It was the first night after my arrival at Hanover that I really fully recovered a state of consciousness.
Although I have recorded several incidents of the week which had just passed, they were only occasional glimpses from which I would relapse again into unconsciousness, and it only comes back to me in a hazy sort of way, like dreams through a long night of sleep.
But I remember well the moment when I finally awoke and took in my surroundings. It was early in the morning. I seemed to have had frightful dreams; the horror of what I had passed through had been a frightful nightmare, mocking at me, laughing at me, blowing me to pieces.
I turned over on my side. Strange place this shell-hole; it seemed very comfortable. What was this I was touching—a pillow, bedclothes. Good God! I was in a bed! As my thoughtsbecame clearer I lay perfectly still, almost in fear that any movement I might make would awaken me from this beautiful dream.
A long, long time ago something frightful had happened from which rescue was impossible. Yet, surely this was a bed.
Then I remembered the attack which had taken place over my body while I lay out in No Man's Land; of the shells which had burst around me in violent protest to my presence. I could not possibly have escaped; I must be maimed.
Cautiously I began to feel my limbs, my arms, my body, my feet, my fingers; they were all there, untouched. The whole truth dawned upon me: My God! I was alive!
I sat up in my bed; I wanted to shout and dance for joy. There was a bandage round my head: I was blind! Yes, I knew that, but there was nothing really the matter with me except that. The mere fact of being only blind seemed in comparison a luxury.
I was blind! But joy indescribable—what was that triviality—I was alive! alive!
Oh, my! I never knew before that life was so wonderful. Did other people understand whatlife was? No; you must be dead to understand what life was worth. I must tell every one how wonderful it all is.
But where was I? I could hear no guns—a bed? There were no beds at the front. I couldn't have dreamed it all; it must have been true; otherwise I should have been able to see.
Where then could I be? Oh, God! Yes, I know—I am a prisoner of war!
But even this knowledge, which for the moment quieted me, could not suppress my exaltation. I was saved! I was alive! No pain racked my limbs; no terror prodded my brain.
But I was weak and wasted. Oh, how weak I was! How hungry! But what of that, I was alive!
And where was England—such a long, long way off. I must go there at once, this minute. No, I can't; I'm a prisoner.
How miserable some people are who have no right to be. They cannot know how wonderful life is. Oh, how wonderful it is to die, and then to come to life again.
I'm only blind! Just imagine it! What is that?—it's nothing at all, compared with life;and when I get well and strong I won't be a blind man.
I may not recover my sight, but that doesn't matter a bit, I will laugh at it, defy it. I will carry on as usual; I will overcome it and live the life that has been given back to me.
I will be happy, happier than ever. I'm in a bed alive. Oh, God! I am grateful!
How reckless we are in referring to death! There are many people who would say they would prefer death to blindness; but the nearer the approach of death, the greater becomes the comparison between the finality of the one and the affliction of the other.
Those men, however, who have faced death in many frightful forms, and dodged it; suffered the horrors of its approach, yet cheated it; who have waited for its inevitable triumph, then slipped from its grasp; who have lived with it for days, parrying its thrust, evading its clutch; yet feeling the irresistible force of its power; men who have suffered these horrors and escaped without more than the loss of even the wonderful gift of sight, can afford to treat this affliction in a lesser degree, holding the sanctity of life as a thing precious and sacred beyond all things.
Even the loss of God's great gift of sight ceases to become a burden or affliction in comparisonwith the indescribable joy of life snatched from death.
There are men, and we know them by the score, who are constantly looking out on life through the darkened windows of a dissatisfied existence; whose conscience is an enemy to their own happiness; who look only on the dark side of life, made darker by their own disposition.
Such men, and you can pick them out by their looks and expression, who build an artificial wall of trouble, to shut out the natural paradise of existence; these men who juggle with the joy of life until they feel they would sooner be dead, do not know, and do not realise the meaning of the life and death with which they trifle.
Let us think only of the glory of life; not of the trivial penalties which may be demanded of us in payment, and which we are so apt to magnify until we wonder whether the great gift of life is really worth while.
Let us think not of our disadvantages, but of these great gifts which we are fortunate enough to possess; let us school ourselves to a high sense of gratitude for the gifts we possess, and even an affliction becomes easy to bear.
Here I am, thirty-six years of age, in the pride of health, strength, and energy, and suddenly struck blind!
And what are my feelings? Even such a seeming catastrophe does not appall me. I can no longer drive, run, or follow any of the vigorous sports, the love for which is so insistent in healthy manhood. I shall miss all these things, yet I am not depressed.
Am I not better off, after all, than he who was born blind? With the loss of my sight I have become imbued with the gift of appreciation. What is my inconvenience compared with the affliction of being sightless from birth.
For thirty-six years I had become accustomed to sights of the world, and now, though blind, I can walk in the garden in a sunny day; and my imagination can see it and take in the picture.
I can talk to my friends, knowing what they look like, and by their conversation read the expression on their faces. I can hear the traffic of a busy thoroughfare, and my mind will recognise the scene.
I can even go to the play; hear the jokes and listen to the songs and music, and understand whatis going on without experiencing that feeling of mystery and wonder which must be the lot of him who has always been blind.
And the greatest gift of all, my sense of gratitude, that after passing through death, I am alive!
Meanwhile, what was transpiring at home? What interpretation had been put upon my absence?
Many weeks later, after my first letter had reached home like a message from the dead, a post-card was handed to me from my father, which seemed to echo the sob of a broken heart. It was the first message to arrive from the England I loved so much, and my home, which I yearned for.
Letters from every member of my family were hastening towards me; but all were delayed except the single post-card, which told me only too plainly of the tragedy at home which was the result of my absence.
The message, written in a shaky hand, ranbriefly, thus: "My son, for four weeks we have mourned you as dead; God bless you!"
In the despair of my heart my blindness and my bonds of captivity seemed to grow greater. In that simple message I realised the terrible truth, the full significance of the tragedy which had followed my fall.
What had been my suffering to theirs? After all I was a soldier, and mine was a duty. But those who wait at home—what of them?
The letters which followed confirmed my worst fears. I trembled and cried like a child.
How brave they had all been! How unworthy seemed my life to warrant the heroic fortitude and silent suffering which these letters unfolded! What were a few bullets compared with the pluck and silent self-sacrifice of the women of Britain, who were untrained to bear such shocks? What physical pain could compare with such anguish as theirs?
The first intimation reached my home by a letter returned from France, undelivered, and bearing a slip containing these words, type-written: "Killed in action September 9."
Three days later a knock at the door, anda telegraph boy handed in a telegram which read:
"Most deeply regret inform you Cap. H.G. Nobbs —— London Regiment, Killed in Action Sep. 9."
"Most deeply regret inform you Cap. H.G. Nobbs —— London Regiment, Killed in Action Sep. 9."
and also another telegram:
"The King & Queen deeply regret loss you and the Army have sustained by the death of Cap. Nobbs, in the service of his Country. Their Majestys deeply sympathise with you in your sorrow."Keeper of the Privy Purse."
"The King & Queen deeply regret loss you and the Army have sustained by the death of Cap. Nobbs, in the service of his Country. Their Majestys deeply sympathise with you in your sorrow.
"Keeper of the Privy Purse."
Next morning my name appeared in the official casualty list under the heading: "Killed in Action."
Letters followed from the front confirming my death, and even describing the manner of my death.
Such things are unavoidable in modern warfare; and only those who understand the conditions and the difficulties can appreciate the possibility of avoiding occasional errors. It is surprising to me that the errors in reporting casualties are not more frequent, and it speakswell of the care given by those responsible for this task.
It is extremely difficult, and occasional mistakes are only too apt to be widely advertised and give a wrong impression. Think of the task of the hundreds and thousands of casualties; and the errors, terrible though the suffering entailed may be, are comparatively insignificant.
But I have led the reader away from my story.
They thought me dead. Yes; killed in action. There was no getting away from it; no need for me to describe the tears and sorrow. Those who suffer must bear their sorrow in silence—more honour to them.
Obituary notices appeared in the newspapers, and letters and telegrams of condolence poured in.
My solicitors took possession of my belongings and explained their contents to my family.
A firm of photographers who generously invite officers to have their portraits taken free of charge, now offered the plate for a consideration to the illustrated papers; and even as I write these lines many months later, my picture is dished up again in this week's issue of an illustrated magazine as among the dead.
In short, during those few weeks which followed my fall, I became as dead and completely buried as modern conventions demanded.
It is expensive to die and not be dead, for clothes of mourning cannot afterwards be hidden under any other disguises; and it is a peculiar feeling to be called upon to pay for your own funeral expenses.
And when once you are officially dead it is very difficult to come officially to life again. Months have passed, and I am still waiting for the official correction to appear.
As I walk through the streets of London my friends stare at me as though I were a ghost. I feel as though I am a living apology for the mistake of others.
To the illustrated magazine I have just referred to I wrote assuring the editor that I had every reason to believe he was wrong in his contention. He replied, enclosing my photograph, and asking me if I was sure I was not some other person, as the picture referred to an officer who was surely dead.
Perhaps even now I am wrong. Yet, I ought to know.
Before the war Reserve Lazarette 5 at Hanover was a military school. It is now used for wounded military prisoners, and for German soldiers suffering from venereal disease.
The same operating-room is used for all patients; the wounded prisoners receiving treatment in the morning, and the Germans in the afternoon.
There is a fair-sized garden, not unattractive, and the wounded are permitted to take the fresh air, and to walk about freely, if they are able to do so. So are the German patients, and so are their visitors, on Tuesdays and Saturdays, from 2 till 4 in the afternoon. There is no separation of the two classes of patients, and honour must share the company of disgrace in her captivity.
Ward 43 was a billiard-room in the old days, and the small-sized billiard-table is pushed against the wall and used as a table. There were nine beds in the ward; and four British and four French officers lay side by side in captivity.
The friendship of the two great nations was reflected in the maimed and pain-ridden bodies of these soldiers lying side by side, helpless, uncomplaining, but still champions of Anglo-French unity. Their cause is the same; their pain is the same; and side by side they lay, as side by side they had fallen.
Of the French officers I got to know but little, for they could speak no English, and the English could speak no French.
On my left was an officer of the Royal Flying Corps, Lieutenant Donelly. He had been brought to earth after a fight thirteen thousand feet in the air, against five German planes. With his left arm disabled and three fingers shot off his right hand, and his engine out of action, he nose-dived to the ground. A German aeroplane nose-dived after him, all the while firing as it dropped.
With only a finger and thumb to manipulate his machine, he managed to effect a landing.The moment earth was struck the firing ceased, and the Germans landing from their machines approached him and treated him courteously.
There is a spirit of chivalry among those who fight in the air, as both sides can testify. The air alone is their arena, and neither side will continue a combat on terra firma.
On my right was Lieutenant Rogan of the Royal Irish Regiment, a sturdy fellow, who had been in the Guards.
He was attacking some Germans, who were putting up a stout resistance during the fight for Guinchy; and as he was rushing forward, a German threw a hand-grenade, which exploded in his face. His right eye was removed at St. Quentin, and he was slowly recovering the sight of the left.
In the bed next to his was another young officer of the Royal Flying Corps, a boy about eighteen, very small, and only weighing about eight stone. Mabbitt was his name, Second Lieutenant Mabbitt; and he, too, had fought many thousand feet in the air against desperate odds, fracturing his leg in the fall.
German airmen seem to make a practice ofwaiting until a single English aeroplane appears in sight; then they ascend in a flight of five to attack, and woe betide the English airman who happens to be soaring above in a slow machine.
Deeds of pluck are common on land and sea; but the heroic combats in the air are a new sensation, with unknown terrors realised in a single gasp; and the youth of our country defy it. Yet, who is there to tell their deeds if they fall?
Shortly after I arrived two British officers were brought in, Lieutenant Wishart of the Canadians, who had a bullet wound through his leg; and Second Lieutenant Parker, who had a hole in his leg as big as an apple, and who spent most of the day in declaring that he was as fit as a fiddle.
But the occupant of the remaining bed was one who endeared himself to the hearts of all. He wasSaniez(pronounced Sanyea), our orderly. But Saniez must have a chapter to himself.
Reserve Lazarette 5, Hanover, boasted of no hospital nurses. There was no tender touch of a feminine hand to administer to the comfort and alleviate the distress of the wounded. There was no delicate and nourishing diet to strengthen the weak; neither did we expect it. We were prisoners of war, and though our sufferings were great, we were still soldiers.
But those who have passed through Ward 43 will always look back with gratitude and admiration on one whose unselfish devotion, tender care, and magnificent spirit was an example and inspiration to all of us.
His name was Saniez, the orderly in charge of the ward; a Florence Nightingale, whose unceasing attention day and night, whose tender watchfulness and devoted care and kindness made him loved and worshipped by the maimed and helpless prisoners who were placed under his charge.
Saniez was no ordinary man. No reward washis, except the heartfelt gratitude of those whom he tended. The wounded who passed through the ward left behind a debt of gratitude which could never be paid, and with a spirit of fortitude and courage created by his noble example.
There are compensations for all suffering; and no greater compensation could any wish for than the devotion of Saniez.
Saniez had suffered too, but would never speak of it. He had his moments of anguish and despair. He had a home, too; but his dreams he kept to himself, and his care he gave to others.
Saniez was a Frenchman, a big, burly artilleryman, with eyes bright, laughing, and sympathetic.
He had been captured nearly two years before; and suffered severely from the effects of frozen feet. Yet, painful as it must have been to get about, he seldom sat down.
All through those long days and nights weak voices would call him: it was always, "Saniez, Saniez!" and slop, slop, slop, we would hear him in his slippered feet, moving down the ward, attending to one and then another.
Saniez would be quiet and sympathetic, witha voice soft and soothing; and the next moment, cheerful and boisterous. Captivity could not subdue Saniez, or make him anything else than a loyal French soldier.
He would guard his patients against the clumsy touch of a German orderly like a tiger guarding its young. He would bribe or steal to obtain a little delicacy for his patients.
He seemed to know but a single German word, which he used on every possible occasion to express his disgust of the Germans. It was a slang word, but when Saniez used it, its single utterance was a volume of expression. It wasNIX, and when Saniez said nix, I knew he was shaking his woolly head in disgust.
Saniez had a marvellous voice, and when he sang he held us spell-bound, and he knew it. I do not speak French, and could not understand his words, but his expression was wonderful; and he would fling his arms about in frantic gesticulation.
When Saniez sang he seemed to lift himself into a different atmosphere; he was back again in France; his songs all seemed about his country and his home. He seemed to rouse himself intoa sudden spirit of defiance, and then his voice would grow soft and pathetic; and then slop, slop, slop, in his slippered feet, he would hurry off to a bedside to fix a bandage or administer a drink of water.
Every morning German soldiers could be heard marching past our windows, singing their national songs. We listened; Saniez would stop his work. What we wanted to say we would leave to Saniez, as broom in hand and eyes of fire he would wait until their voices died away in the distance, and then, with a fierce shake of his head he would shout: "Boche! Nix!" and, flinging his arms about his head, would sing the "Marseillaise."
One evening, and I remember it well, though no pen of mine can adequately describe the soul-stirring picture—we had a concert in Ward 43. Four British and four French officers—a symbol of the Entente Cordiale—lay side by side in their cots, while convalescent prisoners from other wards sat in front to cheer them with song and music.
The Allies seemed well represented: An English Tommy with a guitar sang a comic song; a Russian soldier with a three-cornered stringinstrument, sang a folk-song of his native land; a Belgian soldier played the violin; and Saniez sang for France.
The applause that greeted the finish of each song was of a mixed kind; for those whose arms were maimed would shout, and those who could not shout would bang a chair or clap their hands. It was a patriotic and inspiring scene, and even the German orderly, coming in to see what was going on, was tempted to stop and listen.
We felt we were no longer prisoners; the spirit of the Allies was unconquerable.
Enthusiasm reached its highest pitch when Saniez brought it to a dramatic conclusion. Saniez had just finished a soul-inspiring song of his homeland. His audience could not withhold their applause until he finished, and Saniez could not restrain his spirit until the end of the applause. He suddenly threw up his arms, and at the top of his voice burst forth into the "Marseillaise," and the German orderly bolted out of the door.
Then the concert party ran to their dormitories; the lights were turned out, and we sought safety in sleep.
Captain Nobbs after his release from the German prison.Captain Nobbs after his release from the German prison.ToList
Captain Nobbs after his release from the German prison.ToList
We used to ask Saniez about his home; and he seemed to grow quiet and confident. His home, he said, was about three miles behind the German line.
Some one suggested that it was in a dangerous place, as the British were advancing, and no house near the line could escape untouched; but Saniez was confident.
No! shells could not possibly harm it. His wife and sister lived there; it was his home. He was a prisoner, but whatever happened to him, the combined fury of the nations could not touch his home.
Saniez! Saniez! May you never awaken from your dream!
The diet in hospital can hardly be described as suitable for invalids. At the same time it was substantial as compared with what is received in prison camps. For breakfast we received coffee, with two very small, crusty rolls, each about the size of a tangerine orange; each roll cut in half, and a slight suspicion of jam placed between; for déjeuner one cup of coffee, one roll, and some very strong cheese, quite unfit to eat. The dinner was usually quite good, consisting of soup, a little meat and vegetables, and stewed apples or gooseberries. At 3 o'clock a cup of coffee and a small roll; at 6 o'clock supper, consisting of tea without milk, strong cheese, or German sausage or brawn, and a slice of bread.
For this diet we paid eighty marks per month.
An officer receives pay from the GermanGovernment on the following scale: lieutenant, sixty marks per month; captain, one hundred marks per month. The German Government recover the payments from the English Government, and it is charged against the officers' pay in England.
No food is supplied free to officers either in hospital or camp; and they cannot purchase anything beyond the regular issue.
With the exception of the dinner, I found the food of very little use to me for the first week or two, as having lost the power in my jaw, and being unable to open it more than half an inch, I couldn't tackle the rolls, and what couldn't be eaten had to be left; there was no substitute.
There was another diet, in which the coffee was replaced by hot milk, which would have been very desirable, except that the dinner consisted of some filthy substance, which was very unpalatable.
For the first week, therefore, I had practically only one meal a day, the dinner; but afterwards, by dint of changing from one diet to another I managed to get the dinner of No. 1 diet, and the milk of No. 2.
There was a canteen in the hospital wherecigarettes, chocolates, biscuits, and eggs were offered for sale.
The biscuits were never in stock; the chocolate, though high in price, was so thin that there was nothing of it; and the cigarettes were unsmokable.
It was a sorry day when we could get no more eggs. We used to depend upon the eggs for supper; for the cheese was uneatable, the brawn suspicious, and the sausage like boiled linoleum. German sausage at the best of time is open to argument; but German sausage in a country which has been blockaded for two and a half years is worthy of serious thought.
The surgical attention was good, though the Russian prisoners who assisted were apt to be rough; and as neither the German doctor nor his Russian assistant could understand each other, and the wounded could understand neither, nor be understood in turn, the situation was sometimes difficult.
The doctor visited each bed at 8A.M.every morning to inquire the condition of the wounded; but whatever you had to say—which of course he did not understand—the reply was always: "Goot, Goot."
On one occasion we saw flags flying over the city, and that evening for supper we were given a hard-boiled egg. We were told it was the Empress's birthday. We made anxious inquiries as to when the Kaiser and the Crown Prince would have a birthday.
A few days after I arrived at Hanover, my right eye was removed, and the following day the doctor told me, through an interpreter, that I should be sent back to England. I asked when I should be sent, and was told in three or four weeks.
It was about this time that I began to develop an unsatiable appetite for sweet things. I have found that many have had the same experience, after a period of privation following upon their wounds. I would buy up all the jam, chocolate, and toffy I could lay my hands on, which came in parcels to other prisoners. When I wrote home for parcels to be sent to me, I hardly mentioned food, which afterwards became so necessary, but asked for sweet stuff.
But what I needed more urgently than anything else was money. When I was picked up the only cash I had on me was two francs, and thisI exchanged for a mark and sixty pfennigs, which, with five marks I was able to borrow, kept me going for a while. But it was soon gone, and I found myself without a sou, and no pay due for six weeks.
About ten days after I arrived at Hanover I was able to sit out in the garden, and from then on I began to mend.
Saniez used to dress me, and his watchful eye was upon me wherever I went.
Sometimes of an afternoon I used to sit by the fire. I used to like sitting by the fire, because its warmth misled me into thinking I could distinguish the light. If I happened to be rather quiet Saniez would come to my side, and I would feel that he was watching me. Then he would speak, and each would find some word to make the other understand:
"Cigarette, Capitaine?"
"Oui, Saniez."
He would take one of his own cigarettes, put it in my mouth and light it.
I could neither taste nor smell it; but it pleased Saniez, so I took it.
"Très bien, Capitaine, puff, puff!"
"Oui, Saniez, très bien."
"Très bien, good. Monsieur Parker says, 'Trays beens.' Joke, ah, good joke!"
He would go away, but still watching me from a distance, would presently come back again, and placing his large hand on my shoulder, would say:
"Couche, Capitaine?" and leading me to my bed would lay me on it, and carefully tuck me in for the night.
There was a German non-commissioned officer employed in the hospital who was really a good sort. He could speak good English, having worked in English hotels before the war.
He would sometimes sit by my bed for a chat:
"Where were you wounded, Captain?" he asked one day.
"Leuze Wood on the Somme," I replied.
"Somme dreadful place, dreadful war, Captain."
"Very!"
"It is not fighting now; it is murder, both sides murder—yah."
"Have you been to the front yet?"
"No; don't want to, either; don't likesoldiering. German people sick of war; but got to do what we are told. Captain, you and I could settle it in five minutes."
"I'm not so sure; it's nearly settled me."
As the weeks passed by I began anxiously and earnestly to wait for news of my exchange; but three weeks went, and the fourth and fifth week passed, and still no news. About the seventh week Saniez burst into the ward one morning and rushed up to my bed.
"Bon jour, Capitaine. Good, good! Office, quick," and he began hurriedly dressing me.
I was to report to the office at once. I had been waiting for this, and dreaming of this moment for weeks.
Saniez knew it too, and as I went through the door I heard him shout:
"Angleterre, Capitaine; très bien!"
I waited outside the office for about half an hour. Wishart of the Canadians was inside, and presently he came out to fetch me:
"They want to see you inside. Who do you think is in there?"
"I don't know—who?"
"Doctor Pohlmann. He supervises all theprison camps belonging to the Tenth Army. We've got to go to a prisoners' camp."
My hopes were dashed to the ground.
Ho led me in, and I sat down before Doctor Pohlmann, who spoke excellent English, and explained that he was a doctor of languages.
He filled up a form, taking from me particulars of my name, regiment, and the usual details; and then, turning to Wishart, told him to go.
I began to feel that I was in for a rough time. Why did Doctor Pohlmann wish to speak to me alone.
I sat before him in silence, too disappointed at the turn events had taken to care what happened. But as soon as the door had closed he turned towards me, and his remarks surprised me beyond measure. Not a single question did he put to me to elicit information.
"Captain, you are quite blind?"
"Yes, quite."
"I am sorry; I did not know you were blind."
He seemed quite sympathetic. Not that I wanted it from him, yet so relieved was I to escape cross-examination that I felt quite bucked.
He continued: "The hospital people say youare ready to be sent away. When you leave here you come under my charge. They did not tell me you were blind. I have no proper place to put you; I do not know where to send you."
"If you will allow me, I can suggest a place."
"Ah, yes, I know, England. Of course you will be sent there in time, but in the meantime I must take charge of you. I will send you wherever you like. You can choose your own camp. What camp would you like to go to?"
"What camps have you got?"
"I have Gottisleau, Osnabruck, Blenhorst."
"Well, it's very good of you to give me the choice; but they all sound alike to me. How can I choose?"
"Have you any friends in either of them?"
"Well, really the names are unintelligible; I couldn't even repeat them. Lieutenant Rogan was sent away last week. Where did he go?"
"Ah, he went to Osnabruck. Good camp! Good commandant! I will send you and Wishart there, and I will arrange to put you three in one room together. If I can do anything for you at any time, let me know."
The interview was over. He was a plausible fellow, and he probably knew his job.
When I was getting ready to leave the hospital Saniez insisted on packing my clothes himself. I thought nothing about it at the time, but when I unpacked my clothes in camp I found concealed inside a small packet of sugar. Then I understood Saniez.
Wishart and I were told we could either walk to the station or pay for the hire of a motor-car. We rode to the station, laughing and talking, and smoking cigars which we obtained from the canteen.
When I first became aware that there was a probability of my being exchanged I set to work to gather what information I could.
I came into contact with a good many private soldiers, and in conversation with them I became deeply interested in the commercial value of prisoners of war; for it appeared to me clearly evident that in a country where there were over a million prisoners, possibilities were unlimited; and the German authorities appeared, with businesslike organisation, to be taking the fullest advantage of their opportunities.
The unprecedented scale upon which prisoners have been made during the present war has opened up a problem unique in the annals of history. The more prisoners you take the more mouths you have to feed; and the greaterbecomes the man power necessary for their supervision.
With the ever-increasing number of prisoners the problem grows in enormity, and can either develop into embarrassing proportions, or by scientific handling can be turned to advantage.
In England for over two years we have herded our prisoners behind bayonets and barbed wire. The financial resources of the country have been poured out to feed idle hands, supplying food without repayment, at a time when the food and labour problems of the nation are becoming its most serious problems.
For over two years we have allowed the question to slide into obscurity, until to-day in our own country the only part of the community which has no anxiety or participation in the problem of living and daily sustenance is the German prisoner in our midst; and yet to-day a large part of what should be our fighting power is kept from the firing-line to supply the needs of the nation and feed the mouths of our idle prisoners.
It has never occurred to us, or if it has we have ignored it, that without contravening thelaw of nations, prisoners can be made to feed themselves, and be employed in any industry, provided they are not put to work connected with the war.
It has never occurred to us that we have in our midst many of the trade secrets of a country which for generations has been our rival in commerce.
It has never occurred to us that Germany has in her midst men who hold the trade secrets of our empire, and is learning them day by day by the employment of our men in her industries.
If we neglect this problem any longer we may find that when the world resumes its normal trade activity Germany, on this point at any rate, will have scored a commercial victory.
The nations of the world are at war. But the armies of to-day are civilian armies, comprising men of industrial and commercial education, and the prisoners of to-day are men of commercial and industrial value.
Our adversaries have been quick to recognise this. We seem to be still imbued with the idea that the German soldier in our midst is simply a fighting machine!
So he is. But when the time came for the civilian to take up arms and supplement the professional fighting force, there fell into our hands an industrial fighting machine in the guise of a military prisoner.
We have the impression that a military prisoner is an individual whose one desire is to escape and jump at our throats; and that the safety of the nation compels us to stand over him with a bayonet and regard his every movement with suspicion.
Yes, I do not deny that a very large number of prisoners in our midst would be glad to get back to their homeland, especially if there was no further prospect of having to face the British in the firing-line. But keep a man idle for months behind barbed wire, like an animal in a cage, and you encourage his desire to escape far more than if you diverted his mind by industrial employment.
Have we not a barbed wire supplied by nature completely surrounding our country? Are we not on an island?
I had many opportunities of talking with our men in Germany and of gaining information asto the manner in which the German authorities were taking advantage of the problem we avoid, or occupy our time in idle discussion.
I will take one concrete example. In Hameln Lager the commandant has charge of 50,000 prisoners, of which 30,000 are "living out"! They are working out in commandos on the farms, in the factories, in the workshops; in large batches, small batches, and even singly.
I met one man who had been employed alone in a wheelwright's shop. He was a wheelwright by trade. How many wheelwrights' shops are there in England which could do to-day with one of the wheelwrights we are keeping idle behind barbed wire?
What information did that man's employer gain by the way the work was done? How simple the method of obtaining the labour: simply go to the labour bureau attached to the imprisonment camp nearest to your workshop, and ask for a wheelwright. You keep your industry going, and thus in the only practical way keep open the job for the man who is called to the colours.
The employer pays the man no wages, but the local trade-union rate of wage is paid to thecommandant who supplies him. Thirty thousand prisoners from a single camp contributing to the industry of the nation, and the wages of 30,000 prisoners contributing to the cost of the war. The prisoner receives through the commandant 30 pfennigs (3d.) per day, and is glad of the employment.
A very large number of prisoners are employed as agricultural labourers, and it is quite reasonable to suppose that all the food supplied to the prisoners, such as it is, is grown by prisoner labour.
I was told by men who had worked on farms that they were compelled to work from 4 in the morning until 9 at night. In some cases only one or two were employed on small farms.
I asked those men why they did not embrace the opportunity to make their escape. But they said that while the work was hard they preferred it; as they lived with the farmer, who treated them well if they worked well. They ate at the farmer's table, and had no non-commissioned officers to bully them; whereas, if they attempted to escape and were caught they would be sent to work in the mines or other equally unpopular task.
Large numbers are employed in the sugar-refineries, coal-mines, and salt-mines, the latter task being the most dreaded; for with the food they were given their health broke down within a few months.
The English prisoner said that when the party he was with first arrived at the mine and saw what they had to do they refused to work. Their guard thereupon threatened them, and when they still refused they were taken outside one by one, and the remainder would hear a shot fired, and then another would be taken out.
It was a fake. The men could not be intimidated, and they were sent back to the Lager.
It was on another occasion that the man I am referring to was put to work in the mine.
I was asked by another if I knew anything about 200 German prisoners being sent back to work in France, because they were not allowed to work in England. He said that when the Germans heard about it they took 200 of our men from Doberitz camp and sent them to work in Poland as a reprisal.
The work there may not have been very much harder, but it was a great hardship upon our men,because there would be a considerable delay in their parcels of food reaching them from England, and meantime they had to subsist on the scanty fare supplied by their captors.
The men seemed to be getting parcels on a very liberal scale. Some were getting more than others, but they divided up by eating in messes of four or six, or some such number.
I did not hear of many complaints of parcels being undelivered, though in some cases parcels were missed. But so far as I could ascertain they were not withheld in any deliberate or systematic manner; and when one comes to consider the enormous number handled and the probability of parcels getting lost through insecure packing, the number of complaints I heard of seemed comparatively insignificant.
The Russian prisoners seemed to be the least provided for, and parcels for them were very rare. They lived or rather starved on the German rations; and when men have to work or remain in the open air all day such a ration was a form of torture.
When the watery liquid of potato water called soup was issued from the kitchens fatigue parties were paraded to draw the issue for each mess.
The British prisoners were not altogether dependent on this ration, and would let the Russian prisoners carry the dixy for them, and in return they would be given a cup of soup by the British Tommies. So hungry were the Russians for this little "extra" that hundreds of them would wait for hours in the cold on the off-chance of a few getting the job.
One cannot speak with these British Tommies and hear of their hardships without feeling a profound admiration for their indomitable spirit. You can take a British soldier prisoner, send him far from the protection of his country, but he is British wherever he goes and his courage and resourcefulness cannot be broken.
Whenever I met a man who had been a prisoner since the beginning of the war, I made a point of getting his story to ascertain the truth about the barbarities I had read of.
There was no mistaking these men. I could not see them but I seemed instinctively to recognise, and whether it was my imagination or not I cannot tell; but their manner seemed distinctive and they spoke like men who had suffered much and were harbouring a just grievance, and livedfor the day when they would revenge themselves. As one man put it to me:
"If we ever see a German in England when we get back we will kill him."
These men were taken at Mons; captured, most of them, by sacrificing themselves in rear-guard fighting to save the main British army.
These men have been in captivity for two and a half years. Just think of it! But do we think of it enough, or have we forgotten it?
The British Tommy has an individuality which is not always understood. Ask him in an official way to give evidence of his treatment, and he will sit tight and say not a word. Take out your note-book to write down his evidence and he can think of nothing, but all the same he knows a lot.
I know this to be true; for after I was exchanged I spoke to a soldier who had been exchanged at the same time, and he said that a Government official had been round to question the men on the treatment they had received in Germany. During our conversation he told me that 200 of our men had been put to work in a Zeppelin factory. I asked him if he had given this in evidence, but he said:
"No, not likely; they got nothing out of me."
I asked him why not, for it was his duty. But he said they would only have asked him a lot more questions to try and tie him up in a knot.
When I came across a soldier who was captured at the beginning of the war I used to invite him to my room when no one was about. We would sit in front of the fire and drink a cup of cocoa and smoke a pipe.
I never asked him questions, but let him talk as he felt like it. There were generally one or two others in the room, and when we began to feel we knew each other and were chums together in adversity, he would tell his story in his own way.
I met these men in Hanover Hospital, Osnabruck camp, and Blenhorst camp. I will not publish their names for fear of paining their relatives; but I have their names and the names of witnesses who heard the stories, which I will relate in my next chapter.