In the beginning of the war I had read of the attempted escape of a British officer from a fortress in Silesia. When he was apprehended somewhere in Saxony, he committed suicide with his razor. “What a fool!” had run my unsympathetic comment to my friends; “what did he want to do that for?” Now I could not forget his tragic end, and not only understood his action but almost admired him for it.
Every afternoon the other men in solitary confinement and I spent an hour—from three to four o’clock—walking in single file round the yard. An N.C.O., with a big gun strapped to his waist, kept guard over us, and had been ordered to see that we did not talk together. With an indulgent man on guard it was occasionally possible to get in a word or two, even to carry on a conversation for ten minutes or so. In this way I made the acquaintance of all the other Englishmen who were in the same position as I.
As I became more cheerful, I began to relish the books which were sent to me by the other English prisoners, and to look about for means of snatching what enjoyment I could under the circumstances. Two visits to the prison doctor for the treatment of “sleeplessness” gave me opportunities of chatting for half an hour with my friend Ellison, who faked up some complaint on the same days.
My punishment diet was to end on the 8th of May. That over, I expected another four months under lock and key, until the 10th of September.
On the 7th of May, while tramping round the yard, the sergeant-major, second in command, came in and beckoned me to him.
“You’ve finished your ‘solitary’!” he said.
“Do you mean to say to-day?” I asked. “Am I to have my cell door open, and may I see the other men?”
When the hour of exercise was over, I sped up the stairs, taking four steps at a stride, and searched for Kindman.
“I’m out of ‘solitary,’” I bawled. “I’m going to see the other chaps!”