Had the Boche in the beginning started by treating his prisoners with the respect and honour which is their due according to The Hague Convention, it would still be the duty of every prisoner to make his escape, if possible; but then the offensive spirit would have ended, for a holder of the King’s Commission must carry out the spirit in which that commission is given—the path of duty, even unto death, in whatever circumstances that path may lie. But taking into consideration the unscrupulous character of the enemy, as shown by the treatment of his prisoners, it is the duty of each able-bodied officer and man to carry out the offensive spirit in every way possible. Some of the men have been magnificent, and have carried this spirit to the highest possible heroism.
But to return to our impressions as the train gradually bore us to London from the port at which we had disembarked from Holland. Everything seemed to be as of yore. The long rolling fields bounded by broad hedges, the picturesque farms nestling in hollows, with fat cattle grazing over every hill-top, the wonderful soothing green of the general landscapes, brought a heavy sigh of content to be back in it all again. Everything seemed as if we had just left it. On the platform we saw numbers of men of military age. Surely things must be going pretty well, or all these men would be in uniform, they would have been called up long ago; or were they still playing at conscription in the matter of exemptions? Perhaps all these were shirkers, who did not know of or did not care for the great need of the Motherland in her dire distress, who had pitted herself in her unreadiness, in the cause of honour and right, against the greatest military nation on earth, organised to the last man, and beyond that again.
Soon we arrived in London, to report ourselves immediately to the War Office. But London amazed and appalled us. She was so vast. Taxi-cabs, motor-buses, and pedestrians thronged the streets as never before, or so it seemed to us. We hesitated to cross the street, the traffic seemed so dangerous and formidable. We were hustled off the pavement by constant streams of people going this way and that, none of whose faces seemed to spell war. One saw practically no people in mourning, whilst in Germany one sees them everywhere. Men in uniform passed by in thousands. Tommies looking at the sights and standing in groups at the street corners—why, there must be enough men in uniform here to form an army! Surely, if we were in need, these fellows would all be out at the front. Things must be going very well, and we had heard nothing but a piece of colossal impertinence. And so we more or less found it to be.
Every hotel seemed crammed; it was impossible to get in anywhere. The theatres, too, were running at high pressure; one must book seats weeks beforehand. In fact, everything looked as if there was no war going on at all, and yet organisation relative to war was evident at every turn; and we began to feel a great relief. The Old Country was big enough to give her utmost to the war and yet carry on her life of business and gaiety at the same time. This was our proud but foolish idea when we first returned to London.
In conclusion, I would like to add that there is not a word in the whole of these experiences which can harm in any way whatsoever the prisoners still remaining in Germany. In the few descriptions of escapes, attempted escapes, or other instances contrary to enemy regulations which I have recorded, and in which others have participated, there is not a single one of them left in Germany. They are mostly in Holland or Switzerland, and a good many of them are actually at home here in England. I could have made my tale vastly more interesting and exciting if the war were at an end.
If I have given the reader an interesting half-hour, and have satisfied his or her curiosity as to the real conditions under which a prisoner of war labours in Germany, I shall feel that I have been justified in writing these experiences.
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