It was the middle of winter. The glorious dark blue sky glittering with
stars shed a soft light, such as one can see on frosty evenings even
when the moon is hidden. Not a breath! The fir-trees stood darkly in the
distance, their motionless shapes outlined against the horizon. The men
were happy to come out of doors this calm and frosty night to take deep
breaths of the life-giving air, and by rapid walking to bring their
blood to a glow. What more delightful for a captive than to walk in the
pine-scented night, under the azure sky, the contemplation of which
called up memories of the dear homeland. In the frosty air, that whipped
the blood and warmed the body, he could forget the present and turn
freely to thoughts of happy times in other years, to the joyful
Christmas Eves and the endless pleasures of the first days of January.
Talking in groups of twos or threes, or alone wrapped in thought, with
rapid steps the prisoners overtook or passed each other on the path that
surrounded the camp.
Avoiding the too-frequented way for fear of being accosted by a comrade
in search of a companion, a Frenchman, eager for solitude, walks up and
down the space in the centre of the camp. He recalls memories of happy
days, and the well-beloved faces of friends, and lives again through the
sufferings he has endured. From time to time he looks at the infinite
stars, and the thought of the free constellations of heaven calls forth
a despairing sigh; he laments lost liberty and this forced inaction.
Suddenly his attention is attracted by a silent shadow which stands
before him. It is the pillory, an instrument of torture which
civilisation has not yet been able to abolish, and which still exists in
German barracks for corporeal punishment. It is a high, solid post
firmly fixed in the ground, and surmounted by a large white board on
which a square of paper is fixed, showing the nationality, name and
fault of the delinquent and the length of his punishment. This varies
from two to twelve hours, according to the fault. In principle, two
hours of the pillory are equal to a day in prison, and the duration of
two hours must not be exceeded in a period of twenty-four hours. The
culprit has his hands fastened together behind the post; his ankles are
bound and kept immovable by a rope which fixes them to the base of the
instrument of torture; another rope is tied round his body, rendering
him incapable of a move. It is a punishment of which the intensity of
suffering is very variable, according to whether the weather is fine or
rainy, temperate or cold, according to whether the executioner has more
or less animosity against the victim or his race. However that may be,
even on a fine day, with the ropes loose and under the most favourable
conditions, to stand motionless for two hours is a painful punishment.
The faults for which prisoners are condemned are for the most part
trivial; and the punishments are so liberally given that a second post
has been put up opposite the first pillory. One man had smoked in a
tent, another had omitted to salute a German N.C.O. that he met, a third
had escaped from fatigue duty or missed a parade, a fourth was caught
carrying on an illicit trade in artificial honey, margarine or
chocolate. One, tortured by hunger, had succeeded in eluding the
vigilance of his commanding officer and had obtained a second basin of
soup; another had visited the doctor and not been recognised as ill;
still another had started some game of chance; and last of all, a man
had moved while his company was at attention. What need have I to say
more? Everything is an excuse for punishment. So punishments follow
uninterruptedly from morning till night. But this evening--or rather
night--the pillory seemed strangely large at the base. Could it be that
some one was bound there at this hour, and in such weather? The man
approaches in the darkness till he touches the unhappy comrade, who, at
six o’clock in the evening, and with the thermometer at 6° below zero,
is still fastened to the post of torture. He speaks sympathetically to
him. The other replies in low tones, furtively, as if afraid of being
heard, just a hasty word. It is a Scotsman, his accent reveals his
nationality. What does he say?
[Illustration: _Page 66._]
Luckily the Frenchman happens to be the interpreter for the English
company. He understands. Now that his eyes have grown accustomed to the
darkness, he distinguishes the kilt of the wearer, and the Scotch cap
placed on the side of his head. The interpreter asks question after
question, but the Scotsman only replies shortly, and begs his questioner
to go away, for he fears he also will get punished if found talking to
him. But the unhappy man speaks in vain, the other will not obey his
entreaties.
“Have you been here long?”
“Since two o’clock this afternoon. What time is it now?”
“It is past six. They must have forgotten you, for they have not the
right to leave you tied up for more than two hours.”
“I know. An adjutant who was passing gave the order for me not to be set
free, saying he would have me untied when he thought proper.”
“Horrible! Why?”
“Because in the crowd of soldiers who surrounded me, pretending to read
the reason of my punishment, one, out of kindness, let me have a few
puffs at his cigarette.”
“And why were you punished?”
“I was caught smoking near the tents.”
There is, in fact, within the camp a rough space between two tents,
reserved for smokers, and every man is likely to be punished who dares
to smoke outside that place, indicated in a conventional manner by four
posts stuck in the ground on which may be read in large characters
“Smoking-Room.” It reminds one of the staging of a play in the time of
Shakespeare.
“You know, the Germans don’t like us,” continues the Scotsman. “Go
away,” he says; “you will be punished if they find you here.”
“So much the worse for me. I will not leave you like this. Come what
may, I am going to untie you.”
“No, I pray you! Don’t do that, for God’s sake. They know my name, and
to-morrow I shall have a double punishment. Do go away.”
“Then I shall run to the German guardroom and intercede for you.”
“Don’t do anything, it will do no good and you yourself will run the
chance of being punished. And you know it is not good to be in the
pillory.”
While speaking, the poor man could scarcely restrain the trembling of
his voice. He shivered in spite of himself. For four hours he had been
bound to this post in the terrible cold. His hands, the circulation of
which was arrested by the cords too tightly drawn, were violet and
swollen. His feet must have been in the same state. For four hours he
had been there in the same position, motionless, his body contorted, his
limbs imprisoned by ropes that cut his swollen flesh. The minutes must
have seemed like hours of agony, but, inured to suffering, courageous,
stoical, proud, he hid his feelings and did not utter a complaint.
Motionless, on the frozen earth, he waited patiently for the end of his
torture.
The interpreter, who knew enough of the misery of these poor
British,--at the beginning of their captivity they received nothing from
home,--bent down to look at the sufferer’s boots. As he expected, they
were in shreds, and probably had no soles. Without saying a word he left
the Scotsman and went.
* * * * *
A few moments later he came back.
“Lift up your right foot. That’s right. Now the left. That’s better,
isn’t it?”
“What have you done?”
“Oh, I have only put a little piece of wood to separate you from the
ground and keep the cold from freezing your feet.”
“Ah! thank you! But you will get into trouble! If any one has seen you!”
“Well, cheer up! Good-bye for the present.” He went on towards the
office.
“No, don’t go there. I am very well now and it won’t be long before I am
released. Leave me.”
But already the Frenchman was out of earshot. He went to the office, not
many steps from there, where the light from the windows was piercing the
darkness. His indignation was great and he felt his anger rising. What!
there were men--executioners--so cruel as to order that one of their own
kind should be tied up like a packet and fastened to a post, his limbs
bound so that the normal circulation was impossible! There were men so
unworthy of the name as to make such a horrible punishment last for over
four hours in that deadly weather! And they wanted people to cease
calling them Huns and barbarians! The interpreter was so furious that he
almost knocked over a figure coming in the opposite direction. In a
moment he perceived him. It was a German, an adjutant. His anger was so
great that he forgot to salute. He found himself face to face with the
adjutant who had the worst reputation among the French, and yet the hate
that this man had for the French was like “sweet milk” in comparison
with the hatred he nourished for the English. Without preamble the
interpreter accosts this churlish man.
“Adjutant, I wish to bring to your notice a case of gross neglect. It is
six o’clock; it is 6° or 7° below zero and a man is still tied to the
pillory.”
With a smile the jailer replied in a light mocking tone:
“I know; it is an Englishman. And it is by my orders he is there.”
“Impossible! You have never given such a barbarous order, to have a man
tied up for four hours in this cold weather. They have not understood
you, and, moreover, I am convinced that your rules--inhuman and
incomprehensible as they seem to us--do not authorise----”
“Hold your tongue! You forget that you are a prisoner; you have not the
right to speak to me like that.”
“I think it is my duty to let you know that a man is being tortured more
than your rules allow, and I thought to spare your conscience the
remorse of homicide ... through forgetfulness.”
“A man! Come! It is an Englishman! What interest have you in defending
an Englishman? It is only an Englishman!”
“I know, but he is, nevertheless, a man. He suffers as we do, even more
than we French do, since the lot that you reserve for them is more
painful than ours.”
“The English are pigs!”
“Allow me to tell you that I have many good friends among them, and a
long stay in England has enabled me to know that one meets among them
certainly less of those animals than in another country I am acquainted
with.”
“What! You insult me! You call the Germans pigs! Very well; you shall
come with me to the lieutenant.”
“One moment! you mistake me. I did not say---- But, after all, let us go
and see the lieutenant. Perhaps he still has a little human feeling.”
There was a short distance yet to go to the office of the lieutenant who
commanded the camp. The interpreter, although shocked by the sight of
such barbarity as he had witnessed, and excited by this lively
discussion with the Boche adjutant, had nevertheless kept cool and knew
quite well that he had got himself into a bad scrape. Already he saw a
war-council sitting and judgment given; the door of the prison that
would open to admit him, and especially--even before the meeting of the
war-council--the long days of detention in a dark, dirty, icy cell,
badly ventilated, where solitude and privation would wreck his nerves.
Well, so much the worse for him; he would go on to the end. His case was
serious, he had no doubt about it; and the adjutant, wounded in his
dignity, would demand the full penalty. Already proud of his prize the
German was enjoying in advance the sufferings of his captive; he smiled
to himself, and his little grey-blue eyes, sunk in fat, glittered
wickedly.
They arrived in front of the wooden shed which constituted the office.
The adjutant was just going to knock at the door when it opened. A
brilliant light flooded the ground and dazzled those who were outside.
In the centre of this brightness a massive form appeared. It was the
lieutenant, about to hurry home.
The adjutant immediately recognised him, drew himself up smartly as if
he were worked by a spring, brought his heels noisily together and stood
at attention in a faultless manner, bringing his right hand to the peak
of his cap and bending his whole body obsequiously forward. The
Frenchman had quickly saluted and advanced in front of the adjutant,
who, silent and deferential, waited for his superior to speak to him
first.
Without letting the lieutenant have the time to question his inferior,
the Frenchman, whose coolness amazed the Boche, had spoken to the
commander of the camp and explained what he had at heart.
By error, assuredly, an Englishman had remained for four hours tied to
the pillory. It was freezing hard, and the unhappy man would surely
receive his death-blow. He must have been forgotten; but as German
discipline was well known, nobody, not even the adjutant who was
present--whom he indicated with his hand--nobody had thought it proper
to take upon himself to set free this man, who was undergoing a
punishment inflicted by the orders of the General. It was, however,
evident that a word from the lieutenant would be sufficient to rectify
the mistake, and hinder the punishment being prolonged; for it would be
regrettable if, by excess of discipline and a too literal respect for
the orders given, a man should be forced to suffer excess of torture,
which to all appearance no one wished to inflict on him.
The officer listened without saying a word. The adjutant was raging, and
would have annihilated the Frenchman if his glance had possessed the
power. He bowed respectfully every time the officer looked his way,
burning with impatience to say a word to change the state of affairs.
The darkness, which prevented the lieutenant from seeing the adjutant’s
anguished expression, saved the situation. The commander of the camp no
doubt thought that the N.C.O. came to present the interpreter and
support his request.
The weather was cold, the hour late and the lieutenant wanted to get
home; perhaps at the end of the day, when he was going to see his wife
and children, he felt a little kinder-hearted, and so it was that,
cracking his whip, he went off saying: “Schneider, see that this man is
set free.” Heels clacked together, and the two men saluted the departing
officer. In the darkness they stared at each other, not daring to give
expression to their feelings. One of them would have liked to show his
joy and relief, but he was a prisoner; the other, by a rude blow with
the butt-end of the musket, would have loved to show the Frenchman that
one dared not mock at a Prussian with impunity. But the law stood
there, rigid and menacing. Sulky, calling down imprecations on himself,
swearing at the lieutenant, the Frenchman and the Englishman, the French
and the English, all the Allies in general and all his superiors, the
German made sign to the interpreter to follow him. They went towards the
pillory. “Undo this man.” But the Frenchman wanted his victory to be
complete, and the humiliation of the Boche to know no limit. He tried
feebly to undo the knots; he did not succeed.
“You have tied them too tightly,” he said to the Teuton, “and my hands
are frozen with the cold; I cannot undo them.”
“Come, try again. You must untie this man. You wished to do it.”
“All right!” The interpreter took his knife from his pocket and began to
cut the almost new rope, when the German, swearing, stopped him.
Then one might have seen a sight, the contemplation of which would have
been sweet to every prisoner. In the black night a German adjutant
undoing with his own hands and by the orders of a superior officer the
bonds of a hated Englishman, whom he would have liked to see perish with
pain and cold, and this under the contemptuous eyes of a Frenchman whom
he had hoped to summon before a war-council, and to send to shiver on
the straw of a cell.
The work finished, the Boche, full of rage and shame, rolled up the
rope. Then he went away, and the dark, frosty night swallowed him up.
The unhappy Scotsman, worn out and frozen, could scarcely stand. The
pains caused by the returning circulation were intolerable. The
interpreter offered him the help of his arm and insisted on accompanying
him to his tent.
Both were astonished and delighted at the happy end to this adventure,
which might have been tragic. Phlegmatic, the Scotsman seemed already to
have forgotten his sufferings. At the door of his tent he shook hands
heartily with the interpreter, assuring him of his gratitude, and
offered him a woodbine, concluding with the words, “All’s well that ends
well.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: REVENGE ON BRITISH SOLDIERS]