COMEDY AND DRAMA
I SALUTE THE WALL. THE STORY OF AN EGG. A NOVEL BANQUET. JOY RIDE ON A
LORRY. THE SWISS COMMISSION
When I arrived at Osnabruck, I found three English orderlies, and to
my surprise and delight, two were men of my own regiment who had been
captured at Gommecourt Wood on July 1.
The commandant came up to visit me the following morning, something
very unusual; but no blind prisoner had ever been confined within the
walls of Osnabruck before, and I suppose I was an object of interest.
I heard Rogan say, "Commandant," and click his heels.
I stood up and saluted. I was turned around, for, unknowingly, I had
gravely saluted the wall.
He spoke fairly good English:
"You quite blind?"
"Yes, quite."
"See no light--nothing, no?"
"Nothing whatever."
"Your health, vot, is your health goot--yah?"
"Very weak and shaky; I cannot sleep at night."
"Is there anything you want?"
"There are two orderlies here from my own regiment. Can I have one as
my personal attendant? Otherwise I am helpless; I am not yet
accustomed to blindness, and among so many people and in strange
surroundings, I shall become a nuisance."
"Yah; I will make arrangements."
That was how I came to get Private Cotton as my orderly. Cotton was a
fine lad; a well-educated, superior type of fellow, and we became very
much attached to each other during those long, dreary days.
He could speak French, and although he could speak no German, he
possessed that wonderful faculty peculiar to the private soldier, of
understanding and making himself understood in a language he did not
know.
He had been a civil servant in the War Office; but in the early part
of the war had volunteered his services with the colours, and fought
night and day in the trenches for a shilling a day; while the young
man who took his place in the War Office drew one and sixpence an hour
overtime after 4 o'clock. Yet Cotton never complained. But his duty
was the other man's opportunity.
As I write these lines Cotton is still a prisoner. I wonder if the
other man is still drawing overtime, and wearing a war-service badge?
Now Cotton was a gentleman both by birth and education; but he was a
private soldier, and seemed to make a hobby of being one. He was a
private, and I was a captain, and he insisted on that gulf being
maintained.
Whenever he bade me good-night, after he had laid me in my bed and
made me some cocoa--generally from his own supplies, for my parcels
went astray--I could always hear him click his heels, and I knew he
had saluted.
The second day after I had arrived at Osnabruck, he took me for
exercise up and down the yard outside the canteen. This was my first
appearance, and I was evidently an object of some curiosity, for wind
had got round the camp that a blind prisoner had been brought in.
As the French officers passed me, I used to hear them say: "Good
morning, Capitaine," or "Bon jour, mon camarade."
The English officers were splendid and always anxious to help me, and
many a welcome supper of cocoa and cake I used to have in their rooms
before going to bed.
I am afraid, though, that I used to make rather a big meal of it, as
for the first two weeks I had to exist on the German rations.
When I took my first walk in the yard the canteen manager, his wife,
and daughter were evidently watching out for me; for by and by, as a
sign of their good-will, the daughter came running out after me with a
present. It was an egg!
Cotton and I had a serious talk about this egg. He thought I should
save it, and have half for supper and half for breakfast; but I
settled the matter by eating it at once.
I think I have forgotten to mention that we were allowed to buy for
half a mark, a loaf of bread every five days. I had no idea how far a
loaf would go; I had never before given it a thought.
But Cotton had it down to a science; and worked it out that two small
slices for breakfast, and the same for supper would carry me through,
and he kept me to it.
"Cotton," I would say, after I had breakfasted on the two slices, "I
could eat another slice."
"Better not, sir."
"Why not, Cotton? It's my loaf."
"This is the fourth day, sir, and if you have another slice, there
will only be a small piece of crust for to-morrow's breakfast."
"All right, Cotton, I will sleep to dinner-time instead."
It was a joyful day when my first parcels arrived in camp. I was too
excited about it to eat alone that day; and I invited young Martell of
the R.N.A.S. to come and dine with me in my room.
There was a tin of soup and a tin of tripe and onions, and some
biscuits and cheese. What a banquet! Martell and I decided to do
ourselves in style. We even went so far as to send Cotton to the
canteen for two glasses of what we indulgently patronised the canteen
manager's humour by calling port wine.
Martell cooked the tripe and onions, after opening the tin with his
penknife, and boiled it on the stove. The more we thought of that
meal, the more we schemed to make a spread of it.
Cotton, too, rose to the occasion. From the canteen he obtained a
sheet of white paper for a table-cloth, and by the side of each plate
he placed a clean white handkerchief for serviettes.
The table was just a little rough, wooden one, about two feet square.
The room was swept and the beds made to give the room a tidy
appearance, and then we sat down.
Yes, Cotton understood. He knew that that meal was taking our thoughts
back to England. It was taking him back, too. He knew that we imagined
we were back again in the mess; and he imagined the same thing
himself.
In that little room, and in the presence of that tin of tripe and
onions we forgot we were prisoners; we forgot that rows and rows of
barbed wire bound us in captivity; we ignored the footsteps of the
sentry pacing up and down outside our window, and the sharp yelping of
the dogs.
We were back in the mess, and we chatted and laughed during the meal
as we had done in the old days, while our spirits rose with the aroma
of the tripe and onion; and Cotton stood behind me silent and
attentive, removing the plates, washing them, and replacing them ready
for the next course, pretending he was drawing plates from a
well-filled pantry.
We finished our repast with biscuits and cheese, and then we solemnly
stood, and raising our glasses, toasted the King.
Then we drew our chairs round the fire, and heating the coffee which
was left over from breakfast, we bathed our thoughts in the aroma of
two cigars which Cotton had thoughtfully provided for the occasion
from the canteen.
Yes, people of England, living at home in luxury, by the protection of
a thin line of khaki; when you become anxious at the prospect of one
meatless day per week, try living for a fortnight on slops, and then
appreciate the glories of a tin of tripe and onions.
Still, one can live on slops, and improve a meal by a vivid
imagination. In fact, imagination is a distinct advantage when sitting
down hungrily to a plate of thin watery soup and sloppy potatoes for
dinner.
When the door used to open and Cotton appeared with this unsavoury
repast, which was always the same each day, I would say to him in the
most indifferent tone I could assume:
"Well, Cotton, what kind of soup is it to-day?"
"Well, sir; I really don't know. It might be anything; it looks like
hot water."
"Why, my dear Cotton, this soup is salt. How dull you are! There must
have been a battle in the North Sea!"
"How do you know that, sir?"
"It's the way the Germans have. This soup is hot sea-water; it is to
celebrate a victory."
The next day there would be a slight difference in the soup, and again
Cotton would gravely shake his head, unable to fathom its mystery.
"My dear Cotton, when will you learn to gather information from your
rations by a method of deduction?"
"Has there been another battle in the North Sea, sir?"
"No, my dear Cotton, the soup is thicker; the German fleet is back in
the Kiel Canal."
It was the beginning of the third week of my sojourn in Osnabruck,
when I was told one day that I was to proceed next morning to
Blenhorst camp to appear before the Swiss Commission. Three other
officers were also to go, including Rogan.
Cotton was to accompany me, and we made great preparation for the
journey, packing in a tin box biscuits and cheese, chocolate and
sardines; for although an officer is charged just the same for his
full day's ration, the Germans have a habit of sending him on a long
day's journey without food.
We started off at about 6 o'clock the next morning in high glee; for
whatever the result of the Swiss Commission might be, there was the
journey to Blenhorst to break the monotony of Osnabruck.
We had to change trains several times, and in the station restaurants
we had much the same experience as I have described on my journey from
Hanover.
In one restaurant we could only obtain a slice of ham as thin as
tissue-paper, and in another a very small sausage; and yet the German
people we passed in the streets had no appearance of being short of
food, or suffering any hardships in this respect. The people in the
streets, I understand, looked just as contented and well fed as the
people in England.
The station for Blenhorst is about eight miles from the camp. A large
flat, open lorry was sent to meet us to carry our baggage, but as our
belongings were for the most part carried in our pockets, it was
unnecessary for that purpose.
It then dawned upon our two guards, who had no more desire to walk
than we had, that we might ride on the lorry ourselves. They obtained
a form to hold four, and we four officers occupied this seat on the
open lorry, Cotton sitting on the floor, while the two guards sat
together behind us, with their feet dangling over the side.
That ride I shall never forget. Perhaps it was because I was blind
that the situation seemed so ridiculously funny. The single-horsed
lorry was pulled slowly through the rough, cobbled streets in sudden
jerks, which sent our legs flying in the air, giving the form a tilt;
and I expected every minute that we would all four turn a double
somersault over the heads of our guards behind, and fall into the road
like clowns at a circus.
Imagine the picture, an open lorry on a bitterly cold day going
through the streets of a small German town with four British officers
in uniform; two with their heads bandaged, another with an arm in a
sling, and a fourth with a lame leg, all sitting on a form, shivering
with cold--all smoking cigars; while people came out and gazed in
open-mouthed wonder at the strange spectacle; and a crowd of little
urchins came running behind, yelling at the top of their voices.
All this was explained to me; and I imagined a great deal more, for
the ridiculous situation could only be complete if a shower of rotten
eggs were hurled at us as we passed by.
The following morning the Swiss Commission arrived, and all those who
wished to appear before it were ordered to assemble in the yard.
It was a pathetic assembly, officers and men maimed and afflicted
beyond repair, waited in a long queue for their turn to go in and hear
their fate.
There were a number of Tommies acting as orderlies in the camp who
had been prisoners since Mons. There was nothing physically the matter
with them; yet the silent and hopeful manner in which they took their
position in the line, knowing as they must have done, that their
chances were hopeless, was most pitiful to witness.
Yet, the same men, on appearing before the Commission, and being
immediately rejected, laughed and joked as they returned to their
work.
The British Tommy is heroic, and rough though his language sometimes
is, he is a man, and Britain is his debtor.