What a splendid welcome that Dutch officer gave us! With his own hands he took off my socks and washed my feet, smearing the sore cuts with some stuff which he seemed to have great faith in. Finding that my friend’s boots were too much for him, he called in a couple of his orderlies, who managed, after a great deal of pulling, to remove them from his swollen feet. Then the Dutch officer bustled about, ordering breakfast for us. What would we like? Eggs and bacon, of course! All the English liked that.
“Yes, my cook does them beautifully; you shall see.”
Then he made us take off our clothes and wash; clean shirts and vests were supplied from the officer’s wardrobe; and, finally, he rang up the military doctor, and informed him that he had a couple of bad cases. All the time he bustled about helping us here and there, and never seemed tired of informing us what fine fellows we were, to which of course we both agreed. When the breakfast arrived, he hovered around us like a hen with her chicks, but we were hardly able to eat anything. With great difficulty we managed to swallow an egg, more to please the good fellow than anything else.
Soon after breakfast the doctor arrived, and we were hustled off to the hospital in a cab. Here we were treated like princes. Nothing was too good for us. It was nice to be fussed over and taken care of, after being neglected so long, and we thoroughly appreciated their kindness. First we had a very hot bath. Oh the luxury of having a real bath once more! After the bath we went off to bed and slept the clock round. Another bath, heaps to eat, and more sleep! The doctor said we must stay until we felt strong enough to make the journey to Rotterdam. When was the next train, we asked. Oh, in a few hours. Well, we felt strong enough now for Rotterdam, and as soon as may be England, and then home.
And so that morning we left V—— and all the kind friends we had made, and journeyed to Rotterdam, accompanied by another Dutch officer, travelling in first-class Pullman carriages. On our arrival we were handed over to the British Consulate. Everybody there was kindness itself; arrangements were made for us to buy civilian clothes, and before very long we were completely fitted out.
From Rotterdam we were removed to The Hague (pending a British boat to take us to England), where the British Ambassador and his wife made us welcome at the Embassy. Here again nothing was too good for us, and we shall always remember the great kindness they showed us, which affected me deeply after our terrible experience.
And then the great day arrived when we actually set our feet in England once more!
But what would England be like? How had she stood the strain of nearly three years’ war, with an expenditure of nearly eight millions a day? That such a stupendous sum had been gathered from the resources of our Empire, without the fear of immediate bankruptcy, only filled us with a joyous pride for the race to which we belonged. But what of the toll of blood and bone? Was that as frightful as it had been represented to us? Not that we had been really influenced by The Continental Times, or any other paper which the German Government propagated amongst the allied prisoners of war, as part and parcel of their general system of persecution; for the German is a master of mental as well as physical agony. But these papers, which were our only source of regular news, had laid the foundation of a doubt, deep down within our hearts, that perhaps all was not quite so well with those at home; for when day followed day, and weeks grew into months, and months into years, and no appreciable advance had been made by the Entente, it would take a very hero of optimism, if not a fool, to remain absolutely free from the canker of doubt. In existing circumstances it was impossible to calculate how long we must continue to live as exiles, under these apalling conditions. We dare not look for the speedy return of peace, for an early peace would mean the cause of the Entente was lost, the triumph of wrong over right, which must surely be impossible; and so the prisoners made it their duty to laugh, and say “Oh! three or four years longer,” when asked surreptitiously by some German soldier or other as to how long the war would go on.
I wonder if the people at home ever realise that the prisoners in Germany number amongst their ranks some of the greatest heroes of this war. On the battlefield the heroes, or at least some of them, are recognised, and rewarded accordingly; but the exile is never known, though he fights against far more hopeless odds; for him there is no chance—all is at an end. Fine deeds are done in the heat of action, when the excitement of the moment gives the spur to many a noble act; but it takes a braver and more steadfast spirit to pass smiling and cheerful through the endless stunted and hopeless days of a prisoner’s life, to cheer up those of our comrades who have for the moment fallen into the slough of despondency, and to harass the German guards at every turn in the matter of attempted escape, since if the prisoners were peaceably quiescent the number of their guards would be reduced, thus freeing so many more men to go and fight against their brothers on the front. The more escapes, the more guards necessary to prevent them, the more electric lights or oil lamps to show up the designs of the escapers by night, the continual supply of coal and oil necessary to feed these lights, slowly but very surely help to drain the resources of the Boches. This can be more easily seen when it is realised that the combined allied prisoners in Germany run into millions.
There are those who might say that the amount of coal and other things used for the exterior lighting of camps could not be a serious item. Very true. But, however small, it all counts, and it is the only way that a prisoner can help to do his bit. If he tries to escape he is punished, sometimes very severely; but he accepts it as part of his lot, because he feels that the more men placed to guard him, the less men there will be to fill active positions. I have met many people in this country since my return who don’t believe—or more probably don’t want to believe—that the life of a prisoner is as bad as some of us make out. All I can say is, I wish they could try it for themselves. Let them put up with the pestilential insanitary filth and the nauseating stench of camps without any sort of drainage; the bitter cold of the long winter without adequate warmth; the daily slaving of cooking tinned food and washing up greasy plates in freezing water afterwards; the difficulty of cleansing underlinen without the necessary utensils to wash it in; the mental torment of being without any authentic information of the fortunes of war or of the fate of those dear to us, whilst the flag-posts with which every camp is fitted are periodically gaily beflagged with enormous military banners flaunting some great German victory which the Boche sentries seldom lose the opportunity of sarcastically pointing out! Lucky indeed is the town or village which boasts of a Kriegsgefangenen—prisoners’ camp! To be inspected on Sundays as curious and despicable animals behind a wire cage by the German populace, decked out in holiday attire for the occasion, who mock and gaze through field-glasses at one’s face or the legs of those wearing kilts, shouting lewd remarks as the animals march up and down their confined exercise-ground; to have one’s precious letters from home the subject of offensive remarks from German officers attached to the camp,—these are only a few of the more outstanding troubles that a prisoner must bear with a smiling face.