THE BLACKEST CHAPTER OF ALL
When the days were at their longest, some of the Russians who had been working for the farmers came into camp, refusing to go back because the farmers made them work such long hours. There is daylight-saving in Germany, which made the rising one hour earlier, and the other end of the day was always the "dark." This made about a seventeen-hour day, and the Russians rebelled against it. The farmers paid so much a day (about twenty-five cents) and then got all the work out of the prisoners they could; and some of them were worked unmercifully hard, and badly treated.
Each night, a few Russians, footsore, weary, and heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, trailed into camp with sullen faces, and we were afraid there was going to be trouble.
On the night of July 3d, three tired Russians came into camp from the farms they had been working on after we had had our supper. The N.C.O. was waiting for them. The trouble had evidently been reported to Headquarters, and the orders had come back. The Commandant was there, to see that the orders were carried out.
In a few minutes the N.C.O. started the Russians to run up and down the space in front of the huts. We watched the performance in amazement. The men ran, with dragging footsteps, tired with their long tramp and their long day's work, but when their speed slackened, the N.C.O. threatened them with his bayonet.
For an hour they ran with never a minute's breathing-spell, sweating, puffing, lurching in their gait, and still the merciless order was "Marsch!" "Marsch!" and the three men went struggling on.
When the darkness came, they were allowed to stop, but they were so exhausted they had to be helped to bed by their friends.
We did not realize that we had been witnessing the first act in the most brutal punishment that a human mind could devise, and, thinking that the trouble was over, we went to sleep, indignant at what we had seen.
In the morning, before any of us were awake, and about a quarter of an hour before the time to get up, a commotion started in our hut. German soldiers, dozens of them, came in, shouting to everybody to get up, and dragging the Russians out of bed. I was sleeping in an upper berth, but the first shout awakened me, and when I looked down I could see the soldiers flourishing their bayonets and threatening everybody. The Russians were scurrying out like scared rabbits, but the British, not so easily intimidated, were asking, "What's the row?"
One of the British, Walter Hurcum, was struck by a bayonet in the face, cutting a deep gash across his cheek and the lower part of his ear. Tom Morgan dodged a bayonet thrust by jumping behind the stove, and escaped without injury.
When I looked down, I caught the eyes of one of our guards, a decent old chap, of much the same type as Sank, and his eyes were full of misery and humiliation, but he was powerless to prevent the outbreak of frightfulness.
I dressed myself in my berth—the space below was too full already, and I thought I could face it better with my clothes on. When I got down, the hut was nearly empty, but a Gordon Highlander who went out of the door a few feet ahead of me was slashed at by one of the N.C.O.'s and jumped out of the way just in time.
All this was preliminary to roll-call, when we were all lined up to answer to our names. That morning the soup had lost what small resemblance it had had to soup—it had no more nourishment in it than dishwater. We began then to see that they were going to starve every one into a desire to work.
We had not been taking soup in the morning, for it was, even at its best, a horrible dish to begin the day with. We had made tea or coffee of our own, and eaten something from our parcels. But this morning we were lined up with the Russians and given soup—whether we wanted it or not.
After the soup, the working parties were despatched, and then the three unhappy Russians were started on their endless journey again, racing up and down, up and down, with an N.C.O. standing in the middle to keep them going. They looked pale and worn from their hard experience of the night before, but no Bengal tiger ever had less mercy than the N.C.O., who kept them running.
The distance across the end of the yard was about seventy-five feet, and up and down the Russians ran. Their pace was a fast trot, but before long they were showing signs of great fatigue. They looked pitifully at us as they passed us, wondering what it was all about, and so did we. We expected every minute it would be over; surely they had been punished enough. But the cruel race went on.
In an hour they were begging for mercy, whimpering pitifully, as they gasped out the only German word they knew—"Kamerad—Kamerad"—to the N.C.O., who drove them on. They begged and prayed in their own language; a thrust of the bayonet was all the answer they got.
Their heads rolled, their tongues protruded, their lips frothed, their eyes were red and scalded—and one fell prostrate at the feet of the N.C.O., who, stooping over, rolled back his eyelid to see if he were really unconscious or was feigning it. His examination proved the latter to be the case, and I saw the Commandant motion to him to kick the Russian to his feet. This he did with right good will, and the weary race went on.
But the Russian's race was nearly ended, for in another half-dozen rounds he fell, shuddering and moaning, to the ground—and no kick or bayonet thrust could rouse him...
Another one rolled over and over in a fit, purple in the face, and twitching horribly. He rolled over and over until he fell into the drain, and lay there, unattended.
The last one, a very wiry fellow, kept going long after the other two, his strength a curse to him now, for it prolonged his agony, but he fell out at last, and escaped their cruelty, at least for the time, through the black door of unconsciousness.
Then they were gathered up by some of the prisoners, and carried into the Revier.
Just as the three unconscious ones were carried away, three other Russians, not knowing what was in store for them, came in. We did not see them until they walked in at the gate. They also had been on farms, and were now refusing to work longer. They came into the hut, where their frightened countrymen were huddled together, some praying and some in tears. The newcomers did not know what had happened. But they were not left long in doubt. An N.C.O. called to them to "heraus," and when they came into the yard, he started them to run. The men were tired and hungry. They had already spent months on the farms, working long hours: that did not save them. They had dared to rebel, so their spirits must be broken.
Our hearts were torn with rage and pity. We stormed in and out of the huts like crazy men, but there was nothing we could do. There were so few of us, and of course we were unarmed. There was no protest or entreaty we could make that would have made any appeal. Orders were orders! It was for the good of Germany—to make her a greater nation—that these men should work—the longer hours the better—to help to reclaim the bad land, to cultivate the fields, to raise more crops to feed more soldiers to take more prisoners to cultivate more land to raise more crops.
It was perfectly clear to the Teutonic mind. No link in the chain must be broken. Deutschland über Alles!
At noon the Russians were still running—it is astonishing what the human machine can stand! The N.C.O. impatiently snapped his watch and slashed at the one who was passing him, to speed them up, and so hasten the process. He was getting hungry and wanted his dinner. Then an order came from the Commandant that it was to be stopped—and we hoped again, as we had the night before, that this was the end.
We brought the three poor fellows, pale and trembling, to our end of the hut, and gave them as good a meal as our parcels would afford. One of them had a bayonet wound in his neck, which the N.C.O. had given him. He had jabbed him with the point of his bayonet, to quicken his speed. In spite of their exhaustion, they ate ravenously, and fell asleep at once, worn out with the long hours of working as well as by the brutal treatment they had received.
But there was no sleep for the poor victims—until the long, black sleep of unconsciousness rolled over them and in mercy blotted out their misery—for the N.C.O.'s came for them and dragged them away from us, and the sickening spectacle began again.
There were just eleven of us, British and Canadians, in the camp at this time, twelve of the British having been sent away; and it happened that this was the day, July 4th, that we wrote our cards. We remembered that when the men had written cards about the lice it had brought results: we had no other way of communication with the world, and although this was a very poor one, still it was all we had. We knew our cards would never get out of Germany; indeed, we were afraid they would never leave the camp, but we would try.
We went to the place where the cards were kept, which was in charge of a Polish Jew, who also acted as interpreter. He had been in the Russian Army, and had been taken prisoner in the early days of the war. There was a young Russian with him who did clerical work in the camp. They were both in tears. The Jew walked up and down, wringing his hands and calling upon the God of Abraham and of Isaac and of Jacob! Sometimes he put his hands over his ears... for the cries of his countrymen came through the window.
When we got our cards, we wrote about what had happened. Some of the cards were written to John Bull; some to the British War-Office; some to the newspapers; some to friends in England, imploring them to appeal to the United States Government at Washington, to interfere for humanity's sake. We eased our minds by saying, as far as we could say it on a card, what we thought of the Germans. Every card was full of it, but the subject was hardly touched. I never knew before the full meaning of that phrase, "Words are inadequate."
Words were no relief!—we wanted to kill—kill—kill.
The running of the Russians went on for days. Every one of them who came in from the farm got it—without mercy.... Different N.C.O.'s performed the gruesome rites...
We had only one hope of quick results. The Commandant of the camp at Celle—that is the main Cellelager—had an English wife, and had, perhaps for that reason, been deprived of his command as an Admiral of the fleet. We hoped he would hear of our cards—or, better still, that his wife might hear.
The first indication we had that our cards had taken effect was the change in the soup. Since the first day of the trouble, it had been absolutely worthless. Suddenly it went back to normal—or a little better.
Suddenly, too, the running of the Russians stopped, although others of them had come in. A tremendous house-cleaning began—they had us scrubbing everything. The bunks were aired; the blankets hung on the fence; the windows cleaned; the yard was polished by much sweeping. Evidently some one was coming, and we hoped it was "the Admiral." At the same time, the N.C.O.'s grew very polite to us, and one of them, who had been particularly vicious with the Russians, actually bade me "good-morning"—something entirely without precedent.
Every day, I think, they expected the Admiral, but it was two weeks before he came. His visit was a relief to the Germans, but a distinct disappointment to us. Apparently, the having of an English wife does not change the heart of a German. It takes more than that. He did not forbid the running of the Russians; only the bayonet must not be used. The bayonet was bad form—it leaves marks. Perhaps the Admiral took this stand in order to reinstate himself again in favor with the military authorities, and anxious to show that his English wife had not weakened him. He had the real stuff in him still—blood and iron!
The running of the Russians began again—but behind the trees, where we could not see them... but we could hear...
There are some things it were well we could forget!
The running of the Russians ceased only when no more came in from the farms. Those who had been put out came out of the Revier in a day or so—some in a few hours—pale and spiritless, and were sent back to work again. They had the saddest-looking faces I ever saw—old and wistful, some of them; others, gaping and vacant; some, wild and staring. They would never resist again—they were surely broken! And while these men would not do much for the "Fatherland" in the way of heavy labor, they would do very well for exchanges!
Friedrichsfeld Prison-Camp in Summer