thus we asked him why he elected to wear his
moustache like the Kaiser. For a moment he was disconcerted; then
suddenly realising that a joke was intended, he threw back his head and
emitted a series of startling guffaws. Being of a simple nature he was
easily amused. Jokes about the war and the Germans, however, he
considered to be in bad taste. His political philosophy was summed up in
his simple phrase, "C'etaient _eux_" (the Germans) "qui ont voulu la
guerre," and on this count alone they stood condemned eternally before
God and man. Of history, diplomatic situations, international crises he
took no heed. In his eyes the Germans were a race of impoverished
brigands for ever casting greedy eyes upon the riches of peaceful
France. He told me once in all sincerity that before the war he had
never borne a grudge against any man, that he had been content to live
at peace with all the world, but that now he was changed--he hated the
Germans bitterly--"above all," he added, his voice quivering with
impotent rage, "this fat pig of an under-officer who occupies himself
with us orderlies. Nom d'un chien!" (his invariable expletive) "one can
only think he is put over us on purpose to annoy us."
Poor Henry! I knew the gentleman to whom he referred--a fine type of the
fat bully rejoicing in a position of power over unfortunate men who
could in no way retaliate.
At first we had accepted Henry gladly as a kind of unconscious buffoon
whose absurdities would enliven a few of our many dull hours. But in
course of time we discovered other and more pleasing traits in him. He
was a devout Catholic and, in his humble fashion, a staunch Republican.
One day I asked him why he attached so much importance to that form of
government.
"Sous la republique, mon capitaine," he replied with dignity, "on est
libre."
Free! free to work sixty hours a week for twenty years and then to march
off to a war not of his making with but twelve francs in his pocket,
leaving a wife and three children behind him to starve!
Like most Frenchmen of his class Henry was thrifty to a degree; I doubt
if he spent sixpence a week on himself. With the blind faith of a child
he one day confided his savings to me because he was afraid the Germans
might search him. By their regulations he was only allowed to have ten
marks in his possession at once--the surplus he was supposed to deposit
with the paymaster. But I really think he would rather have thrown the
money away than done so. He kept a five-franc piece sewn in the lining
of his trousers "in case," he informed me, "we get separated when the
war is over. Of course you would send me the rest, but when I get back
to France I must be able to celebrate my return."
Each week he used to add to the little hoard which I kept for him,
knowing not only the total but even what actual coins were there.
Upon occasions he could be courtesy itself. One day a Russian officer
came into our room at a moment when Henry was standing idly by the table
looking at the pictures in an English magazine. The Russian, mistaking
him for a French officer, saluted, bowed, and held out his hand. An
English private would have been embarrassed--not so Henry. With that
true politeness which always endeavours to prevent others from feeling
uncomfortable he returned the salute and the bow and shook the proffered
hand! Could tact have gone further?
On Christmas Day we gave him a box of fifty cigars. He was immensely
touched and overwhelmingly grateful. Tears sprang to his eyes as he told
us that he had never had so many cigars before--even in France.
"Avec ca," he exclaimed, fingering the box, "je serai content pour un
an," and he insisted with charming grace, that we should each accept one
then and there.
His musical talent was discovered when some one received a concertina
from England. Coming into the room suddenly on the following morning I
surprised Henry sitting upon my bed giving what was a quite passable
rendering of "Tipperary." In no way abashed, he remained where he was,
only ceasing to play for a moment to tell me that the concertina was too
small--a toy, in fact. The truth was, I rather think, that his enormous
fingers found difficulty in pressing less than two stops at once. He
admitted that he had a passion for music, that he had learnt the
harmonium from a blind man in Commines, and that he had had an accordion
specially made for him in Belgium at a cost of 260 francs which had
taken him years to save. He was inclined to turn up his nose at catchy
airs and music-hall songs, preferring what he called _la grande
musique_, by which I think he meant opera. Eventually he was given the
concertina as a present and went off delighted--doing no more work that
day.
The optimism with which Henry had begun his prison life gradually faded
away. At one time he was certain that he would be home for Christmas,
then for Easter; finally I think he had resigned himself to remaining
where he was for life. It was his habit to believe implicitly every
rumour that he heard; and since there were seldom less than fifty new
ones current every day, he had a busy time retailing them, and was, in
consequence, always either buoyed up with false hope or weighed down
with unnecessary despair.
But it was at about the end of December that he began to get anxious and
worried. Up till then he had been more or less content. His was not a
super-martial spirit; he did not pine to be "at them" again nor did he
chafe under the restrictions of a life of confinement. He confessed
frankly that he was not anxious to fight again, but that when his day's
work (!) was done he enjoyed sitting by the stove in the stable "avec
les camarades" (the servants lived in the stables) "tandis que chacun
raconte sa petite histoire de la guerre."
One day he told me what was on his mind. He had had no news of his
family since leaving home five months before. At first he had not
worried, knowing that letters took a long time. But an answer was
overdue by this time--others had heard from home. "Every day," he said,
"there are letters, but none for me." I could proffer sympathy but not,
alas! advice, and I hadn't the heart to tell him that Commines was in
the thick of the fighting, and had probably been blown to pieces long
ago. His wife and children _might_ be safe, but they were almost
certainly homeless refugees. From that day on he used often to come and
talk to me about his happy life before the war, growing sadder and
sadder as the weeks passed and still he had no news.
I shall always remember Henry's pathetic little figure by the gate on
the morning I left the prison, his baggy trousers more discoloured than
ever, his enormous right hand at the salute, and his lips twisted into
that wistful smile of his. I wonder what has happened to his wife and
little daughters. I wonder if he or I or any one will ever know.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
_Of the contents of this book_, SNATTY _and_ FIVE-FOUR-EIGHT
_appeared in_ BLACKWOOD'S, _and were both written before the
war broke out--a fact which I mention with the selfish object
of excusing myself for various technical errors therein_: HENRY
_appeared in_ THE NEW STATESMAN. _My thanks are due to the
editors of both these journals for kindly allowing me to
republish the stories. The remainder have all appeared in_ THE
CORNHILL MAGAZINE, _to the editor of which I am deeply indebted
for his unfailing courtesy and assistance._
FLANDERS,
_November, 1916_.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LTD., LONDON AND BECCLES, ENGLAND.
End of Project Gutenberg's Servants of the Guns, by Jeffery E. Jeffery