In the afternoon we had another call from the Rittmeister, whose visit this time was the most exciting incident which took place during my stay at the Fortress, and was for a long time the subject of animated discussion in all the rooms. The whole affair really began and ended with Gollywog.Mr Poerringer came in about four o'clock and said that the Rittmeister wished to speak to Lt. C——. Gollywog went out into the corridor, remained absent for fully five minutes, and came back with the Rittmeister, who advanced into the middle of the room and ordered "All English officers to leave the room." This was most interesting, and the four of us went out into the corridor greatly wondering what new game was being played. After about a quarter of an hour the Rittmeister came out and went off down the corridor, whereupon we hastened back to hear what had happened. The Rittmeister had made a most genial and polite speech. He had heard that the English officers had not been behaving properly, that they were quarrelsome, disagreeable men, and so on, for a good few minutes, ending up with a request that the French officers would kindly come to him if they had any complaint to make, however small, concerning the conduct of the English, who would then promptly be put in cells. "Bobjohn," a Lieutenant de Reserve, who knew German very well, replied briefly on behalf of the French officers—that they were all, English and French, brothers-in-arms and firm friends. The Rittmeister then went off in a very bad temper, disappointed that his clumsy plot to get the English into trouble had been a total failure. We were all indeed more amused at, than angrywith, the Rittmeister's impertinence, but many of the French officers thought that Gollywog's part in the affair was open to suspicion; in fact, he was suspected of having complained to Mr Poerringer. I think it, however, more likely that the sentries, who were always spying and trying to see what was going on in the room, had something to do with it. Next morning I happened to meet O—— in the corridor and immediately started swearing at him in a loud voice. He grasped the idea at once, and I could see the nearest sentry watching us narrowly. Sham fights between the French and English were started at intervals during the day, with the door left wide open so that the sentry could get a full view. In my room great annoyance was expressed at the whole affair, and Colonel Lepeltier declared that the Gollywog's conduct was open to very grave suspicion. As a matter of fact, hardly any of the French officers were on speaking terms with the Gollywog, and so this rather unpleasant incident did not make any difference to his relations with his fellow-prisoners.
"Send me a post-card when you have time," writes a friend from Germany; "letters and post-cards are the only things we live for." And so itwas at the Festung Marienberg. Two or three times a week Mr Poerringer would come in with a bundle of letters and call out the names of the lucky ones, the officers all crowding round with eager faces, listening, waiting, hoping. Two officers only sat apart and watched, not without envy. One, a Frenchman from Lille, could never hope to hear from his wife or family, as communication with invaded territory is not permitted.
The day after my arrival at Würzburg I wrote three letters—one letter home, one to X.Y.Z., one to the American Ambassador in Berlin. At that time there was no restriction as to number, although later not more than one letter a week was allowed. I could not hope for news from home till the end of February, as six weeks was generally the time which elapsed before an answer came from England. Irvine told me that on arriving at Würzburg he had written informing the American Embassy at Berlin of his position, and that in reply the Ambassador expressed a wish for information concerning the whereabouts of British officers. I therefore wrote to the Embassy stating the fact of my arrival at Würzburg, explaining the nature of my wounds, enclosing a copy of the certificate from Dr Debu also—and this was the part I feared might not pass the Censor—asking the Ambassador to put my case before the German authorities at Berlin.
By the same post I wrote to X.Y.Z., whose letter to Captain S—— had so providentially fallen into my hands at Cambrai. In this letter I gave a list—in answer to her inquiry—of all officers and men of whom any information had reached me at Cambrai. I also drew a pathetic picture of my own situation, enclosing a copy of the much-copied medical certificate, and begging X.Y.Z. to use influence on my behalf.
While at Cambrai and Würzburg two questions were constantly in my mind—first, Would there be an exchange of officers? second, If there was to be an exchange, how was I to make sure that my case would not be forgotten?
Pope Benedict XV., although I knew it not, was working hard to obtain a satisfactory reply to the first question. The happy solution of the second must depend on my two letters to Berlin and on the wide circulation of my medical certificate.
This certificate was a most alarming piece of evidence as to my condition, and I am glad to say that the event has so far proved the medical diagnosis to be a pessimistic one.
Medical men have told me that in nine cases out of ten such injury as is mentioned in this certificate results in the inconvenient habit of a spasmodic falling on to the floor, attended with foaming at the mouth and other unpleasant symptoms, all of which are included under themysterious title "Jacksonian epilepsis." On account of this medical certificate, which more than hinted at the probability of my acquiring such unpleasant accomplishments, I was known to my friends in the fortress as "Jackson."
My two letters had been sent off on the 10th of January. Mr Poerringer very kindly gave me this information, he himself being the Censor. On the 26th January my first letter arrived, the first letter since my leaving England six months ago. It was from the American Embassy. Reading my name and address on the envelope, I began to feel a "person" again. The world outside the fortress was more real to me from that moment than it had been for many months. The letter dated 21st January acknowledged receipt of my communication of 9th January, and regretted to inform me "that the question of exchange had not yet become an actual fact, and that the exact provisions whereby exchanges, when actually effected, will be governed have not yet been determined.... As regards the approximate date in the future at which the exchange of wounded prisoners will take place, the Embassy regrets to be unable to give you information. Negotiations are on the way, but no definite agreement has yet been reached." During that afternoon my letter was a subject of much argument. Never did I dare allow myself to read into these sentences any hope of freedom.It is better for a prisoner to live with no prospect of release than to hope vainly and be disappointed. So the letter was put away and kept out of mind as far as was possible.
A few days afterwards I happened to meet Mr Poerringer in the corridor. He bade me good morning with even more than his usual kindness, and produced a letter. This was from X.Y.Z., and reading this letter over now, it seems hard to believe that when I read it in the fortress I dared not find in it any hope or any reasonable ground for hope. "I will certainly do my very best," says the letter, "to get you included among those for exchange. I gave your medical report to the American Consul, ... and he has promised to go into the whole matter thoroughly with the authorities. The matter of exchange will take some time to arrange, I believe, so don't be too disappointed if you don't hear something at once." Here, at any rate, was the definite statement that there was to be an exchange, yet it was still a struggle in my own mind between hope, and fear that dared not hope, and fear was still the conqueror. Mr Poerringer came into our room with some papers very shortly afterwards, and I asked him if it would be any use asking for an interview with the officer commanding at Würzburg. Mr Poerringer's reply roused the whole room to attention: "Vous allez probablementaller en Angleterre." Nothing more would he say, except that a letter had arrived about me from the War Minister. All my friends crowded round to discuss whether any credence might be placed in Mr Poerringer's information, and the verdict was that it would not be safe to take him at his word. Little belief existed among my fellow-prisoners, even after Mr Poerringer's statement, of the possibility of any exchange taking place. The odds laid during my first week at the Fortress against my being exchanged were 20 to 1. That evening, in spite of all the favourable signs, odds of 10 to 1 against were offered and taken.
Life in the Festung was becoming very hard. Snow had fallen heavily. For several days, owing to alternate frost and snow, the courtyard, whether a mass of slippery ice or of penetrating melting snow, was now a barrier to the garden, across which I dared not venture. The corridor was so intensely cold that it was no place for me to take exercise in. My only relief at this time from lying on a bed was to take a few turns up and down the room during the hour of the promenade, when all windows were wide open. Every inch of the picture as seen from thosewindows is familiar to me. Far away, beyond the low vine-covered hills, now deep in snow, the spruce woods stand out pitch-black on the all-white horizon. More distinct than usual in the snow were the quaintly-shaped roofs of ancient houses and the numerous steeples and church towers for which Würzburg is celebrated in guide-books. Traffic on the river had ceased, for the big, broad barges were ice-bound, and only in the centre of the stream the yellow water ran freely, hustling along great lumps of ice and melting snow. Over the bridge ran the electric tram lines that connect the town with the large suburbs on our side of the river, and the cold air—it was now freezing very hard—carried with distinctness the clanging, whining sound of the passing trams.
Wooden huts, surrounded with a high paling, lay right below, but the distance was just too great to enable us to see if they were inhabited by French or English prisoners. Away beyond the huts were large stone and brick barracks, from where on Sundays a band was wont to come forth and march close up to the fortress,—a real German band this, they played extremely badly.
During the time of the hard frost a field close by the barracks had been flooded and turned into a skating-rink, where all day long the skaters,black dots in the distance, circled round on the white board.
The steep avenue leading down from the fortress through the wooded slope was at this time an object of interest. A number of small boys were enjoying themselves tobogganing down the rough uneven surface, running races, upsetting and rolling down the slope head over heels in the snow, with cries of joy and laughter. Some forty feet below the window, along the parapet of the inner battlement, two sentries stamping out a path on the snow looked up from time to time with suspicion at the figure leaning out of the prison window. Night was falling. The two sentries were impatiently waiting to be relieved. At last the relieving party appeared, escorted by a corporal; with due ceremony the guard was changed and the new sentries began their dreary tramp with rifle slung over their shoulders, beating hands and stamping feet against the ever-increasing cold.
Large electric arc-lamps had recently been fixed outside the windows, so that a strong light was thrown on the parapet and wall below, and the sentry could see to shoot any one, utterly foolish, who should attempt to climb down from our window to the parapet—a place, even when safely reached, from which there was no possibility of further escape. Electric light is usedmost lavishly by the town of Würzburg, and the effect of the twinkling lights of the city, seen from the fortress, is very beautiful, but one must be in the right mood to appreciate such things.
"Shut the window, Jackson, and let's have a game of poker." This was the voice of "Bobjohn"—the best of friends. I have said too little of these friends of mine—both French and English—too little of their kindness, patience, and unselfishness with one who was often irritable and unreasonable.
"28th.Zeppelin. A great rush for the windows."—I did not realise before how tremendously big these Zeppelins are. It was a grand sight to see the grey-white ship, big as an Atlantic liner, sailing over the river, and to see it turn and come straight towards the castle on a level with our windows. When only some few hundred yards away, so near that we could see the features of the men in the passenger car, the ship turned again and circled round the fortress, and from the windows of the corridor we watched it disappearing into the sunlight over the distant hills.
This evening was marked by the arrival of a parcel of books, Tauchnitz edition, which we had been allowed to order. No doubt the publishers are glad of the chance to unload their stock of British authors, as, after the war is over, therewill not be much demand for the Tauchnitz volumes.
Early in February another guest arrived at the fortress—another member for the English club. This was Foljambe, from L'Hôpital Notre Dame, Cambrai, who had made a very good recovery from severe wounds. Our new comrade, still very weak, only able to walk a short distance, arrived late in the afternoon, and was allotted a bed in my room. His experiences on the journey from Cambrai were very similar to mine. Although I have little direct evidence of how the Germans treat our soldiers, the information which Foljambe gave me on the subject is conclusive.
Foljambe, before coming up to the fortress, was put by mistake and left for nearly an hour in a soldier's Lager on the outskirts of Würzburg, and his story confirmed what the French orderlies had told us about the ill-treatment of the English soldiers.
"The English soldiers," said Foljambe, "go about like whipped dogs." Most of them were ill from want of food and warm clothing. Any excuse was seized upon to inflict hard punishments, and the constant bullying which was permitted, if not actually ordered by the officer in charge, made the men's life a perpetual torment. Foljambe had no time to get many details from the men, as the Germans hastily removed himfrom their company as soon as they found out that he was an officer.
On the field of battle no danger could silence the cheerful jest of these brave men; in hospital no suffering had been able to damp their cheery courage. The picture of these same soldiers cringing, looking from left to right when spoken to, as if to avoid a blow, is one upon which I cannot allow my thoughts to dwell.
"Feb. 11th.—Nothing to record." This is the last entry in my diary. The doctor came again with the Rittmeister, and spent a long time by the bedside of Lieut. C——, who had been shot through the sciatic nerve, and was apparently permanently lame. They left the room without taking any notice of me. This was depressing.
It was understood that C——'s case for exchange was being considered. Dr Zinck had taken no notice of me on this occasion, probably because my case had already been decided; but this view did not occur to me at the time. A rumour had been going round the rooms that an exchange of French officers, but not of English, would shortly take place.
The afternoon, my last in the fortress, passed slowly and sadly, like so many others. Poker had long ago been abandoned. Bridge was played with small enthusiasm.
A visit to the big room near the end of the corridor helped to pass away the evening. Here Captain D——, owner of some big mills in the north of France, showed me a working model loom which he had made out of firewood with no other tools than a penknife. With the loom he was weaving a "carpet" the size of a small pocket-handkerchief.
Feb. 12th—Der Tag.—At 9A.M.I was shaving at the toilet-table in the window recess when Dr Zinck came into the room alone, which was unusual. He walked over to where I was sitting, and the following was our brief but exciting conversation—
"You are happy now."
"Why should I be happy this morning," said I, "more than any other morning?"
"But don't you know? You are going back to England."
Then for one brief moment I believed, but yet tried to keep from showing my joy, lest perhaps the news were false.
The doctor walked up and down the room in silence, then turned to me with a worried look. "Don't say anything about what I have told you. You and C—— are going away, but I should not have told you. I did not know you had not been told." And then he left the room.
Some one announced that the van in which weused to go down to the baths had arrived in the yard, presumably to take me away. On going into the corridor to see this welcome sight I met Reddy and Irvine hurrying to hear the news, which, of course, had at once been spread throughout the Fortress. We were standing in the corridor talking, when Dr Zinck ran up. "Nix, nix," he said, with his Bavarian accent, "there will be no exchange with England, on account of the submarine blockade. A telegram has come from Berlin. You are not going away."
Hope and despair now fought confusedly; where was the truth? Colonel Lepeltier comforted me with his assurance that the doctor's last statement was a lie; that Dr Zinck had become frightened lest the Rittmeister would be angry at my having been told the good news too soon.
Certainly the van was still in the yard, the horses had been unyoked. There might be hope after all. I went as usual to room "53," lay down on the corner bed—the Club sofa—for the last time took up the book I had been reading the day before, found my place—the last chapter of 'David Copperfield.'
I had reached and nearly finished the last page, when the door was flung open and the Rittmeister entered in the well-known manner, suddenly, and with a quick look round the room, as if hoping to catch somebody up to mischief.
As soon as he came into the room I knew instinctively what he had come for: while trying to get off the bed to salute I heard the much-longed-for word "Austausch." "You must leave at once," he said—"at once."
Reddy helped me off the bed and down the corridor, to say good-bye to my friends and get my luggage.
Mr Poerringer and the Rittmeister followed behind, the latter, as Reddy remarked, eyeing me narrowly. I took longer than usual in this last walk down the corridor.
The Rittmeister followed into the room, went over to C——, and told him he was to leave next morning, then walked round the table past the bed where I was sitting, and left the room without further sign or word. I said good-bye to Colonel Lepeltier and my new friends, and as it was midday Mr Poerringer suggested that I should stop for a few minutes in room "53" to get some lunch.
The meat course on that day was a dish of tripe which few of us could face, and while I was eating my bread and cheese Reddy made up a parcel of bread and Leberwurst for me to take along.
Mr Poerringer stood by the window watching, orders having been given that I was not to be left alone.
When Mr Poerringer remarked casually that the train left in half an hour, and that if I missedit there would be no other, I did not wait to finish the bread and cheese.
Reddy put the parcel of food into one pocket of my greatcoat, a small bottle of beer in the other, and I bade adieu to my friends, feeling quite ashamed of and yet unable to hide the joy of my going.
Reddy for the last time helped me down the stairs and into the van. Mr Poerringer got in beside me.
I said good-bye to Reddy, and for a moment felt miserable at leaving so kind a friend to endless days of a misery from which I was now free.
As the van moved off he waved his hand with a cheery smile, and then turned away up the spiral staircase.
Mr Poerringer sat silent in a corner of the carriage (the same vehicle in which we had gone down to the baths). We crossed the courtyard, passed the entrance to the terrace, the sentries guarding the bridge over the moat. We entered the tunnelled archway, went slowly down the steep hill, and drove through the last barrier. These things I could see, for the window was open.
My thought was still struggling with the realisation of what these things meant, and of what lay beyond these prison walls, when, as we drove into the main road, Mr Poerringer broke the silence, and there was a tinge of envy in his voice, "La guerre est fini pour vous," he said, "La guerre est fini pour vous."
Festung Marienberg—Entrance to Inner Courtyard.
Festung Marienberg—Entrance to Inner Courtyard.
"La guerre est fini pour vous."
The van drove slowly down the road which runs along the outer fortification of the Castle. Mr Poerringer did not speak again, and I was silently trying to grasp the reality of the situation.
We stopped at the hut hospital barracks where I had been taken on my arrival at Würzburg five weeks before. Mr Poerringer got out and saluted Doctor Zinck, who was waiting outside the gates. The Doctor caught my eye and grinned from ear to ear, behind the back of some other officers; probably he would have spoken to me had it not been for their presence. I smiled at him rather feebly. At this time my mind contained but one idea—the fear that something would occur to prevent my departure from Würzburg. I was frightened to speak lest some word of mine might be made an excuse for detention. The four Britishsoldiers who now got into the van were evidently in a similar state of mind. Two of them had travelled with me from Cambrai. We none of us spoke. The door of the van shut out the face of the still smiling doctor (bless the man! he was perhaps really pleased to see me safely off), and we jogged slowly on.
Our conveyance stopped in the goods station yard. Three of the soldiers managed to hobble along without help, but the fourth, the same young fellow in the K.O.S.B. who had travelled in my carriage from Cambrai, had to be carried on a stretcher. I followed very slowly across the railway tracks, and then along the platform to where our train was waiting. Two first-class carriages were reserved for us, one for the "Offizier" I heard them say, and another for the men. The train was full, and passengers at every window stretched out their heads in curiosity, but none made any remark. We did not stay many minutes in the station. As the train moved off, Mr Poerringer was talking to some of the station officials and did not look up. He had not spoken to me since leaving the gates of Marienberg, and perhaps had mistaken my state of stupor for sulks.
It is not often that events in life will so be shaped that the highest state of happiness can be obtained merely from the fact of finding one's self alone in a railway carriage. The absence ofa sentry made itself pleasingly felt. The sitting on a soft cushion was a long-forgotten source of contentment. In my selfish joy I nearly forgot the friends I had left at the Festung.
On the left side of the line as you leave Würzburg, the Fortress stands out on the hillside at a distance of something over a mile as the crow flies. The windows of my former quarters, where we used to stand and watch the trains, could just be recognised, and as I looked a white sheet was waved up and down from the English room. I answered back with my handkerchief, waving it until the Festung Marienberg had passed out of view.
The soldiers in the adjoining carriage, having discovered that a communicating door between our two carriages was open, came in to keep me company. M——, in the K.O.S.B.'s, remarked that this was a pleasanter journey than the last we had performed together. I asked him about the other men who had been in our party, but he had lost sight of them. M—— looked thin and pale, and in far worse condition than when he left Cambrai. He told me that he had been kindly treated in hospital, but had been given very little nourishing food. Another man who was wounded in the spine and had been in another ward in the same hospital, said the treatment was fair but food short. All the other men complained of the wantof food. They said that the able-bodied prisoners were most willing to work to escape the monotony of prison life, but that they were given so little food in the work camps that many of them were unable to stand the long hours, and had to return to hospital.
My recollection of this part of our journey is most vague. I took a childish pleasure in recognising the country through which we were passing, and in comparing my feelings on the two journeys. Near the first little country station after you leave Würzburg there is a large nursery, and a large notice put up by Herr Somebody with the words "Baumschule." Farther on the train passes close to a large quaintly roofed building bearing the inscription "Jägerhaus." On the journey from Cambrai I had noticed these things, and my thought, anxious to get away from reality, had speculated about the Jägerhaus and its past history, and had wondered if the owners of the Baumschule sold plants at a price cheaper than obtained at home.
But now, during the first few hours of the journey, my mind was incapable of taking in impressions. We stopped at Aschaffenburg, probably outside the station. I have no recollection. We stopped many times in the afternoon, but we took little or no interest. The men had a very small piece of black bread each, and I gave themmy Leberwurst and the brown bread. Darkness came down soon. We stopped at stations now and again, and rejoiced each time the train moved on.
Night had long fallen when we made our first change. I do not remember the name of the station, but the place appeared to be of considerable size. We were helped out of the carriage by Red Cross attendants, and saw no soldiers with fixed bayonets. I was offered the choice of a stretcher or a bath-chair, and chose the latter. The night was dark and wet, the station badly lit up.
We were taken along the platform and put into the Red Cross dressing-station, which contained a sofa, two arm-chairs, an operating-table which looked as if it had never been used, and a glass cupboard with medicine bottles, rolls of lint, &c. An oil-lamp hanging from the ceiling threw a dim light.
After five minutes' wait an official looked in at the door, and was about to pop out again, when I asked a question: "Can we have something to eat?" The official said "Wait," disappeared, and promptly returned with three of his fellows. They were surprised at hearing we had not dined (it was, I think, now about 9 o'clock), and seemed doubtful if anything could be done in the absence of special orders. The situation was made easierby my offering to pay. "Für alle?" they said. "Yes, für alle."
I was wheeled off at once in the bath-chair still farther along the platform to the station restaurant, a small tidy room with half a dozen small tables covered with clean white table-cloths. A waiter came forward, helped me into a chair, and presented the menu. I ordered a beefsteak, with potatoes and peas. It was pleasant to sit down to a clean white table-cloth, with a plate (instead of the trough used in the Festung) and knives and forks and spoons.
Presently the beefsteak arrived, beautifully cooked and daintily served. I asked for some beer, but this was "verboten." "Well, then, bring me a tumbler and a corkscrew," said I, withdrawing from my greatcoat pocket the bottle of stout which Reddy had given me on my departure from the Fortress.
The price of this excellent dinner was 1 m. 75, including a cup of coffee. This was at a time when Germany was reported in our papers to be suffering from shortage of food supplies. The menu offered a great variety of dishes, and the only evidence of scarcity to be noticed was the small-sized ration of bread with which I was served.
After the coffee, and cigars! the Red Cross official came in to say that it was time to takeplaces in the train. This time we had no longer the luxury of a first-class carriage, but still there was plenty of room, as we had a whole coach consisting of four or five third-class compartments. The men said they had been given a very good dinner, for which no payment was demanded.
Just before the train started our party was increased by the addition of a sentry. The men had all settled down to sleep in the different compartments, and the new arrival shared a carriage with me.
He was of a very different type from the soldiers who had guarded us on the other journey—a young man, probably of good position, and certainly of good education, very fat, unhealthily so, quite bald, and wearing gold-rimmed spectacles; he spoke with a North German accent, very difficult for us to understand. He desired nothing better than conversation, and told me all about his own adventure with the army that marched on Antwerp, where he had contracted typhoid fever which had left him bald and short-sighted. He was now condemned to transport work for the duration of the war, and did not hesitate to say to me that the prospect was distinctly disagreeable. We both agreed that war was unpleasant for every one concerned.
Our ultimate destination was Flushing, but my friendly fellow-traveller only expected to go with usas far as Osnabrück, at which town we could not hope to arrive before midday of the day after next. The train we were now in contained a number of wounded Germans. They came along the corridor during the night and made friends with our party. Some of them could speak a little English. Like all the other German soldiers I have heard discussing the war, these men expressed great reluctance to return to the front, and were hopeful that the war would speedily be terminated. This is probably the normal attitude of every soldier on both sides.
The German soldier is oppressed by the unexpected duration of the war. He is apparently victorious on all fronts, and still the war drags on. When he goes home on leave there is not much to cheer him up. Every one seems to be in mourning, and all his friends of military age are away. There is one thing only that enables him to face the hardships of war with unquestionable courage. From childhood he has been taught that the highest virtue in a man is loyalty to his Kaiser and the Fatherland.
German patriotism finds its expressions in personal loyalty to the Kaiser, and devotion to the Fatherland which is almost fanatical. Some people would say that conscription has played a large part in the development of this national religion of patriotism, but the history of the German peoplecan hardly be brought to support such a proposition. Nor does the mere fact that patriotism is taught in the schools provide a sufficient explanation.
The source of a flourishing, vigorous patriotism may often be discovered from a study of economic conditions. That patriotism is affected by economic conditions must at once be admitted. In a State, for example, where the majority of the population are slaves, patriotism will be confined to the slave-owners, who will fight vigorously to prevent their slaves being captured by foreign slave-owners. An agricultural country, where the majority of its inhabitants are owners of the soil they till, affords the most favourable environment for the growth of patriotic sentiment. The Serbians are without doubt the most patriotic people that history has ever known, and Serbia is a country almost entirely devoted to agriculture, where the great majority of the inhabitants are owners of the soil, so that, in the mouth of a Serbian peasant the words "my country" refer to something more than an abstraction.
But German patriotism stands likewise on a sound economic basis, for Germany possesses an enormous agricultural population, the greater proportion of whom are owners of the soil—the figures, according to last available statistics, being 86 per cent of the total population of the country. Startingwith these favourable conditions, the German Government worked hard during peace-time to strengthen by education and discipline the instinctive patriotism of the citizens. Loyalty to the Kaiser and Fatherland, respect for the army, the duties of a citizen to the State, are lessons that the German child is taught at school.
In addition to the economic and educational, there is a third factor—and most essential of all—in which Germany is by no means wanting. This third factor is the influence of history and tradition.
"C'est la cendre des morts qui créa la patrie."
A consideration of these three influences, economic conditions, educational appeal to the intellect, historical appeal to tradition, will help us to understand the power of German patriotism.
In one of the thoughtful editorials to which readers of the 'Irish Homestead' are accustomed, I find condensed into a single phrase the idea which I have been struggling to express. "Duty to one's race," says "A. E.," "is not inevitable. It is the result of education, of intellectual atmosphere, or of the social order."
It is very necessary, but very difficult in war, to keep in view the best side of the enemy's national character. Now among the doctors, hospital attendants, officers and men of the German armywith whom I came in contact during my stay in Germany, I occasionally met with straight-dealing and kindness. Three there are among them to whom I would gladly give my hand. But though in the main the Germans are a treacherous race, coarse in pleasure, bestial in drunkenness, viciously brutal in war; they are also brave, disciplined, and patriotic. When the Fatherland is seen to be in danger they will fight to the last loaf, to the last cartridge, to the last man. There will be no sudden collapse. There will be no surrender by attrition. Ours is no easy road to victory.
The night was well on before our visitors retired to their own compartment. The gold-spectacled, bald-headed escort fell into a heavy sleep, uninterrupted by the frequent stopping at cold, dark, and lonely stations, where the train would sometimes remain quiet and peaceful for perhaps a quarter of an hour, but always started with a sudden rattle and jerk just as I was thankfully dozing off.
Of the following day I have little recollection. Early in the morning we changed trains at a small junction. It was bitterly cold, and the platform, which was covered with snow, was deserted. No stretchers or stretcher-bearers were provided, and those of us who could not walk were wheeled across the station in a truck by two aged porters. Before starting afresh we hada cup of hot coffee and a very small roll of bread each.
The railway now ran through a hilly and thickly wooded country, and our speed, which had never been very rapid, was much reduced by long curved gradients. Snow lay thick on the branches in the dark spruce forests. Rosy-faced children, well wrapped up, on their way to school, stopped on the hard frozen road which ran beside the railway line to watch the train go by and to wave their hands and cheer. A pale wintry sun crept round the horizon.
The railway carriage was almost as cold as the corridor in the Festung Marienberg. Yesterday's feeling of joy merely at the fact of being outside the Fortress was now giving way to impatience at the length of our journey and the slowness of the train.
The picture changed in the afternoon. The train was crossing the broad corn-lands of Westphalia, which, as one huge field, stretch away to the horizon. Here and there were patches of snow, but no hedges, walls, or fence of any kind, and scarcely a tree, can be seen to break the monotony of the landscape. The farmhouses, few and far apart, present a lonely and desolate appearance.
Yet another month and the newly-sown grain would be sprouting, and six months would see the rich harvest, and perhaps the end of breadtickets in Berlin, for Westphalia is the granary of the German Empire.
Shortly after dark we again had to change trains. The platform was crowded with soldiers and civilians. The snow had given way to a drizzling rain, and as our train was not yet in, we sat waiting on high-backed wooden seats, surrounded by a curious and not too well-mannered crowd. I remember one ugly old man with a pointed grey beard, who shook his fist at us and was full of hate, until the loud voice of a N.C.O. ordered him to move on. The moment the order rang out the crowd lost interest in our presence, and the irascible old man was one of the quickest to move.
It was a great relief to hear that another night was not to be spent in the train, as the effects of cold and the fatigues of the journey were beginning to tell on the weaker members of the party. However, we still had three hours to travel before reaching the place where we were to stay the night, and where, the escort said, rooms in a hotel were awaiting us.
It was about ten o'clock before we reached our destination. I am not sure of the place, but think it was Cassel. The station was a large one, and lit up with powerful electric lights. Our train carried a big load of civilian passengers, chiefly women, a great number of whom—in fact, nearlyall—wore deep mourning. We had to wait till the platform was clear before the stretcher-bearers came to carry us off.
I do not like being carried on a stretcher without straps. That evening at Cassel we had the best kind of stretcher, with a pillow and blankets which were tucked in all round; and then with a big strap across the chest and another about the ankles, one felt quite secure.
We were first taken to the buffet, which is at the far end of the station from our arrival platform. On reaching the buffet we were unstrapped, so we could sit up and take a cup of warm milk, which was served out by uniformed women attendants. We remained in the buffet about half an hour. My stretcher was close beside a table at which four big bony women dressed in black were drinking hot coffee. A typically German notice printed in large characters hung in a conspicuous position on the wall:—
Speak German! Do not use enemy language!"Adieu" is French; say instead—Gott beschütze Dich.Gott segne Dich.Auf wiedersehen.Auf baldigeswiedersehen.Auf sehrbaldigeswiedersehen.Auf ein Rechtherzigesfrohesbaldigeswiedersehen.
Speak German! Do not use enemy language!"Adieu" is French; say instead—Gott beschütze Dich.Gott segne Dich.Auf wiedersehen.Auf baldigeswiedersehen.Auf sehrbaldigeswiedersehen.Auf ein Rechtherzigesfrohesbaldigeswiedersehen.
Speak German! Do not use enemy language!"Adieu" is French; say instead—Gott beschütze Dich.Gott segne Dich.Auf wiedersehen.Auf baldigeswiedersehen.Auf sehrbaldigeswiedersehen.Auf ein Rechtherzigesfrohesbaldigeswiedersehen.
Speak German! Do not use enemy language!
"Adieu" is French; say instead—
Gott beschütze Dich.
Gott segne Dich.
Auf wiedersehen.
Auf baldigeswiedersehen.
Auf sehrbaldigeswiedersehen.
Auf ein Rechtherzigesfrohesbaldigeswiedersehen.
We had not seen any official frightfulness for a long time. Some person in authority now came in to the restaurant and lost his temper—not with us, but with the fact of our being in the restaurant. There was no one in charge of our party, so the cursing fell upon the restaurant in general; and shortly after the irate person had departed we were carried away by stretcher-bearers to the waiting-room, which was a few yards farther down the platform.
Here we had to spend the rest of the night, and nothing was said about the hotel and comfortable beds for which our escort in the train had led us to hope. The waiting-room was furnished in a style common to most big Continental stations. The arm-chairs, upholstered in dark-green plush, were ugly and uncomfortable. The two sofas were designed to repel the weariest of travellers. Although large and lofty, the room was efficiently heated by four large radiators, and four enormous crystal candelabra hung in the centre.
At the far end of the room, which was in semi-darkness, as only one of the candelabra had been turned on, a lady in mourning was sitting alone at a small round marble-topped table. When the stretcher-bearers had gone, the lady spoke to us in perfect English. "Are you the poor soldiers who are going back to England?" she said. "Howglad you must be! I read about the exchange of prisoners in the paper." This lady was of German birth, and had lived most of her life in Australia. She said the nations of Europe had gone mad, and that "this exchange of prisoners was the first sign of sanity that she had seen since leaving Australia." She asked if we had had any dinner, and said it was too late now to get anything to eat, but that if we rang the waiter would serve hot coffee.
In answer to the bell the waiter came at once, and I asked him if we could have some beer. He seemed to hesitate a minute until I produced a 20-mark note. The beer was brought in tumblers of frosted glass about a foot high. It was the best Pilsener. Britain can brew nothing to touch it. There was nothing in the waiting-room just then really altogether German except the beer (and the ugly, uncomfortable chairs). There was very little German about the waiter, who while waiting for our glasses to be emptied, entered into fluent conversation with one of the soldiers.
And the astonishing subject of his conversation was league football. The wounded soldiers, who were inclined to be sleepy when the Australian lady was bewailing the European situation, were now thoroughly enjoying themselves. The waiter told us that he had toured the North of England with a German football team during the winterof 1912-13; he knew all the professional clubs, and was personally acquainted with many of the favourite players in the north country.
One of the wounded men—Private Henry, Lancs. Fusiliers, who was an expert follower of league football—started a friendly but determined argument with Fritz (as they called the waiter) as to the merits of the different teams.
Fritz was a real football enthusiast. "I shall never play again," he said; "I am to be called up in a few weeks, and even if I get through I can never play in England again."
"Cheer up, Fritz!" I said; "you have got the best beer in all the world, and as we are not likely ever again to get a chance of drinking it, you had better bring in another round."
Some of the Red Cross attendants who were on duty in the station that night, young fellows of fifteen or sixteen, paid us a visit but did not stay long; they could not join in our conversation, and they refused my offer of beer with a regretful "verboten."
A soldier friend of Fritz's came in to see us. He had been slightly wounded in Russia some six weeks ago, and was now on his way to the Western Front, much depressed.
Fritz promised to bring in coffee and rolls at six o'clock (our train was to leave at seven). Two of the soldiers slept on the floor, and two dozed inthe arm-chairs. Even the fatigue of the journey and the soporific influence of beer did not suffice to induce sleep on the sofa.
Our escort of the previous day joined us at the train next morning. Only a single third-class carriage was provided for this part of our journey, and as it was a very narrow one we were all most uncomfortable. We would reach Osnabrück at 11A.M., and there, we were told, "the exchange would take place." I speculated wildly as to what form or ceremony would be followed. The local morning paper threw some light on the subject with a statement "that the wounded English officers and men about to be exchanged were to be assembled at Osnabrück from all parts of Germany previous to being sent over the frontier."
The train seemed to go slower than ever. We came to a part of the line which had been flooded, and a squad of men were repairing the track and rebuilding a bridge. The men were of military age, and our escort said they were Russian prisoners. I noticed in many places along the line that a lot of rough ground had been broken up and brought into cultivation.
Now this work requires able-bodied, healthy young labourers, especially when trees have to be felled and roots removed, and there is no doubt that the prisoners of war are being used for this purpose. Indeed, most of the agricultural workis carried on by prisoners, so that the full strength of Germany's enormous agrarian population is released for the fighting line.
We had to change trains once more (the seventh or eighth change since Würzburg). Our escort, who like ourselves was impatient at the continued delay, expostulated with the station-master, who explained that we had followed a circuitous route in order to leave the main lines free for the passage of troop trains. Large bodies of troops were at that time being shifted from East to West or from West to East.
The day dragged on, eleven o'clock passed, the hour we were due to arrive at our destination, and still the train monotonously bumped along the single track of the badly-laid country railroad. Our third-class carriage was very cramped and uncomfortable. Such carriages are really not "third-class" according to English notions. But we did not worry about mere physical discomfort. I do not know what my wounded comrades had in their minds. They hardly spoke. But the expression in the face of each man had been changing from the moment they had left the hospital hutBarackenat Würzburg.
In my own mind a change had also been working since leaving the Festung Marienberg, with its omnipresent sentries, noisy barrack-rooms, and insolent, ill-mannered commander.
Now that I was no longer treated like a dangerous criminal, I began to think and act in a more rational way. But the change was very slow. For long after I had reached my own home I retained a silent and suspicious manner, which was surprising perhaps to those of my friends who did not know the full story of the Festung Marienberg. I have drawn no exaggerated picture of that prison. I am afraid there are places even worse than Würzburg, although in other prisoner camps, such as Crefeld, Neu Brandenburg, Stralsund, the conditions are very different, and from trustworthy accounts I believe that at Stralsund in particular the officers could not wish for better treatment. They are allowed to play cricket, football, tennis, &c., whenever they wish. They can even visit the town under escort, and have a three-hole golf-course, which one of my friends there tells me is "bogey nine." I am thankful that, owing, I believe, to the action of the American Embassy in Berlin, the four British prisoners whom I left behind at Würzburg have been sent to another Fortress in Bavaria, where they are allowed a considerable amount of liberty, and where life is much more endurable than it was at the Festung Marienberg.
On arrival at Osnabrück at 1.30P.M.on Saturday the 14th February, my experience as a prisoner of war in Germany came to an end. From that day to the crossing of the Dutch frontier on the night ofMonday 16th, I was treated with all possible kindness, and every material comfort that could be wished for was offered or provided. I was no longer treated as a prisoner.
Two private motor-cars were waiting at the station to take us to the hospital. Three of our party went off in the first car, and I with the remaining soldier was lifted into the other, and carefully covered up with warm rugs by the officer who had come to meet the train. Both cars were driven off to the hospital, where my companions were to be lodged. The sun was shining frostily as we drove through the bright clean town, which is more Dutch than German in appearance.
The car stopped in a narrow street opposite a verandah, with a flight of steps leading up from the pavement. On this terrace or verandah stood an old man, short, and heavy about the stomach, dressed in black old-fashioned clothes. He approached me with a bow, washing his hands with invisible soap, "Goot Morgen, sir," "Goot Morgen,"—more washing—"Is there anything I can do for you? You ask me. Komm this way, please." He crossed a large entrance-hall. The floor was tiled and slippery, so that I could scarcely walk on it. Sofas were set all round and down the centre, and one or two wounded German soldiers sat reading. They paid very little attention to our arrival. I was shown into an enormously big hallcontaining about 200 beds. This (from the stage at the far end) had doubtless been a music hall.
The room, which was lofty, but not well lit up, except at the stage end, where there was but a single large window, had been freshly painted white. The beds were ranged all round, and a double row down the centre.
Everything in the room was new. Beds, sheets, blankets, none had ever been used before. By each bedside was a small iron table, and behind each bed hung the patient's hospital outfit, the ugly striped pyjamas and red felt slippers. Everything new and spotless.
The bald, gold-spectacled escort carried in my luggage, and bade me an almost affectionate farewell. I was becoming quite inured to surprises of this kind.
In spite of a notice on the wall which said that lying down on the beds in the day-time is strictly forbidden, I lay down on the bed nearest the door and tried to forget my excitement in sleep, but before very long I was aroused by voices from the other side of the screen at the door, and R. D. R. walked round in his kilt, looking just the same as when I had last seen him at Joigny la Chaussée.
"Well, I am glad to see you," he said; "we heard you were killed, and then we heard you were in England."
"How have you got into this party?" I replied; "there is nothing much wrong with you."
Four other British officers followed in behind R.D. I had expected to see a far more crippled band. Major D—— was the worst of the four. One arm was badly paralysed. He spoke with difficulty, a bullet having grazed his windpipe leaving a nasty scar, and he had one or two other bullet wounds in the leg.
M—— and W—— were very lame; each had a broken leg, badly set and short. Captain M—— had nothing wrong with his arms or legs, but a shrapnel bullet had hit him in the face, gone down through the roof of his mouth, and stuck somewhere in his neck, which was bandaged up.
The worst case of all was H——, who presently came in, supported and half carried by two orderlies. No man in this war has had a nearer shave than H——. He was shot through the base of the neck, and the bullet chipped the spine, causing partial paralysis on one side and complete paralysis on the other. I think it was his cheery spirit and sense of humour that helped to keep him alive.
All of us had long stories to tell. W—— had the most to say, having been shut up for three months with some Russian officers who knew neither French nor English. The remainder of the party all came from Crefeld, which is not many hours by train from Osnabrück.
For some reason the new arrivals were not allowed to have a bath. We were told that anything we fancied either to eat or drink could be ordered for dinner, but that if we did not wish to pay for our food, the ordinary hospital fare would be at our disposal free of charge. We ordered, and were served, a first-rate dinner.
During the afternoon a party of French officers walked into the ward. One of them was rather lame, but the others seemed in very good health. Surprise at the meeting was mutual. They spoke but little English. When we said that we were the prisoners about to be exchanged, these poor fellows had just for a moment a gleam of hope that they also by some mistake were to come with us. We had been together only a few minutes when a soldier came in and took them away. In the short time I had, however, found out that these French officers had no complaint to make of the treatment they had received, and they informed me that a special difference was made in their favour as compared with the British.
Soon after a most excellent dinner, we were glad to turn in. German beds are made in some strange manner. The bedclothes are not tucked in at all, but are folded across the bed in a puzzling sort of way. However, the bed was extremely comfortable, and I slept soundly, the first time since leaving Cambrai.
The next day, Sunday 15th, was a very long one. We were not allowed to leave the ward, which, on account of its huge size, the lack of windows, and the uniform whiteness, was a most depressing place. In the afternoon some kind of religious service took place in the adjoining ward—at least we heard singing of hymns to the accompaniment of a powerful organ—and the proceedings, whatever they were, terminated with "Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles."
The event of the evening was the announcement that next morning we were to appear before a Medical Board, and immediately after would leave for Holland. This piece of information was received with calm. For my part I still had some of the old reluctance to believe in good news, and Major D—— spoke the thought of all when he said, "We are not yet out of the wood." H——, the most crippled of the party, was the only optimist.
Next morning, shortly after ten o'clock, I was crossing the outer hall—that is to say, I was creeping round by the wall, not daring to venture across the well-polished floor—when the Board emerged from a doorway behind me. They stood and watched me make a laborious circuit back to our room.
We stood to attention, those of us who were able to stand, while the seven or eight Germanofficers filed into the room and took their seats at the table which runs across the whole breadth of the ward, opposite the entrance door. These were men of high rank, and all of a large size except one stout, short fellow, who acted as interpreter. Our names were called, and the examination proceeded in order of seniority. There was no hesitation about any one until Captain M—— was called. His case was the subject of a certain amount of guttural discussion. R. D. R. was the last and longest to be examined, and his fate hung in the balance. The Board seemed to be of opinion that he was not to be exchanged.
The discussion lasted but a few minutes, during which R. D. stood pale and with anxious eyes. They again began to question him. "How many years' service did you say?" "Three." "Can you drill troops?" "Very little." "Are you qualified to teach musketry?" "No."
Again the withered hand was examined to see if any sign of life could be found in the blue twisted fingers.
I think the casting vote in R. D.'s favour was given by the senior doctor, the only one of the party who was in mufti, and one of the few really human beings I have met while in Germany.
Before going out the senior officer present (a General) made us a speech in German, which wastranslated to us by the interpreter somewhat as follows:—
"It is all right! You have all passed, and it only remains for you each to come and sign the necessary papers in the doctor's room. The General wishes to know if you have any complaint to make about your treatment, and if there is anything you are not satisfied about the way you have been treated while in Germany you must tell us about it. We wish you to make now any complaints. We want you to be satisfied. You must go back to England contented." "We want you to go back to England contented." He repeated these words several times, walking up and down the room as he spoke, looking round with a quick glance at our faces, while the Board in the background nodded approval.
There were no complaints. I thought in silence of my journey from Cambrai to Würzburg, and of the Rittmeister at the Festung Marienberg.
Here was the explanation of the sudden change which began the day of departure from the Festung, the explanation of the first-class carriage at Würzburg station, the indifferent attitude of the crowd on our journey, the good-fellowship of sentries, the free and friendly intercourse with wounded German soldiers, the attention and luxuries provided at Osnabrück. "They" wanted us to go back to England contented.
After the Board had gone the interpreter came back again to make sure—"Please, gentlemen, mention anything. You are all satisfied. Is good, that is gut," and out he went at last rubbing his hands.
"They" had evidently given orders that the about-to-be-exchanged prisoners were to be treated with kindness, just as "They" on a former occasion had given orders that British wounded prisoners, officers and men, were to be treated with a special insolence and brutality.
This affectation of kindness now at the very last moment, the hypocritical pretence, was more repellent than even the insolence of the Rittmeister Niebuhr.
There was, however, one member of the Board whose kindness was really genuine. This was the senior doctor in civilian clothes.
When I went along to the room where the papers had to be signed, he made me sit in his arm-chair and examined my head. I cannot explain the difference between his manner and that of the others. Kindness, in the others so evidently sham, official, and by order, with him was second nature.
"You will get well, quite well in time," he said, "but it will be very long."
"Let me take your arm, you must not fall on the slippery floor. You might hurt yourself badly and not be able to leave us to-night."
Even if I had not understood the German words, there was no misunderstanding the sympathy in the tone of his voice.
The word of deliverance came that evening while we were at dinner. We were told that two motor-cars and an ambulance waited at the door, and in a very few minutes we started off for the station. As the night was dark and wet, there was some delay before the cars could find the platform our train was due to start from. We drove into the station by a goods entrance, and the cars halted quite near the train. In addition to ourselves, a large party of wounded soldiers, about 120 of them, were bound for the frontier.
As I made my way slowly along the platform I saw several of these poor fellows standing about on crutches, one or two of whom I had met before at Cambrai. They were very cheery, and it was cheering to see them and hear the familiar query, "Are we downhearted?" with its answering roar from the train-load of cripples. But the thin pale faces and ragged clothes bore witness to the misery from which they, the lucky ones, were now to be released.
After waiting for nearly two hours, a German officer of high rank came along to make a final inspection. He asked us if we had any complaints to make, and again repeated the hypocritical phrase, "We want you to go back to Englandcontented." And at last the train moved off. Osnabrück is only forty miles from the frontier. The suspense and worry of the day had told on all of us, and when the much-longed-for moment arrived, and the train actually crossed the frontier, we had all fallen asleep.
Würzburg and all that nightmare in German hands were already slipping far away into the past. The reaction found expression not in hilarious excitement or placid contentment, but in an exceeding weariness of mind and body. Quite early in the morning the train stopped at a small station well over the German frontier. Two ladies came along the corridor with baskets full of cakes, oranges, tobacco, and other gifts. "Oh, you poor men," said a voice in English, "is there anything we can do for you?" It was the first Englishwoman's voice we had heard for a long time (it did seem such a very long time since we left Southampton Water).
The voice and the kind words acted as a stimulant, almost as a shock. Although the incident may seem to be a trivial one, it is stamped in my memory, for it awoke the memory of all that England is, of kind human sympathy, of those qualities so little understood by Germans.
We reached Flushing about 11A.M.The British Consul and a number of very kind people came to meet the train and escorted us to thehotel which is just opposite the station. Owing to a very bad headache I had to spend the day in bed.
Those of our party who were able went for a walk as free men in the streets of Flushing. They saw the arrival of German prisoners from England, and compared their well-fed appearance in smart clean uniforms with the ragged miserable state of the unfortunate British soldiers. About seven o'clock we were allowed to go on board the steamer. In the dining-room of the hotel I met Major Chichester, who had arrived with all the one-armed and one-legged men from Madame Brunot's Hospital at Cambrai. Many stretcher cases were carried down the gangway, some with bandaged heads and smiling faces; but one or two stretchers were completely covered over, and one dared not think of the burden they carried. Yet others there were who, going back to England, would never see England again. "Are we downhearted?"—the cry was raised at intervals, and from every quarter of the ship came the answer in a convincing chorus.
During the long and very rough sea passage my mind was taken up with the misery of the sea, which in a bad sailor is able to dominate all else. However, the discomforts of the sea journey only intensified the relief of landing on English soil at last.
It was about 8P.M.before the hospital train was ready to start for Charing Cross. At the end of the saloon in which we were travelling a large gramophone was playing a lively and rather catching air. I asked an orderly the name of the tune, and he, looking at me with an air of suspicion and hesitation, not knowing the tune was unfamiliar to us, replied at last, "It's a long long way to Tipperary."
Indeed the way had seemed long.
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