At Düren Camp
When he recovered consciousness Malcolm Carr found himself lying on
a bundle of straw in an advance dressing-station. He was puzzled
greatly. He could not imagine how he came there, or why he should be
there at all. He had no recollection of being lifted by the blast of
a shell. Somehow things didn't seem quite right.
Gradually the chain of events during the last few hours connected
itself. He remembered the stand of C Company; being sent off by the
platoon-commander with an urgent message; blundering into the
hostile lines; being made prisoner and attempting to escape.
"And now I've got a buckshie," he decided. "Wonder where I am?"
He raised his head and looked around. The effort sent a throbbing
pain from the base of his neck to his spine. He felt bruised all
over, while his left arm was tightly bandaged from elbow to wrist. A
strange, almost uncanny silence seemed everywhere, and yet the place
was teeming with activity.
The dressing-station was in the open. The ground was crowded with
bundles of straw and stretchers, each occupied by a helpless human
being. More stretchers were constantly arriving with their ghastly
burdens. Men slightly wounded were staggering in, covered with dust,
and looking utterly dejected. Not one had a smile upon his face.
Malcolm had seen an advance dressing-station more than once, where
casualties were arriving after a stiff engagement. Then he had been
struck by the cheerfulness shown by most of the men. Even the badly
wounded were elated, for the day had gone well, and they were happy
in the knowledge that the stiff task imposed upon them had been
brilliantly accomplished. But things seemed different here.
In front of a partly demolished barn, over which was flying a Geneva
Cross flag, covered ambulance motors were being filled up with
wounded, who, their injuries attended to, were being dispatched to
the base hospital. To Malcolm's bewilderment, the powerful motors
started in absolute silence, while the heavy wheels made no sound as
they jolted over the _pavé_.
Gradually the sensation of dizziness diminished, and it dawned upon
Malcolm that he was still a prisoner. Everywhere the field-grey
uniforms were conspicuous, but even that discovery did not explain
the deep silence.
Making another effort, the rifleman sat up. The blanket that covered
him had slipped off. From the waist upwards he was destitute of
clothing. His skin was as yellow as that of a Chinese.
On the straw to his right was a Hun whose right leg had been badly
injured. The man was trying to attract Malcolm's attention, but
although his lips were moving no words fell upon the lad's ears.
In vain the New Zealander tried to reply. If he spoke he was unaware
of it. The sound of his own voice was absent. He was deaf and dumb.
When Malcolm was thrown by the concussion of the bursting shell, he
alighted in the trench he had left, unconscious, his uniform partly
torn off, and his face and body dyed with the yellow fumes. In this
state he lay insensible for several hours. When the bombardment
cleared, the threatened infantry assault did not materialize. It was
not intended that it should, the object of the artillery activity
being to keep the Germans pinned to that section of their defences
while other operations were being carried out in another part of the
line. So, when the guns died down to a desultory shelling, the Huns
set to work to clear up the badly-damaged trenches.
While the wounded were being removed, a couple of Prussian Poles,
who were employed as ambulance-men, placed Malcolm on a stretcher,
and threw a discarded greatcoat over his legs, not realizing that he
was an enemy, since the remnants of his khaki uniform were
indistinguishable from the field-grey after they had been "chromed"
by the fumes of bursting shells. Otherwise it is doubtful whether
the stretcher-bearers would have removed a wounded enemy. Without
the discovery being made, the New Zealander was taken to the German
advance dressing-station, and his injuries dressed, and thus he
found himself wounded and a prisoner.
It was later in the evening when Malcolm was taken by
motor-ambulance to a railway station twenty miles behind the lines.
With him were about twenty Prussians, Saxons, and Würtemburgers,
whose demeanour was one of extreme dejection. Their wounds, although
serious, were not of a nature to debar them from further military
service. They realized that they were going to be patched up in
order to be again sent to the front, more than likely to the
terrible Ypres district. Now that they were wounded they bemoaned
the fact that their injuries were not greater, and envied those of
their comrades who were permanently disabled and unfit for further
service in the field.
"Wonder what Fortescue would say if he saw me in these togs?"
thought Malcolm as he surveyed the German greatcoat and trousers
with which he was provided on arriving at the station. "And Selwyn?
'Not too much of that, Digger'--that's what he'd chuck at me. I
shouldn't be surprised if the Huns take me for one of themselves."
Which was exactly what they were doing.
For two hours the ever-increasing throng of wounded waited in the
station. Momentarily men dropped, to be left to the rough-and-ready
attentions of their comrades. The few doctors and their assistants,
utterly fatigued by reason of the long and continual strain, were
almost useless as far as their duties were concerned. Once again the
German machine of thoroughness and precision had broken down.
At last a hospital train drew up just outside the station. To
Malcolm's surprise the Red Cross carriages disgorged a battalion of
fully-equipped troops. Fearing attacks from British airmen, the
German High Command had given orders that, as far as possible,
troops were to be moved toward the Front in hospital trains, while,
to bring up additional machine-guns with the least danger and delay,
the motor-ambulances, still displaying the symbol that all
unkultured nations respect, were employed to their utmost capacity.
The train then ran into the station, and the entrainment of the
wounded commenced. Beyond the red cross on the sides and tops of the
carriages there was nothing to distinguish the train from any other.
Marshalled in military formation, the "walking cases" boarded the
carriages, which were similar to the fourth-class compartments of
the German State Railways--hard wooden seats not excepted.
Of the next twelve hours Malcolm had no clear recollection. Frequent
stoppages were the only respite to the otherwise incessant jolting.
At one station very inferior bread and watery soup were served out.
Beyond that the wretched "cannon-fodder" went hungry until the train
drew up at a large town that Malcolm afterwards knew to be
Frankfort.
Here the conditions in hospital were passable, although food was
poor and meagre; but Rifleman Carr made progress, and in less than a
week he had recovered from the effect of his wounds except for his
speech and hearing.
Several times doctors and nurses wrote questions for him to answer,
but, not understanding German, he could only shake his head. Taken
for a Saxon suffering from shell-shock, he was afterwards left
severely alone as far as conversation was concerned.
One morning an orderly went round the ward distributing postcards to
enable the patients to write to their relations and friends.
"Wonder if I can get a letter through to New Zealand?" thought
Malcolm. "I'll have a cut at it anyhow."
Greatly to the curiosity of an observant nurse, the lad obtained a
postcard, and wrote to his father, signing himself "R/m 99,109,
Malcolm Carr, N.Z.R.B., prisoner of war."
The nurse, puzzled that the patient could write and yet be unable to
read, called a doctor's attention to the fact, and Malcolm's
postcard was kept back for examination.
Within five minutes the hospital ward was in a state of uproar, for
the discovery had been made that an enemy was enjoying the same
treatment and attention as a good German. After being subjected to a
searching and protracted examination, the questions being written in
English, Malcolm was summarily "fired out" to an unknown
destination.
Escorted by two Landsturmers, and garbed in very motley attire, the
New Zealander was marched through the streets to the railway
station, and after a six-hour journey the train stopped at a small
station that, from the name on the _Fahrkartenausgabe_, was called
Düren. In what part of Germany Düren was situated Malcolm had not
the faintest idea. He had yet to learn that it was a small town in
Rhenish Prussia roughly midway between Aix-la-Chapelle and Cologne.
The prisoner kept his eyes open during his progress through the
narrow streets. Everywhere were signs of industrial activity. The
workshops were disgorging their occupants--old men, women, and
children, whose emaciated features contrasted vividly with those of
the prosperous munition-workers in Great Britain. At the outskirts
of the town was a large, newly-erected factory, from which Gotha
machines, their wings folded for transit, were being taken away in
large motor-lorries, while sandwiched between the building and the
outskirts of the town proper was a large barbed-wire compound within
which were rows of wooden huts.
This was Malcolm's prison camp. So great was the Huns' fear of air
raids over the industrial towns of the Rhine valley that several of
the larger places of detention for prisoners of war had been broken
up, and the men sent to numerous small camps in close proximity to
towns within the radius of hostile airmen.
"This will be a tight hole to squeeze through," soliloquized the new
arrival, as he noted the elaborate precautions taken against any
attempt on the part of the prisoners to escape. The double gateway
was strongly guarded by armed troops, assisted by a particularly
ferocious-looking type of dog. Between the outer and inner
rectangular fences, a distance of fifty feet, more guards kept
vigilant watch; while at frequent intervals tall look-out boxes had
been erected to enable the sentries to keep the whole of the camp
under observation. Both fences were made of barbed wire, supported
by massive posts, and so Criss-crossed that even a cat would have
had considerable difficulty in creeping through without injury from
the sharp spikes.
Having handed over their charge, the two Landsturmers were given a
receipt for the delivery of the prisoner, and then dismissed.
Malcolm's latest jailers were four stolid-looking Prussians, who,
badly wounded in Flanders, had been retained as guards at the camp.
By them the New Zealander was conducted to a building just within
the second or inner gate. Here he was registered and given a number,
and afterwards subjected to perfunctory examination by a doctor,
who, finding that the prisoner exhibited no trace of infection or
contagious disease, passed him as a fit inmate of the camp. In an
adjoining room he was given a large sack and a filthy horse-cloth.
The former, when filled with straw, was to serve as a bed; the
latter was his one and only blanket. A printed list, in English, of
the numerous rules and regulations was then handed to him, and the
initiation ceremony of the new member of the Düren Prison Camp was
completed.
Escorted by an armed orderly, Malcolm was taken down the broad
central road. A few prisoners in khaki rigs were standing
disconsolately at the doors of the huts. Most of them shouted a
rough but well-meaning greeting to the new arrival, to which
Malcolm, understanding the purport of the unheard words, replied by
a wave of his hand. In vain Rifleman Carr looked for a New Zealand
uniform: these were mostly Tommies and Jocks, a sprinkling of
Canadians, and two West Indians; Anzacs seemed to be unrepresented
in the motley throng of captives.
Presently Malcolm's escort halted, pointed to one of the numbers on
the prisoner's card, and then to a corresponding number on the door
of a hut. It was an intimation to the effect that, during the
pleasure of the All Highest, Rifleman Carr was to be his guest in
hut No. 7 of the Düren Detention Camp.
"What's the latest, chum?" enquired a Tommy as Malcolm entered.
"Blow me if 'e ain't barmy!"
"Rot!" ejaculated another. "He's deaf. What's his regiment, I
wonder? Come on, chaps, let's make the poor beggar comfortable."
"A jolly hard thing to do in this rotten hole," added a third.
"Who's got a pencil?"
A stump was presently forthcoming, and, writing upon a piece of
brown paper, the last speaker, a sergeant of an English line
regiment, contrived to get in touch with the new arrival.
"He's a New Zealander," he announced to his companions. "Isn't there
one of their chaps in No. 4? I'll give him the tip."
So saying, the good-natured non-com. left the hut, to return with a
tall, bearded man, whose uniform was sufficiently intact to indicate
that he belonged to the New Zealand Rifle Brigade. Even his hat was
tolerably well preserved, even to the encircling red cord.
For a few minutes the two men from "Down Under" stood facing each
other, astonishment and incredulity written in their faces. Then,
with a loud bang, something seemed to give way in Malcolm's ears.
With a vehemence that surprised himself, Malcolm Carr almost shouted
the name of "Peter!"
The next instant the brothers were shaking hands and rapping out
questions, to the surprise of the other occupants of the hut, who
had suspicions that they were the victims of a practical joke.
"I don't know that it's so very remarkable after all," declared the
Sergeant. "Plenty of fellows, deaf and dumb through concussion, have
recovered speech and hearing by a shock of some sort. My word, those
Diggers can talk!"
He crossed the room to where the brothers were exchanging
experiences.
"Look here," he said. "I'm in charge of this hut, and my pal Jeffson
is responsible for No. 4. After roll-call I'll arrange for you
(indicating Malcolm) to doss in No. 4, and get another man from
there to take your place here. Only, if you don't want to get me
into a regular row with the camp commandant, take care to slip back
before morning roll-call."
Peter Carr's greatest concern was the fact that he had never
received a letter or parcel from New Zealand. He had written several
times, but Malcolm was able to inform him that, up to a
comparatively recent date, their father had not heard anything about
Peter beyond the official statement that he was wounded and missing.
"I say," remarked the elder Carr in the course of the evening,
"we'll have to make a change--a shift round. I've a Canuk for my
linked man."
"Linked man?" echoed Malcolm. "What's that?"
"We're expecting and hoping for a raid," explained Peter. "Only
three nights ago we heard bombs dropping on Julich, which is but a
few miles away. So if some of our airmen do make a stunt, we'll take
our chances of being blown up and make a dash for liberty. Since it
would be madness for the whole crush to keep together, we've
arranged to separate, if we do get clear, and work in pairs.
Everything's all cut and dry, and we are told off in twos; but I'll
push the Canadian on to the previous odd man out, and we'll stick
together."
It was long after midnight when the reunited brothers ended their
conversation. Nor did sleep follow quickly as far as Malcolm was
concerned. It was not the constant clatter of machinery and the
rasping of dozens of circular saws in the adjoining factories that
kept him awake, but the excitement of the day, culminating in the
discovery of his elder brother, whom he had regarded as dead for
months past.
Early next morning the prisoners were served with a meagre and
ill-nourishing meal, consisting of turnip soup and a dirty-coloured
liquid that was supposed to be coffee. This was supplemented by food
sent from home, the men putting the edible contents of all their
parcels into a common stock. At six they were told off in gangs for
work either on the roads or in the fields. The Huns had tried hard
to compel them to labour in the mines, but such was the indomitable
spirit of the luckless sons of the British Empire that the attempt
ended in failure.
Malcolm was fairly fortunate in being in the same party as his
brother, their work being to construct new roads in the vicinity of
the large aircraft factory. The prisoners were too well guarded to
have the faintest chance of escape. Even those in the open fields
were careful to keep together; any man straying more than twenty
yards from the rest of the party being liable to be shot by the
numerous armed guards.
"All in good time, Malcolm," remarked his brother, when discussing
the subject of escape. "It's not much use having a few minutes'
liberty and then being done in. Two of the boys tried the game a
short time ago; both were back within half an hour. One had to be
carried in with a gunshot wound in both legs and a bullet through
his neck. The other lost a couple of fingers, and was badly bitten
by the watch-dogs. That sort of thing cools a fellow down a bit; but
when we get a fair chance----!"
Days ran into weeks, weeks into months, but the expected agent of
deliverance was not forthcoming. The men had made their plans. Food
of a nature that would not deteriorate by keeping had been laid by
at the cost of great self-sacrifice. A map, cut from a pre-war
Baedeker, had been passed from hand to hand, in order to give the
men a fair idea of their whereabouts.
One night the men were for the most part asleep on their straw
mattresses, dog-tired with their labours, when the hitherto constant
whirr of machinery stopped. Accustomed to the clang and clatter, the
sleepers were aroused by the unusual silence. The hut was in
darkness, for lights were luxuries denied the prisoners.
"What's up?" enquired one of the men, as a steam whistle began to
send out a succession of high and low blasts.
"Time you were, chum!" replied Peter. "Out of it, boys, and get your
gear! Now's our chance!"