We had been so down in the mouth upon actually entering this prison camp that we had little to say. Finally I arose from my old bench, shook myself like a dog after his nap, and in a graveyard tone of voice said, “Davis, we’re prisoners of war,” and we wept on each other’s shoulders like sob sisters. When we got tired of that I walked to the door which was solid, turned the latch and, since no one interfered, walked on outside.
Walking about I took occasion to examine the heavy barbed wire surrounding us. There was nothing else to do, so, I kept walking along, glancing at the wire. It looked rather solid and was sunk rather deep in the ground. It was not encouraging. Then I had a real treat for as I walked along I saw a bunch of American doughboy prisoners, most of them privates, part of them barefooted, being escorted by the camp guard. Believe me, they looked good. I hollered to them and asked them how long they had been in and they answered they had been taken only a few days before, so, I told them I had been taken only that morning. In great eagerness, they demanded to know how the drive was coming along.
“Oh, boy,” I yelled as they passed along, “we’ve sure got the Hun on the run.”
About that time the German Sergeant Interpreter rushed out—“The Hell you have,” he madly screamed. “Get inside.” I took orders from a Sergeant.
He came after me and I didn’t know whether he was going to browbeat me or not, but I had a strong hunch that it would be an advantageous idea to change the subject, so, I started to talk about what we were going to have to eat and he again surely informed me that we were too late, that they had not made any preparations for us and that we would not get anything to eat until that night. That subject apparently didn’t interest him. I tried another.
“Where’s the barber shop?” I asked
Here was a new field for him. He asked us if we would like to buy a razor and some soap and some cigarettes. The old boy liked a little money, that was clear. Here was a chance to eat perhaps, so, I encouraged his mercenary inclinations.
“No,” I went on, “but I would gladly buy a ham sandwich.”
He was taken back aghast at my not knowing it was impossible to obtain food for love or money, except as rationed by the Government. So, I thought it would be a good idea to play up to the old boy, and smiling, I told him, “Sure, I’ll buy a razor.” We gave him some French money to get changed into German marks and after a while he brought our purchase—a very small piece of pure, lye soap, which we used for both shaving and washing, and which cost us exactly eighty-five cents. It was about the size of the individual cakes of soap you get in a hotel. I realized that the Germans must be quite short on soap for this stuff left our faces in about the same condition as one might expect from a massage with Dutch Cleanser—indeed, this was the real dutch cleanser.
