“C’est toi, Paul!”[19]
“François! Mon vieux!”[20]
But I recognized the guard and my astonishment was removed. It was indeed Paul. “Good Paul,” as the Russians called him, a French-Alsatian, as well known to the habitues of the detention barracks as “Mad Alek” and as cordially loved as the latter was hated. He had contrived to stay in the prison camp since the outbreak of the war with the one object of smoothing the jagged edges of captivity for Allied prisoners. Neither daily abuses from his German comrades nor the constant risk of punishment for himself had deterred him. Many a man will remember him gratefully for a timely rescue from wretched, gnawing hunger, many a man owes his escape from a Komando, which would have been equivalent to a death sentence to him, and the despondent hearts which have been warmed by a friendly word and a handshake from Paul would be difficult to estimate.
We had the job of loading peat on the trucks behind the camp. After loading one truck, Paul, having explored the scene for official eyes in the meantime, put François on sentry.
“You look out for Unterofficieren,” he directed, and turning to the rest of us, “Sit down on the peat baskets,” he said. “Here are cigarettes for some of you. And don’t any one work until I tell you!”
“Is there anyone here,” he asked presently, knowing our hunger, “who has friends in the cage with food?”
“Ja,” replied a Serbian and I.
“Swap coats,” he said, “in case any of the guards know you, and push that truck in the gate.”
I enjoyed a good tea with a sergeant of my regiment and we both returned with pockets bulging with food, which we divided with our comrades.
We were all warmly grateful to Paul.