_Told by Benjamin G. O'Rorke, M. A., Chaplain to the Forces_
This narrative reveals the actual scenes and experiences in a
German prison where this British chaplain was incarcerated. He
dedicates it "To my fellow prisoners, who already during twelve
months have borne disappointment with patient resignation and
insults with silent dignity: who have made the name of Britain
respected in the heart of Germany." Nearly the whole of the diary
on which this narrative is based was confiscated by the Germans
when the writer was searched for the last time before his release.
It was restored to him by post a few weeks later, bearing the mark
showing that it had been passed by the censor. The diary has been
published complete by _Longmans, Green and Company_, with whose
permission the following interesting extracts are given.
[9] I--STORY OF THE CONSECRATED SWORDS
On Saturday, August 15, 1914, we entrained, whither we knew not. The
railway officials either did not know or would not tell, but we were
not long before we discovered that our destination was Southampton.
Here we spent a wearisome afternoon and evening at the docks, embarking
horses and wagons on board our transport, a cattle-boat named
_Armenian_, which has since been sunk by the Germans. With us embarked
contingents of the 18th Hussars and 9th Lancers. It was a calm journey,
and there were no signs of sea-sickness. Pipes and cigarettes were
freely smoked, a good sign on the first day of a voyage. Once more our
destination was kept a profound secret, even from the captain, until we
got well out to sea. It being Sunday, we had a service on board, which
gave me a golden opportunity of addressing my flock for the first time.
Speaking on the text, "Whoso feareth the Lord shall not be afraid, and
shall not play the coward," Eccl. xxiv. 14 (R.V.), I reminded them that
we were setting out to take our part in the greatest war in history.
After the service on deck, a number of officers and men, after the
example of the knights of old who consecrated their swords at the
altar, partook of the Holy Communion in the saloon.
In the course of the afternoon we sighted the beautiful harbor of
Boulogne, where we landed. "'Eep, 'eep, 'ooray!" called out the crowds
of French people who lined the pier and landing-stage to give us a
hearty welcome as their allies. From the first moment we were made to
feel at home in France, and careful arrangements had been undertaken
for our comfort. To every regiment a Frenchman was appointed as
interpreter, many of whom were educated men of good standing....
Strolling through the town, I passed the barracks where the Argyll
and Sutherland Highlanders were quartered. True to their national
characteristic that "a Scotsman is never at home unless he is abroad,"
they appeared to have been at Boulogne for years, and already to be on
intimate terms with the townsfolk. On the steps of the Post-Office was
a bareheaded woman in the act of posting a letter to her son at the
front. She spoke to me about him very tenderly, and it was obvious that
all sorts of good wishes and prayers were dropped into the letterbox
with her letter....
Flags were in evidence everywhere. Men wore in their buttonholes the
colors of France, Belgium, and England intertwined, and women pinned
them to their dresses. Little children followed the soldiers about,
crying, "Souvenir, souvenir!" and pointed to their regimental badges.
After a while it was a rare sight to meet a soldier with a badge, or a
French woman or child without one. The sole distinguishing mark between
one regiment and another was the design of the badge on cap and the
initials of the regiment on shoulder-strap drawn in indelible pencil.
The next morning the march through the town to the station was little
short of a triumphal procession. The most popular figure amongst us
was a diminutive soldier boy of the R.A.M.C., Trumpeter Berry. Some of
the French women were with difficulty restrained from rushing out to
kiss him. The crowd around the station as we left, pressing against the
railings beyond which they were not permitted to go, gave us a send-off
as enthusiastic as the welcome had been. Keepsakes, charms, blessings,
and prayers were bestowed upon us generously. "_Vive la France!_" we
shouted from the railway carriage, and we heard, dying away in the
distance, the hearty response, "_Vive l'Angleterre!_"
* * * * *
The Belgians in the villages through which we passed had already begun
to flee into France for protection. A long line of refugees marched
with us, carrying such of their worldly goods as they could snatch up
at the last moment. There were white-haired old men being wheeled along
in barrows, cripples limping as fast as they could go, hatless women
with a heavy bundle in one arm and an infant in the other, and by their
side were two or three little toddlers wondering what it was all about.
Behind were the homes with all their associations of the past and with
the last meal, perhaps, still on the table untouched, so suddenly
had the warning come. When would they see those homes again? If ever,
probably as a heap of ruins. And in front, whither should they go?...
Along the road they would have constant reminders that there was One
above who knew all about it, and would not leave them comfortless. For
at irregular intervals by the roadside in Belgium and France there are
"Calvaries," little sanctuaries containing a figure of the Crucified
One, seeming to whisper to all who pass by, "I have trodden this path
before you."