_“Mad Alek” and “Good Paul”_
In the future annals of the war, one Acting Sergeant Major, Alexander
Schröder, chief of _III Kompanie_, Parchim _Gefangenenlager_, better
known to the Englishmen as “Mad Alek,” deserves a large but ignominious
chapter. His ludicrous air of blood-curdling bravado and his childish
efforts to play the role of the Chocolate Soldier make him as laughable
as his brutish cruelties made him an object of dread and hate to the
thousands of prisoners who passed through his hands.
We runaways, nine in number, were lined up in the _Büro_ to give up
our valuables before entering the Arrest Barracks, when this creature
swaggered in. He cut a dashing figure with the air of a champion in
feats of arms--_gained from combats with helpless prisoners_--and a
pair of polished spurs, a clanking sword and a fiercely up-turned
mustache completed the picture. Every prisoner and German sprang to
attention.
“What are these?” he demanded, pointing at us.
“Runaways, sir?” ventured someone timidly.
“_Was? Was?_ Runaways?” Then began a thrilling oration, illustrated
with the drawn sword, on the wretchedness and depravity of us all and
of all the foul races from whence we sprang.
“This man,” said the _Unteroffizier_ humbly, pointing at a Russian,
“has a complaint to make.”
With a trembling hand the Russian presented a letter signed by a German
lady. She testified to the brutal treatment which the prisoner had
suffered at the hands of his master, driving him to desperation and
flight.
“He _beat_ you, did he?” sneered “Mad Alek,” aroused to fury again.
“I wouldn’t have beaten you--not me! I wouldn’t have _beaten_ you. I
would have _killed_ you!” and he went through the movement with his
sword--“for the surly swine you are!”
The right to demand a writ of Habeas Corpus was never observed in a
German prison camp. Offenders were thrown into the arrest barrack and
began the _Hungerstraf_ immediately a complaint was lodged and trial
awaited the casual convenience of the officer of justice.
The _Hungerstraf_ I found to consist of confinement to a bedless and
fireless barrack on a diet of pure and undiluted water. There were no
other Englishmen there at the time, but I met a Belgian who kept me
agreeable company. He had been four days at large, sleeping, as he
said, in the hay-stacks, and making for Warnemünde where he had hoped
to board a Danish ship. He was a ’14 prisoner and had attempted escape
many times before. He seemed but a youth with the smooth face of a
girl, but he knew all the tortures of German captivity at its worst.
“I only want to get back and fight again,” he said bitterly. “I shall
run away again and again until I succeed, or die--or peace is declared!”
I was not long, however, in discovering some English neighbors. They
were in the Work Barrack, which adjoined ours, and to which we would be
conducted after forty-eight hours of fasting.
I was lying down composing the tentative menu for One Grand Feast when
I should be restored to freedom (as all men do when they are suffering
from hunger), when I heard a cheery voice:
“Any _Engländer_ there?”
“Any _Engländer_ there?” it came again.
“Yes, mate,” I shouted, and followed the voice to a knot-hole in the
wall, “K. R. R.”
“I’m Australian. How’re you getting on? Say, turn your stove around,
lad, and put your arm up to the chimney. I’ve some soup for you!”
I made haste to do as I was told.
“That’s right, Jack, right around. Now, get this!”
One chimney served for the stoves in both rooms, and by turning his own
stove around, he was able to get his arm through and pass me a “bully”
tin full of soup. It was rotten stuff, and mixed with soot from the
chimney but at the moment, it was better than the food of the gods.
“Good Old Auzzie!” I said fervently.
The next day I was carried before the officer of justice for trial.
Finding that I spoke German he dismissed the interpreter and as usual
in the case of prisoners with an appearance of education, gave me a
painstaking hearing. He wished not only to know the details of my
flight, but what college I had attended, what studies I had pursued,
and my general life story.
“You have broken German martial law,” he said gravely, in conclusion,
“and must be punished, but I shall make it light. I give you seven
days’ arrest.”
“But what about the seven I have already done?” I broke in.
“Ach, that wasn’t punishment,” he explained, “that was _hospitality_!
We couldn’t leave you in the street, you know. Seven days arrest,” he
continued, “subject to reduction to two on report of good conduct. You
will be sent back to the farm, and if you repeat this nonsense, I shall
deal severely with you. On the other hand, you may be assured of good
treatment until the end of the war--if you _do your duty_!”
“My duty!” I exclaimed. “My _duty_, _Herr Leutnant_, would be to poison
all the horses and set fire to the barns.”
He dismissed me laughing.
“_Das ist ja Krieg!_”[18] was his only comment.
The proposed return to Gadebusch had evidently fallen through. I
completed the _Hungerstraf_ and afterward spent a few extra days in the
work barrack before the guard came to take me back to the farm. The
ration in the work barrack differed from that in the _Hungerstraf_ in
that they mixed a few carrots and potatoes with the water and called it
soup. At all events it was calculated to give us the stamina necessary
for work.
We were marching out to work one afternoon when I was astonished to
see one of the Frenchmen in the party run up to the guard and embrace
him affectionately.
“_C’est toi, Paul!_”[19]
“_François! Mon vieux!_”[20]
But I recognized the guard and my astonishment was removed. It
was indeed Paul. “Good Paul,” as the Russians called him, a
French-Alsatian, as well known to the habitues of the detention
barracks as “Mad Alek” and as cordially loved as the latter was hated.
He had contrived to stay in the prison camp since the outbreak of the
war with the one object of smoothing the jagged edges of captivity for
Allied prisoners. Neither daily abuses from his German comrades nor the
constant risk of punishment for himself had deterred him. Many a man
will remember him gratefully for a timely rescue from wretched, gnawing
hunger, many a man owes his escape from a Komando, which would have
been equivalent to a death sentence to him, and the despondent hearts
which have been warmed by a friendly word and a handshake from Paul
would be difficult to estimate.
We had the job of loading peat on the trucks behind the camp. After
loading one truck, Paul, having explored the scene for official eyes in
the meantime, put François on sentry.
“You look out for _Unterofficieren_,” he directed, and turning to
the rest of us, “Sit down on the peat baskets,” he said. “Here are
cigarettes for some of you. And don’t any one work until I tell you!”
“Is there anyone here,” he asked presently, knowing our hunger, “who
has friends in the cage with food?”
“_Ja_,” replied a Serbian and I.
“Swap coats,” he said, “in case any of the guards know you, and push
that truck in the gate.”
I enjoyed a good tea with a sergeant of my regiment and we both
returned with pockets bulging with food, which we divided with our
comrades.
We were all warmly grateful to Paul.
“That’s only my business here,” he said, pleased.
Whatever else may be done at the Peace Conference, I want the Allies
to make a search of Germany and Alsace-Lorraine until they find one
Paul Sanchez formerly attached to _X Kompanie, Ersatz Battalion_ of
the German Army--a little man with a blonde mustache, and a kindly
face--and give him a Victoria Cross!
FOOTNOTES:
[18] That is indeed war.
[19] It is you, Paul.
[20] François, my Old Mate!