Above the table of the N.C.O.[1] in charge a large scale map hung against the wall. I was not permitted to go near it, but its scale, being perhaps three or four inches to the mile, allowed me to see pretty much all there was to be seen from the other side of the room, where I had to spend the night on a chair. I recognized the road I had crossed (the ditch was marked on it); and, where the three narrow ditches ought to have been, there began the blank space with the name “Holland” written across it.
[1] N.C.O.: non-commissioned officer.
I could not see the guard-house marked, probably because I did not know where to look for it. Consequently I had not the faintest idea of what to do provided I could get away. This uncertainty made me miss a chance. Of course I was never alone in the room, but once during the night the N.C.O. took me out. He had no rifle with him; I doubt whether he had a pistol. Naturally he kept close to me; yet, had I only known where to turn, a break might have been possible, without entailing unreasonable risks.
At last the morning came, and with it the usual stir and bustle. One of the soldiers cursed me up and down for an Englishman. I concluded he had never been to the front. We prisoners had the same experience over and over again: the fellows with the home billets were the brutes and bullies. I was right, for my antagonist was stopped short in his peroration by a small man with a high treble voice, the result of a brain wound.
“Shut up, you! You make me tired. You’ve never seen the enemy. If any cursing of Englanders is to be done, I’ll do it. I had three English bullets in my body. T’other side’s doing their duty same as we.”
“Yes,” broke in another, “I’ve fought against the English. As long as we say nothing, keep your mouth shut. I’ll tell you as soon as your views are wanted, Mr. Stay-at-home.”
These two latter shared their breakfast with me, otherwise I should have had nothing. The second one took me outside: “Sorry, old man, hard luck! Sure you weren’t in Holland when these —— “What do you mean?” I asked. “Only this—strictly between you and me and the doorpost, mind!—my friend and I would have liked you to get home. We can imagine what it means—‘prisoner of war.’ Make no mistake, we’d have stopped you, if you’d come across us. If only you’d been caught by soldiers instead of these —— agents! Don’t let anybody hear it, but from what I heard you were in Holland all right.”