That ride I shall never forget. Perhaps it was because I was blind that the situation seemed so ridiculously funny. The single-horsed lorry was pulled slowly through the rough, cobbled streets in sudden jerks, which sent our legs flying in the air, giving the form a tilt; and I expected every minute that we would all four turn a double somersault over the heads of our guards behind, and fall into the road like clowns at a circus.
Imagine the picture, an open lorry on a bitterly cold day going through the streets of a small German town with four British officers in uniform; two with their heads bandaged, another with an arm in a sling, and a fourth with a lame leg, all sitting on a form, shivering with cold—all smoking cigars; while people came out and gazed in open-mouthed wonder at the strange spectacle; and a crowd of little urchins came running behind, yelling at the top of their voices.
All this was explained to me; and I imagined a great deal more, for the ridiculous situation could only be complete if a shower of rotten eggs were hurled at us as we passed by.
The following morning the Swiss Commission arrived, and all those who wished to appear before it were ordered to assemble in the yard.
It was a pathetic assembly, officers and men maimed and afflicted beyond repair, waited in a long queue for their turn to go in and hear their fate.
There were a number of Tommies acting as orderlies in the camp who had been prisoners since Mons. There was nothing physically the matter with them; yet the silent and hopeful manner in which they took their position in the line, knowing as they must have done, that their chances were hopeless, was most pitiful to witness.
Yet, the same men, on appearing before the Commission, and being immediately rejected, laughed and joked as they returned to their work.
The British Tommy is heroic, and rough though his language sometimes is, he is a man, and Britain is his debtor.