THE PRISON-CAMP
The guard took me to Camp 6, Barrack A, where I found some of the
boys I knew. They were in good spirits, and had fared in the matter
of food much the same as I had. We agreed exactly in our diagnosis
of the soup.
I was shown my mattress and given two blankets; also a metal bowl,
knife, and fork.
Outside the hut, on the shady side, I went and sat down with some of
the boys who, like myself, were excused from labor. Dent, of Toronto,
was one of the party, and he was engaged in the occupation known as
"reading his shirt"--and on account of the number of shirts being
limited to one for each man, while the "reading" was going on, he sat
in a boxer's uniform, wrapped only in deep thought.
Now, it happened that I did not acquire any "cooties" while I was in
the army, and of course in the lazaret we were kept clean, so this
was my first close acquaintanceship with them. My time of exemption
was over, though, for by night I had them a-plenty.
I soon found out that insect powder was no good. I think it just made
them sneeze, and annoyed them a little. We washed our solitary shirts
regularly, but as we had only cold water, it did not kill the eggs,
and when we hung the shirt out in the sun, the eggs came out in full
strength, young, hearty, and hungry. It was a new generation we had
to deal with, and they had all the objectionable qualities of their
ancestors, and a few of their own.
Before long, the Canadian Red Cross parcels began to come, and I got
another shirt--a good one, too, only the sleeves were too long. I
carefully put in a tuck, for they came well over my hands. But I soon
found that these tucks became a regular rendezvous for the "cooties,"
and I had to let them out. The Red Cross parcels also contained
towels, toothbrushes, socks, and soap, and all these were very
useful.
After a few weeks, with the lice increasing every day, we raised such
a row about them that the guards took us to the fumigator. This was
a building of three rooms, which stood by itself in the compound.
In the first room we undressed and hung all our clothes, and our
blankets too, on huge hooks which were placed on a sliding framework.
This framework was then pushed into the oven and the clothes were
thoroughly baked. We did not let our boots, belts, or braces go, as
the heat would spoil the leather. We then walked out into the next
room and had a shower bath, and after that went into the third room
at the other side of the oven, and waited until the framework was
pushed through to us, when we took our clothes from the hooks and
dressed.
This was a sure cure for the "cooties," and for a few days, at least,
we enjoyed perfect freedom from them. Every week after this we had a
bath, and it was compulsory, too.
[Illustration: Giessen Prison-Camp]
As prison-camps go, Giessen is a good one. The place is well drained;
the water is excellent; the sanitary conditions are good, too; the
sleeping accommodations are ample, there being no upper berths such
as exist in all the other camps I have seen. It is the "Show-Camp,"
to which visitors are brought, who then, not having had to eat the
food, write newspaper articles telling how well Germany treats her
prisoners. If these people could see some of the other camps that I
have seen, the articles would have to be modified.
* * *
News of the trouble in Ireland sifted through to us in the
prison-camp. The first I heard of it was a letter in the "Continental
Times," by Roger Casement's sister, who had been in Germany and
had visited some of the prison-camps, and was so pleased with the
generous treatment Germany was according her prisoners. She was
especially charmed with the soup!!! And the letter went on to tell
of the Irish Brigade that was being formed in Germany to fight the
tyrant England. Every Irish prisoner who would join was to be given
the privilege of fighting against England. Some British prisoners
who came from Limburg, a camp about thirty miles from Giessen, told
us more about it. Roger Casement, himself, had gone there to gather
recruits, and several Irishmen had joined and were given special
privileges accordingly. However, there were many Irishmen who did
_not_ join, and who kept a list of the recruits--for future
reference, when the war was over!
The Irishmen in our camp were approached, but they remained loyal.
* * *
The routine of the camp was as follows: Reveille sounded at six. We
got up and dressed and were given a bowl of coffee. Those who were
wise saved their issue of bread from the night before, and ate it
with the coffee. There was a roll-call right after the coffee, when
every one was given a chance to volunteer for work. At noon there was
soup, and another roll-call. We answered the roll-call, either with
the French word "Présent" or the German word "Hier," pronounced the
same as our word. Then at five o'clock there was an issue of black
bread made mostly from potato flour.
I was given a light job of keeping the space between A Barrack and B
Barrack clean, and I made a fine pretense of being busy, for it let
me out of "drill," which I detested, for they gave the commands in
German, and it went hard with us to have to salute their officers.
On Sundays there was a special roll-call, when every one had to give
a full account of himself. The prisoners then had the privilege of
asking for any work they wanted, and if the Germans could supply it,
it was given.
None of us were keen on working; not but what we would much rather
work than be idle, but for the uncomfortable thought that we were
helping the enemy. There were iron-works near by, where Todd,
Whittaker, Dent, little Joe, and some others were working, and it
happened that one day Todd and one of the others, when going to have
teeth pulled at the dentist's, saw shells being shipped away, and
upon inquiry found the steel came from the iron mines where they were
working. When this became known, the boys refused to work! Every sort
of bullying was tried on them for two days at the mines, but they
still refused. They were then sent back to Giessen and sentenced to
eighteen months' punishment at Butzbach--all but Dent, who managed
some way to fool the doctor pretending he was sick!
That they fared badly there, I found out afterwards, though I never
saw any of them.
Some of the boys from our hut worked on the railroad, and some went
to work in the chemical works at Griesheim, which have since been
destroyed by bombs dropped by British airmen.
John Keith, who was working on the railroad,--one of the best-natured
and inoffensive boys in our hut,--came in one night with his face
badly swollen and bruised. He had laughed, it seemed, at something
which struck him as being funny, and the guard had beaten him over
the head with the butt of his rifle. One of our guards, a fine old,
brown-eyed man called "Sank," told the guard who had done this what
he thought of him. "Sank" was the "other" kind of German, and did all
he could to make our lives pleasant. I knew that "Sank" was calling
down the guard, by his expression and his gestures, and his frequent
use of the word "blödsinnig."
Another time one of the fellows from our hut, who was a member of a
working party, was shot through the legs by the guard, who claimed he
was trying to escape, and after that there were no more working
parties allowed for a while.
Each company had its own interpreter, Russian, French, or English.
Our interpreter was a man named Scott from British Columbia, an
Englishman who had received part of his education at Heidelberg. From
him I learned a good deal about the country through which I hoped
to travel. Heidelberg is situated between Giessen and the Swiss
boundary, and so was of special interest to me. I made a good-sized
map, and marked in all the information I could dig out of Scott.
The matter of escaping was in my mind all the time, but I was careful
to whom I spoke, for some fellows' plans had been frustrated by their
unwise confidences.
The possession of a compass is an indication that the subject of
"escaping" has been thought of, and the question, "Have you a
compass?" is the prison-camp way of saying, "What do you think of
making a try?"
One day, a fellow called Bromley who came from Toronto, and who was
captured at the same time that I was, asked me if I had a compass. He
was a fine big fellow, with a strong, attractive face, and I liked
him, from the first. He was a fair-minded, reasonable chap, and we
soon became friends. We began to lay plans, and when we could get
together, talked over the prospects, keeping a sharp lookout for
eavesdroppers.
[Illustration: Tom Bromley / In Red Cross overcoat with prison number
and marked sleeve]
There were difficulties!
The camp was surrounded by a high board fence, and above the boards,
barbed wire was tightly drawn, to make it uncomfortable for reaching
hands. Inside of this was an ordinary barbed-wire fence through which
we were not allowed to go, with a few feet of "No Man's Land" in
between.
There were sentry-boxes ever so often, so high that the sentry could
easily look over the camp. Each company was divided from the others
by two barbed-wire fences, and besides this there were the sentries
who walked up and down, armed, of course.
There were also the guns commanding every bit of the camp, and
occasionally, to drive from us all thought of insurrection, the
Regular Infantry marched through with fixed bayonets. At these times
we were always lined up so we should not miss the gentle little
lesson!
* * *
One day, a Zeppelin passed over the camp, and we all hurried out
to look at it. It was the first one I had seen, and as it rode
majestically over us, I couldn't help but think of the terrible use
that had been made of man's mastery of the air. We wondered if it
carried bombs. Many a wish for its destruction was expressed--and
unexpressed. Before it got out of sight, it began to show signs of
distress, as if the wishes were taking effect, and after considerable
wheeling and turning it came back.
Ropes were lowered and the men came down. It was secured to the
ground, and floated serenely beside the wood adjoining the camp....
The wishes were continued....
During the afternoon, a sudden storm swept across the camp--rain and
wind with such violence that we were all driven indoors....
When we came out after a few minutes--probably half an hour--the
Zeppelin had disappeared. We found out afterwards that it had broken
away from its moorings, and, dashing against the high trees, had been
smashed to kindling wood; and this news cheered us wonderfully!
* * *
A visitor came to the camp one day, and, accompanied by three or four
officers, made the rounds. He spoke to a group of us who were outside
of the hut, asking us how many Canadians there were in Giessen. He
said he thought there were about nine hundred Canadians in Germany
altogether. He had no opportunity for private conversation with us,
for the German officers did not leave him for a second; and although
he made it clear that he would like to speak to us alone this
privilege was not granted. Later we found out it was Ambassador James
W. Gerard.
It soon became evident that there were spies in the camp. Of course,
we might have known that no German institution could get along
without spies. Spies are the bulwark of the German nation; so in the
Giessen camp there were German spies of all nationalities, including
Canadian.
But we soon saw, too, that the spies were not working overtime on
their job; they just brought in a little gossip once in a while--just
enough to save their faces and secure a soft snap for themselves.
One of these, a Frenchman named George Clerque, a Sergeant Major in
the French Army, was convinced that he could do better work if he
had a suit of civilian clothes; and as he had the confidence of the
prison authorities, the suit was given him. He wore it around for a
few days, wormed a little harmless confidence out of some of his
countrymen, and then one day quietly walked out of the front
gate--and was gone!
Being in civilian dress, it seemed quite likely that he would reach
his destination, and as days went on, and there was no word of him,
we began to hope that he had arrived in France.
The following notice was put up regarding his escape:
NOTICE!
Owing to the evasions recently done, we beg to inform the prisoners
of war of the following facts. Until present time, all the prisoners
who were evased, have been catched. The French Sergt. Major George
Clerque, speaking a good German and being in connection in Germany
with some people being able to favorise his evasion, has been
retaken. The Company says again, in the personal interests of the
prisoners, that any evasion give place to serious punition (minima)
fortnight of rigourous imprisonment after that they go in the
"Strafbaracke" for an indeterminate time.
GIESSEN, den 19th July, 1915.
Although the notice said he had been captured we held to the hope
that he had not, for we knew the German way of using the truth only
when it suits better than anything they can frame themselves. They
have no prejudice against the truth. It stands entirely on its own
merits. If it suits them, they will use it, but the truth must not
expect any favors.
The German guards told us quite often that no one ever got out of
Germany alive, and we were anxious to convince them that they were
wrong. One day when the mail came in, a friend of George Clerque
told us he had written from France, and there was great, but, of
necessity, quiet rejoicing.
That night Bromley and I decided that we would volunteer for farm
service, if we could get taken to Rossbach, where some of the other
boys had been working, for Rossbach was eighteen miles south of
Giessen--on the way to Switzerland. We began to save food from our
parcels, and figure out distances on the map which I had made.
The day came when we were going to volunteer--Sunday at roll-call. Of
course, we did not wish to appear eager, and were careful not to be
seen together too much. Suddenly we were called to attention, and a
stalwart German soldier marched solemnly into the camp. Behind him
came two more, with somebody between them, and another soldier
brought up the rear. The soldiers carried their rifles and full
equipment, and marched by in front of the huts.
We pressed forward, full of curiosity, and there beheld the tiredest,
dustiest, most woe-begone figure of a man, whose clothes were in
rags, and whose boots were so full of holes they seemed ready to drop
off him. He was handcuffed and walked wearily, with downcast eyes--
It was George Clerque!
[Illustration: German Prison Stamp]