ITwas the middle of winter. The glorious dark blue sky glittering with stars shed a soft light, such as one can see on frosty evenings even when the moon is hidden. Not a breath! The fir-trees stood darkly in the distance, their motionless shapes outlined against the horizon. The men were happy to come out of doors this calm and frosty night to take deep breaths of the life-giving air, and by rapid walking to bring their blood to a glow. What more delightful for a captive than to walk in the pine-scented night, under the azure sky, the contemplation of which called up memories of the dear homeland. In the frosty air, that whipped the blood and warmed the body, he could forget the present and turn freely to thoughts of happy times in other years, to the joyful Christmas Eves and the endless pleasures of the first days of January. Talking in groups of twos or threes, or alone wrapped in thought, with rapid steps the prisoners overtook or passed each other on the path that surrounded the camp.
Avoiding the too-frequented way for fear ofbeing accosted by a comrade in search of a companion, a Frenchman, eager for solitude, walks up and down the space in the centre of the camp. He recalls memories of happy days, and the well-beloved faces of friends, and lives again through the sufferings he has endured. From time to time he looks at the infinite stars, and the thought of the free constellations of heaven calls forth a despairing sigh; he laments lost liberty and this forced inaction.
Suddenly his attention is attracted by a silent shadow which stands before him. It is the pillory, an instrument of torture which civilisation has not yet been able to abolish, and which still exists in German barracks for corporeal punishment. It is a high, solid post firmly fixed in the ground, and surmounted by a large white board on which a square of paper is fixed, showing the nationality, name and fault of the delinquent and the length of his punishment. This varies from two to twelve hours, according to the fault. In principle, two hours of the pillory are equal to a day in prison, and the duration of two hours must not be exceeded in a period of twenty-four hours. The culprit has his hands fastened together behind the post; his ankles are bound and kept immovable by a rope which fixes them to the base of the instrument of torture; another rope is tied round his body, rendering him incapable of a move. It is a punishment of which the intensity of suffering is very variable, according to whether the weather is fine or rainy, temperate or cold, according to whether the executioner has more or less animosity againstthe victim or his race. However that may be, even on a fine day, with the ropes loose and under the most favourable conditions, to stand motionless for two hours is a painful punishment.
The faults for which prisoners are condemned are for the most part trivial; and the punishments are so liberally given that a second post has been put up opposite the first pillory. One man had smoked in a tent, another had omitted to salute a German N.C.O. that he met, a third had escaped from fatigue duty or missed a parade, a fourth was caught carrying on an illicit trade in artificial honey, margarine or chocolate. One, tortured by hunger, had succeeded in eluding the vigilance of his commanding officer and had obtained a second basin of soup; another had visited the doctor and not been recognised as ill; still another had started some game of chance; and last of all, a man had moved while his company was at attention. What need have I to say more? Everything is an excuse for punishment. So punishments follow uninterruptedly from morning till night. But this evening—or rather night—the pillory seemed strangely large at the base. Could it be that some one was bound there at this hour, and in such weather? The man approaches in the darkness till he touches the unhappy comrade, who, at six o’clock in the evening, and with the thermometer at 6° below zero, is still fastened to the post of torture. He speaks sympathetically to him. The other replies in low tones, furtively, as if afraid of being heard, just a hasty word. It is a Scotsman, his accent reveals his nationality. What does he say?
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Luckily the Frenchman happens to be the interpreter for the English company. He understands. Now that his eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness, he distinguishes the kilt of the wearer, and the Scotch cap placed on the side of his head. The interpreter asks question after question, but the Scotsman only replies shortly, and begs his questioner to go away, for he fears he also will get punished if found talking to him. But the unhappy man speaks in vain, the other will not obey his entreaties.
“Have you been here long?”
“Since two o’clock this afternoon. What time is it now?”
“It is past six. They must have forgotten you, for they have not the right to leave you tied up for more than two hours.”
“I know. An adjutant who was passing gave the order for me not to be set free, saying he would have me untied when he thought proper.”
“Horrible! Why?”
“Because in the crowd of soldiers who surrounded me, pretending to read the reason of my punishment, one, out of kindness, let me have a few puffs at his cigarette.”
“And why were you punished?”
“I was caught smoking near the tents.”
There is, in fact, within the camp a rough space between two tents, reserved for smokers, and every man is likely to be punished who dares to smoke outside that place, indicated in a conventional manner by four posts stuck in the ground on which may be read in large characters“Smoking-Room.” It reminds one of the staging of a play in the time of Shakespeare.
“You know, the Germans don’t like us,” continues the Scotsman. “Go away,” he says; “you will be punished if they find you here.”
“So much the worse for me. I will not leave you like this. Come what may, I am going to untie you.”
“No, I pray you! Don’t do that, for God’s sake. They know my name, and to-morrow I shall have a double punishment. Do go away.”
“Then I shall run to the German guardroom and intercede for you.”
“Don’t do anything, it will do no good and you yourself will run the chance of being punished. And you know it is not good to be in the pillory.”
While speaking, the poor man could scarcely restrain the trembling of his voice. He shivered in spite of himself. For four hours he had been bound to this post in the terrible cold. His hands, the circulation of which was arrested by the cords too tightly drawn, were violet and swollen. His feet must have been in the same state. For four hours he had been there in the same position, motionless, his body contorted, his limbs imprisoned by ropes that cut his swollen flesh. The minutes must have seemed like hours of agony, but, inured to suffering, courageous, stoical, proud, he hid his feelings and did not utter a complaint. Motionless, on the frozen earth, he waited patiently for the end of his torture.
The interpreter, who knew enough of the misery of these poor British,—at the beginning of their captivity they received nothing from home,—bentdown to look at the sufferer’s boots. As he expected, they were in shreds, and probably had no soles. Without saying a word he left the Scotsman and went.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A few moments later he came back.
“Lift up your right foot. That’s right. Now the left. That’s better, isn’t it?”
“What have you done?”
“Oh, I have only put a little piece of wood to separate you from the ground and keep the cold from freezing your feet.”
“Ah! thank you! But you will get into trouble! If any one has seen you!”
“Well, cheer up! Good-bye for the present.” He went on towards the office.
“No, don’t go there. I am very well now and it won’t be long before I am released. Leave me.”
But already the Frenchman was out of earshot. He went to the office, not many steps from there, where the light from the windows was piercing the darkness. His indignation was great and he felt his anger rising. What! there were men—executioners—so cruel as to order that one of their own kind should be tied up like a packet and fastened to a post, his limbs bound so that the normal circulation was impossible! There were men so unworthy of the name as to make such a horrible punishment last for over four hours in that deadly weather! And they wanted people to cease calling them Huns and barbarians! The interpreter was so furious that he almost knocked over a figure coming in the opposite direction. Ina moment he perceived him. It was a German, an adjutant. His anger was so great that he forgot to salute. He found himself face to face with the adjutant who had the worst reputation among the French, and yet the hate that this man had for the French was like “sweet milk” in comparison with the hatred he nourished for the English. Without preamble the interpreter accosts this churlish man.
“Adjutant, I wish to bring to your notice a case of gross neglect. It is six o’clock; it is 6° or 7° below zero and a man is still tied to the pillory.”
With a smile the jailer replied in a light mocking tone:
“I know; it is an Englishman. And it is by my orders he is there.”
“Impossible! You have never given such a barbarous order, to have a man tied up for four hours in this cold weather. They have not understood you, and, moreover, I am convinced that your rules—inhuman and incomprehensible as they seem to us—do not authorise——”
“Hold your tongue! You forget that you are a prisoner; you have not the right to speak to me like that.”
“I think it is my duty to let you know that a man is being tortured more than your rules allow, and I thought to spare your conscience the remorse of homicide ... through forgetfulness.”
“A man! Come! It is an Englishman! What interest have you in defending an Englishman? It is only an Englishman!”
“I know, but he is, nevertheless, a man. Hesuffers as we do, even more than we French do, since the lot that you reserve for them is more painful than ours.”
“The English are pigs!”
“Allow me to tell you that I have many good friends among them, and a long stay in England has enabled me to know that one meets among them certainly less of those animals than in another country I am acquainted with.”
“What! You insult me! You call the Germans pigs! Very well; you shall come with me to the lieutenant.”
“One moment! you mistake me. I did not say—— But, after all, let us go and see the lieutenant. Perhaps he still has a little human feeling.”
There was a short distance yet to go to the office of the lieutenant who commanded the camp. The interpreter, although shocked by the sight of such barbarity as he had witnessed, and excited by this lively discussion with the Boche adjutant, had nevertheless kept cool and knew quite well that he had got himself into a bad scrape. Already he saw a war-council sitting and judgment given; the door of the prison that would open to admit him, and especially—even before the meeting of the war-council—the long days of detention in a dark, dirty, icy cell, badly ventilated, where solitude and privation would wreck his nerves.
Well, so much the worse for him; he would go on to the end. His case was serious, he had no doubt about it; and the adjutant, wounded in his dignity, would demand the full penalty. Already proud of his prize the German was enjoying inadvance the sufferings of his captive; he smiled to himself, and his little grey-blue eyes, sunk in fat, glittered wickedly.
They arrived in front of the wooden shed which constituted the office. The adjutant was just going to knock at the door when it opened. A brilliant light flooded the ground and dazzled those who were outside. In the centre of this brightness a massive form appeared. It was the lieutenant, about to hurry home.
The adjutant immediately recognised him, drew himself up smartly as if he were worked by a spring, brought his heels noisily together and stood at attention in a faultless manner, bringing his right hand to the peak of his cap and bending his whole body obsequiously forward. The Frenchman had quickly saluted and advanced in front of the adjutant, who, silent and deferential, waited for his superior to speak to him first.
Without letting the lieutenant have the time to question his inferior, the Frenchman, whose coolness amazed the Boche, had spoken to the commander of the camp and explained what he had at heart.
By error, assuredly, an Englishman had remained for four hours tied to the pillory. It was freezing hard, and the unhappy man would surely receive his death-blow. He must have been forgotten; but as German discipline was well known, nobody, not even the adjutant who was present—whom he indicated with his hand—nobody had thought it proper to take upon himself to set free this man, who was undergoing a punishment inflicted by the orders of the General. It was, however, evidentthat a word from the lieutenant would be sufficient to rectify the mistake, and hinder the punishment being prolonged; for it would be regrettable if, by excess of discipline and a too literal respect for the orders given, a man should be forced to suffer excess of torture, which to all appearance no one wished to inflict on him.
The officer listened without saying a word. The adjutant was raging, and would have annihilated the Frenchman if his glance had possessed the power. He bowed respectfully every time the officer looked his way, burning with impatience to say a word to change the state of affairs. The darkness, which prevented the lieutenant from seeing the adjutant’s anguished expression, saved the situation. The commander of the camp no doubt thought that the N.C.O. came to present the interpreter and support his request.
The weather was cold, the hour late and the lieutenant wanted to get home; perhaps at the end of the day, when he was going to see his wife and children, he felt a little kinder-hearted, and so it was that, cracking his whip, he went off saying: “Schneider, see that this man is set free.” Heels clacked together, and the two men saluted the departing officer. In the darkness they stared at each other, not daring to give expression to their feelings. One of them would have liked to show his joy and relief, but he was a prisoner; the other, by a rude blow with the butt-end of the musket, would have loved to show the Frenchman that one dared not mock at a Prussian with impunity. But the law stoodthere, rigid and menacing. Sulky, calling down imprecations on himself, swearing at the lieutenant, the Frenchman and the Englishman, the French and the English, all the Allies in general and all his superiors, the German made sign to the interpreter to follow him. They went towards the pillory. “Undo this man.” But the Frenchman wanted his victory to be complete, and the humiliation of the Boche to know no limit. He tried feebly to undo the knots; he did not succeed.
“You have tied them too tightly,” he said to the Teuton, “and my hands are frozen with the cold; I cannot undo them.”
“Come, try again. You must untie this man. You wished to do it.”
“All right!” The interpreter took his knife from his pocket and began to cut the almost new rope, when the German, swearing, stopped him.
Then one might have seen a sight, the contemplation of which would have been sweet to every prisoner. In the black night a German adjutant undoing with his own hands and by the orders of a superior officer the bonds of a hated Englishman, whom he would have liked to see perish with pain and cold, and this under the contemptuous eyes of a Frenchman whom he had hoped to summon before a war-council, and to send to shiver on the straw of a cell.
The work finished, the Boche, full of rage and shame, rolled up the rope. Then he went away, and the dark, frosty night swallowed him up.
The unhappy Scotsman, worn out and frozen, could scarcely stand. The pains caused by thereturning circulation were intolerable. The interpreter offered him the help of his arm and insisted on accompanying him to his tent.
Both were astonished and delighted at the happy end to this adventure, which might have been tragic. Phlegmatic, the Scotsman seemed already to have forgotten his sufferings. At the door of his tent he shook hands heartily with the interpreter, assuring him of his gratitude, and offered him a woodbine, concluding with the words, “All’s well that ends well.”
NIGHTspreads over the camp, not a star is to be seen in the sky; gloomy, lugubrious, heavy darkness envelops it, rendered still more dismal by the rain, which, fine as a mist, falls fast and silently, penetrating our shabby garments.
It is nearly nine o’clock. Silence reigns, broken occasionally by the howling of the wind. The tents—which the Germans had not yet taken the trouble to light up—formed an indistinct blot on the darkness, their existence revealed only by the flapping of the canvas shaken by the gusts of a cold and bitter breeze. Some of the tents, lit by a few candles which the prisoners had succeeded in procuring outside the camp, with their dim, hazy outlines, gave relief to the gloomy night, which appeared to suffer from the misery she was hiding. The lights will waver here and there for some time, and then one by one will disappear when the bugle has sounded the dismal notes of the “Curfew,” which sends a shiver through the soul and starts the dogs howling. Till then the occupants of the tents still out of bed assemble around thefeeble glimmer which, twinkling and lost in the shadows of the big place, gives light to about thirty men grouped in a circle about it. Some are playing cards, some writing diaries or reading over again the letter of a loved one, a letter received perhaps a fortnight ago. Others again are polishing rings or carving wood or simply thinking of past happiness—of the joys of the family, or of a good table, or the comfort of an arm-chair in one’s study, club or café. But perhaps this poor light suggests mournful memories, evokes only the picture of tapers burning at the four corners of a bier in which some beloved being is enclosed.
From time to time the flame flickers and, almost extinguishing the cotton wick, plunges the tent into semi-obscurity, giving the shadows more gigantic proportions. It is because some one has just opened the door, and an icy wind rushes in and chills every one in its way. Brr—brrr. It is not good to be outside. This rain penetrates and freezes one in the twinkling of an eye. The last prisoners, loitering to talk with their comrades in the neighbouring tents, come in one by one, and rejoice to find themselves under shelter, for he must be insane who remains outside in such weather.
Nine o’clock! We hear the discordant notes of the bugle. Blow out the candles, the patrol is passing. Every one creeps shivering under his blankets; the mattresses seem soft! How good it is to escape such weather. A feeling of pity goes forth to those who are obliged to pass the night outside, on the roads or in the trenches.
Silence and darkness envelop the camp, bringing sadness and repose.
Over yonder, however, a lamp is still burning; it appears to hurl defiance at all rules! Oh! don’t be afraid; no one would risk being sent to the pillory, for no one would dare to transgress orders in such a manner. This lamp, which is the only one burning in the camp, belongs to the kitchen, where the work is not finished. The cooks, tired by a long and hard day’s labour, sigh for the rest their comrades are already enjoying, and hasten as speedily as possible to finish their task. One can see their hurrying shadows flitting to and fro.
Near the kitchen, in a particularly dark spot, about thirty men are herded. They have been there almost a couple of hours, pressed one against the other and shivering in the rain which soaks them to the skin. Silently and feverishly they knock off from their numbed and badly-shod feet the black liquid mud with which they splash each other; they are spattered right to their knees, and the legs of their trousers—stiff as if starched—rub the flesh till the blood comes. The smoking lantern suspended from the ceiling of the kitchen and swinging in the wind, from time to time, seemingly with regret, throws a yellow, fleeting light on this still crowd. Here the khaki uniform predominates. Here they are, those fine English soldiers, whose superb carriage, exquisite cleanliness, bold warlike air and powerful muscles, excited the admiration of the crowds at Havre and Rouen. Here they are, poor beggars, withoutshirts, their jerseys in rags, their trousers in holes, jagged, torn and thin as a spider’s web, their worn shoes down at heel, letting in water on all sides. Their faces, once clean-shaven, fresh and smiling, now emaciated, wan and dirty, are covered with rough, bristling hair; their cheek-bones protrude, their eyes are hollow and haggard. They were accustomed to substantial and abundant food. A quart of hot, greasy water, wherein the vegetables are few and the meat absent, now composes their “Menu,” and replaces the half-pound of beef, potatoes, cabbage and pudding of former days. They were accustomed to a bath every day, to frequent change of linen, to careful shaving. Here they are without soap, towels or change of linen, having no razor and often deprived of water. They let them die of hunger, rot in their dirt, overrun by parasites, and subject them to the most repugnant and terrible drudgery. On them the Teuton revenges the help given to France by their country and the supremacy of their flag upon the sea.
There are men of all sizes among them: giants whose shoulders are bowed with misery, beardless youths with the bearing of Ephebus, veterans wearing on their breasts the ribbons of the Transvaal.
Men are there thin enough to frighten. With caps pulled down over their eyes, hands in their pockets, their shoulders bent under the soaking rain, they stamped the ground with their broken shoes, without uttering a word. From time to time there is a slight bustle, a little altercation;it is a soldier who tries to creep forward and get a better place, and who is put back quickly and by brute force to the left of the column.
The English know how to be calm and patient while waiting for anything, but once they are roused nothing stops them.
In silence these men wait patiently. What do they want? What dark conspiracy are they hatching in the shadows with the help of the silence of night. Who will be the victim of this horde of half-starved wretches in rags, despairing and ashamed.
They wait.
Suddenly a ray of light flashes abruptly into the trembling darkness, betraying the opening of a door. “Here they are.”
Muscles harden under the ragged garments, chests swell, bodies are poised ready. A formidable, savage struggle, accompanied by a hoarse roar, transforms the peaceful and silent crowd into a threatening hurricane, from which soon cries and oaths arise.
The light, swinging backwards and forwards, shows for a second angular profiles, criminal faces, stamped with ferocious brutality, twitching hands, and arms knotted and tattooed. Sinister sight!
The noise increases; they push; some struggle to advance; others to draw back. Helmets are flying; the uproar and the cries destroy the peace of the night. They come to blows, fists fall at random in the gloom with a dull sound. The fight becomes furious. It is a battle of demons in a hell deprived of light.
Those nearest the kitchen stoop, making wild and savage gestures; they seem to want to finish an invisible enemy already brought down, and it is with exclamations of joy and triumph and glee that they add their voices to the cries of their comrades, who, from behind, catching on to anything they can, try to force themselves forward and throw themselves on the long-awaited victim. From time to time one hears the groans of some man in pain, whose hand is being crushed under the nailed boots of those who are advancing without looking where they are going.
The uproar causes the sentry on guard at the kitchen to appear, armed, ferocious, yelling, gesticulating, sweeping them before him here, there, everywhere, with blows from the butt of his rifle and kicks from his heavy boots, bestowed with so praiseworthy a generosity that it approaches prodigality. They do not give to his entrance on the scene the importance it demands. His blows are added to the blows already given, his cries to those already uttered, and only serve to increase the tumult and uproar. The men who have been hit remain there insensible and angry, with clenched hands and staring eyes full of violent purposes. They remind one of ferocious dogs who have sprung on one another, and that nothing can separate.
A few succeed in getting out of the arena, and disappear noiselessly in the darkness, creeping along by the tents like night thieves; and the lantern swinging from the rafters of the kitchen, seemingly ashamed of showing up such poor wretches, spares them the indignity of revealingtheir incognito, and swings backwards and forwards in such a manner as to deprive them of its smoking light.
At last the cries die out, the movement becomes less intense. Silently they go away one by one, till only the sentinel remains. His shouting ceases; breathless but victorious he marches over the conquered ground.
“The combat is over for want of combatants.” The last prisoner to slip away is a wretched young Englishman in rags. In his hands, covered with blood and mud, he is carefully carrying his cap upside down. Arriving opposite the kitchen he stops in the light, and from the greasy pocket of his ragged trousers he draws out a handful of white sticky stuff which he puts into his headgear. Slowly in this manner he empties both his pockets. One can see his poor features, stamped with suffering, suddenly light up at the contemplation of the contents of his cap; he is smiling at his theft. Poor devil; hunger cries with an imperious voice, and behold, our young Englishman fills his mouth with handfuls of the slimy, sticky stuff that has just been in the mud, then in his greasy pockets and smirched hands, and lastly in his cap shiny with dirt.
In spite of the fatigue of a day’s drudgery, in spite of the terrible weather, risking the rudeness and blows of those stronger and more hungry than himself, he has remained there patiently for two hours, waiting for the cooks to come and throw away into a tub the remains of the cod soup which was left in the saucepans. That poorEnglish youth is happy to be able to eat those salty and disgusting remains, composed for the greater part of the bones, skin and eyes of the codfish, which he has had the privilege of picking up under the blows of a Prussian soldier, and is now greedily eating.
Satisfied, he returns to his mattress. To-morrow he will be happy to find under his straw, dirty and full of parasites, at the bottom of his greasy cap, the remains of to-day’s feast.
Every evening, at the time when their comrades are resting, these starving men go to the same place! Every evening a similar distressing scene is enacted.
Sometimes the sentinel on duty laughs and lets them take what they can get. How good it is to see one’s enemies suffer from hunger, when one feels the gentle pressure of a tunic over a well-filled stomach.
Brutes! The darkness has too long hidden your wickedness; your time is coming! Strike those who are dying of hunger, laugh at those who are struggling not to fall from exhaustion! The hour of your punishment has struck!
SLOWLYbut with terrible certainty the work of encircling us went on day by day. A month ago we had seen experts wandering round the barbed-wire fence which enclosed us. Then the surveyors had followed, and here and there, at regular intervals, had dug up spadefuls of earth. A certain inactivity followed, which, in spite of every experience, raised a faint hope in the heart of the prisoners.
But when some of our comrades appeared in the camp carrying pickaxes and spades, hope vanished.
Slowly, very slowly, as if to show their regret, the squad went to the first landmark. There they halted, and the tools were thrown on the ground. The sentinels, dressed in brown overcoats, ornamented at the collar by a black number on a red background, stood with their guns slung on their shoulders, and shivered as they filled their pipes.
Already those who were curious hurried up, and, recognising some of their comrades amongst the workers, began to talk to them, in spite of the sentinels who, from fear of disturbances, kept thetwo groups apart. From one side and the other exclamations burst forth. To show their sympathy for their comrades forced to work, some teasingly congratulated them on the haste they had shown to go and work for the Boches. The others described their efforts to get out of the group of able-bodied men, their various adventures and finally their capture. In any case they assured their questioners of their firm determination not to outrival the German workman! The gaiety, the vivacity and the wit of these men were in striking contrast to the heaviness and sour looks of the guard. Then the idlers asked for “tips,” but even the workmen who knew the most could tell them nothing; they only knew one thing, that which brute force taught them—they had got to do the work. But all of them shook their heads sadly, as if to say: “It’s a bad job.” Nobody indeed was ignorant of the object of this work, for it had been long talked about. Some weeks before an interpreter had got wind of it, and the news that he brought back spread through the camp like wildfire. At first all cried out at such an invention, for good sense and humanity revolted against it, and maintained it was impossible. Electricians amongst us discussed it, and could not believe in it—it was impracticable. To begin with, the installation would cost too much, and then it would be a crime to leave at hand a constant danger of death. The Germans were brutes, it was well known, but even they would never dare to encircle their prisoners by a current of 5000 volts. The rumour was, unfortunately, true.
Only the evening before, a well-known man in the French colony had somewhat reassured the timorous by his learned arguments, and now the nightmare had become reality. The jailers, jealous of their sandy soil, begrudged a few feet to our prisoners, already cramped in a place whose narrow limits were terribly oppressive. All round the perimeter the Germans were going to cut off three or four metres to make an impassable barrier; inside a double enclosure of barbed wire they were going to install a third line of electrified wire which would ensure death to any one touching it. Everybody lamented the loss of this narrow run of earth, which was the promenade, the boulevard, the forum. There we walked as far as possible to the outside of the camp, our eyes turned towards the neighbouring forest, into which we gazed longingly, and the sight of which enabled some of us to enjoy the illusion of liberty. The eyes which turned from the hideous tents, where we lived crowded together, lit up sometimes with a brighter glance at the happy remembrance of a walk with our dear ones in a similar forest far away. This illusion, this shadowy remembrance, was to be taken from us! We had been able until now, by approaching near enough, to overlook one barrier, but the presence of three lines of barbed wire between us and the forest would destroy its lure, and increase the weight of our chains and the misery of our captivity.
It was on this promenade surrounding the camp that we met in the morning when work did not claim us. It was there that we walked, to and frochatting with friends about the probable length of the war and our chances of victory. Optimistic speakers, in discourses backed by irrefutable arguments, with well-founded reasonings, succeeded in keeping up hope in the hearts of the discouraged. There it was, that at the end of the day, when it began to get dark, we assembled, and in low voices, like conspirators, commented on the news contained in our letters from France, made out like so many puzzles from ambiguous sentences, and the news learnt from the men who worked outside the camp. And last of all, in the evening, before fires were put out, when the greater number of us had gone to seek forgetfulness in sleep, came those who sought for a moment’s solitude, to calm the anguish which tortured the soul. We kept our gaiety for our comrades during the day; but in the evening we could, without being cowardly, give ourselves up to the discouragement that overwhelmed us. And again it was there that we came to mourn for those who had fallen. We ground our teeth in thinking of the crimes of the Hun and our powerlessness at not being able to go to the help of the oppressed or the avenging of the dead.
These few feet of sand were sanctified to us by the noble feelings that we had had there. They belonged to us, they formed our temple. It was a sacrilege to deprive us of them.
To those who had planned flight, this work was the ruin of their hopes, and each blow of the pickaxe sounded as the last turn of the key by an unfeeling jailer to him condemned to die. Never had the men been a prey to such agony as they nowfelt, for before hope had sustained them; now the last chance of escape was gone.
There were other prisoners who, with sad eyes and looks of gloom, watched anxiously the preparations. Our poor humanity is not exclusively composed of dreamers and visionary lovers of liberty; it includes practical people who enjoy bodily comforts, and when they cannot enjoy the hot rays of the sun, like to warm their numbed limbs at a flaming fire. For them the electric barrier meant simply a lack of fuel.
Once this barrier was finished they would no longer be permitted to approach the enclosure and drag in, between the barbed wire, the dead branches which the kindly fir-trees shed each day. And the winter was here, each hour grew colder; the future might well look gloomy to those poor devils, who were clothed in a ragged shirt with trousers and coat in pitiable condition, reduced to finding in a litre of hot water, drunk twice a day, the amount of heat necessary, according to the German staff, to keep their emaciated bodies in health.
Everywhere consternation reigned, and despair. It was in vain for their kind and more clever comrades to talk about the fun they would have in playing tricks on the Boches. Nothing was more easy, said they, than to throw a simple bit of barbed wire, which would hook on to the electrified fence, and by its contact with the earth establish a short circuit. In vain our orators talked about the trouble that that would cause the Germans, the exploded leads, the painful searching
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all along the line, the momentary interruption of the current and the expense that would follow. One optimist held forth that he saw in this development an excellent sign, an indication of undeniable weakness in the German Army. Its losses had been such that already they were short of men. The electric installation would permit them to spare 50 per cent. of the sentinels. Moreover, the information lately received backed up his theory. Had not one of the sentinels just told them that he was going off that evening for the Russian front? Perhaps also they feared the rising of the French prisoners, when they heard the thundering of their friends—the 75’s—in the far distance. And these times were near! In any case they must conclude from it that our arms were successful and “Gaudeamus igitur.” But these speeches were of no use. With all their subtleties what could they do against the brutality of visible realities and palpable facts? They were going to be encircled. So one of us regretted the beauty of the forest, another his liberty that vanished just when he hoped to regain it, a third the comforting fire which was to take the place of a meal and warm clothes.
To the last speaker a wag replied: “But, my dear fellow, you won’t be cold. It is to warm us that the Boches have installed this apparatus. They are blockaded by the Allied fleets and have no coal. Electricity, you know, can be produced by waterfalls; that will cost the Boches nothing. You see! Throughout the camp there will be warmth. The days will come when we shall be toohot, you will be obliged to leave off your overcoat. Then just see how practical these Boches are! They place at a certain distance from these electrified wires a kind of barrier. It is the drying ground. On these lines we shall hang our linen. They say that electric heat kills the eggs of parasites. You see how fine it will be. In the morning you can also toast your K. bread or your herring by holding it at the end of a stick. Just consider a little how great are the advantages of the installation. This fence that they are making round the camp may be called an ‘Outside Central Heating Apparatus.’ ”
It was indeed all very fine, but the simple doubted, and, in any case, preferred the flames which scorched their bodies and in which they saw pictures of home.
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Exclamations were heard. We distinguished the words “Los,” “Weg,” and “Arbeiten.” We saw the imperious gestures, and the workmen having picked up spades and pickaxes, went slowly towards the marked-out holes. The tools were lifted painfully, with a fine sweep of the arm. They struck the earth without energy. But numbers prevailed in spite of goodwill, and the nothing done by each nevertheless came to something by the end of the day.
The next day and during many days the men laboured. The holes were deep and the posts solid enough to resist anything.
But here we must do justice to our fellows; they attacked their task with a most praiseworthymoderation. One might have thought that, like the Trappist’s fathers, the prisoners were digging their own graves, for their ardour was such as would have made a road-maker of Paris turn pale with scorn.
The day dawned at last when, all round the camp, stakes two metres high stood white, shining and aggressive against the dark trunks of the sweet-smelling firs so soothing with their beauty. The electricians, recruited from our professionals, were told to lay the wires which were to surround and support the electrified fencing. Pataud counselling a strike was never more listened to, never more obeyed, than were our friends who encouraged the engineers to waste time. For a long while one might have thought that the installation would never be finished, and again the hope sprang that peace would find this barbarity still in its first stage.
But one fine day to our horror we saw the ends of the wire being joined. The circuit was complete, the prison was shut for ever.
For one moment there was consternation amongst the wood-gatherers. They could no longer get near the firs, and all stood there, with mouths open, like sleepers rudely awakened from their dreams.
Then, as in all difficult circumstances, in the time of need a man was found, “the man of the hour,” Claude, a timid collector of twigs, a man so shy that he only dared to warm one hand at a time, rose up and showed what was hidden in his heart.
Inspired by a flash of genius, and helped by anindomitable will, he prepared to act. With an authority never suspected till now, he grouped around him some of those who only yesterday had pushed him on one side and looked at him disdainfully when he asked for a little of the heat for his frozen limbs—heat that was in principle for all, but in fact was the right of the strongest. One scarcely knew anything of him. All day long he used to go searching for wood, and it was only towards evening that he came with his load. And his load was always the heaviest; it was a sort of insult and reproach to those who stayed all day in the best places and warmed themselves with the wood that their comrades had gathered. It was a little too strong for this small puny man to want to teach them a lesson. The strong are made thus! They cherish an unutterable contempt for those who serve them, and a sovereign disdain for those who, out of love, become their slaves.
Well, Claude put himself at the head of a handful of men, who followed him meekly. Like a captain sure of victory he led the phalanx. Near a shed he stopped and leaned down under a window.
For one instant he sought for a mark, then he began to dig a hole in the sand with his hands. Soon something glittered. With a glance round, Claude made sure that his associates kept good watch, then he triumphantly exhibited a small hand-saw in a perfect state. This tool—between us, be it said—had been looked for by the Germans some days before, as they were hastening to finish the huts. However, an earnest and clamoroussearch by the authorities had brought no information as to the lost tool. Only one man could have cleared up the mystery, and he had determined to keep silent.
With, the saw in his hand, and escorted by his bodyguard, the leader continued his march. They halted near one of the new boundary posts, and Claude who, from his serious air, might have been a field-marshal at least, took a folding measure from his pocket. The importance of his mission gave him added stature. He no longer resembled the suppliant of yesterday begging for a corner near the fire. With skilled hands he measured the part of the post above the electric wire. As he was on the point of making a mark immediately above the isolators, he stopped and murmured something about “making a good job of it,” and made the groove five centimetres higher. “Five from twenty-five,” he murmured, “leaves twenty.”
Some passing German officers stopped to watch the men at work, astonished and at the same time pleased at seeing our soldiers diligent and serious, not at all their usual behaviour.
For a long time Claude measured, for a long time the saw worked, and one by one the tops of the posts fell. These twenty centimetres of strong post would certainly make a splendid log, so the men worked as hard as possible, one sawing, another carrying. Depots of firewood were organised, and till the evening they worked without stopping, hoarding the precious logs, which after all were fully equal to dead branches.
It was only the next morning, when the foreman of the work arrived, that the deed was discovered.
There was a fearful row. The fires were immediately put out by order and the ashes scattered to the four winds. For several days a strict guard prevented attempts to relight them. But soon the watch became relaxed, and the sentinels, tired of pursuing abortive fires, ceased to go their rounds. It was not long before the natural result followed and the sparks of the first new fire were flying upwards. The logs were dug up as they were wanted and gave our comrades pleasant warmth and a feeling of well-being, of which for some time they had been deprived. They were once again able to make hot drinks. The joy they felt in having “done” their jailers added to the pleasure they felt in being able to warm themselves.
When the sentinels were questioned on the subject they confessed to having seen everything, but having noticed the apparent regularity and good order of the men, they had not been suspicious, and confined themselves to admiring the sense of economy which imbued all the enterprises of their Kolossal administration. In their inmost hearts they had doubtless chanted “Te Deum Laudamus” to the glory of their omnipotent Kaiser, who knows and foresees everything.
This act of indiscipline on the part of the French was incomprehensible to the German mind. They could not imagine another reasoning otherwise than they did: “One must never do anythingwithout an order, and if one does something, then it must be because one has received an order; moreover, the order can only come from a superior, who in every case is right.” Therefore, if some one does something, it is well. But they are too dull to realise that German logic is not universal logic and far less French logic.
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Once again our soldier-prisoners had gained a victory over their thick-skinned guardians.
And that is how the encircling heating apparatus became central heating!