October 31.—General von Bissing, commanding the district, inspected the Landsturm battalion here to-day. Afterwards he visited some of the prisoners' rooms. Seeing one English officer who, having only just arrived, was far from clean, he asked him through an interpreter how long he had had his breeches. The officer, who imagined that he was being asked how long the British army had been clad in khaki, answered politely, "Nearly fourteen years!" Whereupon von Bissing was pleased to call our uniform "Dirty-coloured, disgusting, and bad." However, I hear his son is a prisoner in France, so perhaps this undignified vituperation relieves his feelings.
November 1.—The Belgian officers departed to-day for some other camp. Rumours of the arrival of 200 Russians not yet fulfilled. Have bought some books, Tauchnitz edition, and tried to settle down to read. We have started the formation of an English library, which will be a blessing.
November 2.—We have often jokingly said: "We've got English, French, Belgians, and Arabs here—all we want to complete the show is a party of Russians." Well, now we've got them—200 arrived this evening. Such a scene in the canteen before roll-call! The roar of voices, the atmosphere of tobacco, and the pushing crowd in the bar reminded one of the Empire on a boat-race night—minus the drink!
The authorities with their usual thoughtfulness for our comfort have decreed that the English or French and the Russians are to be mixed up in the rooms in approximately equal numbers. So three of us (G——, T——, and myself) migrated to another block this afternoon and installed ourselves in the beds nearest the window before the arrival of our "stable companions." These when they did turn up seemed pleasant enough, but as they could talk no English and only a few words of French, conversation was limited. They could give us no news, having all been prisoners in some other place for two months. One, however, produced a map of Europe and showed us how the German columns were being swept aside—one apparently to Finland, another to Constantinople, and a third to Rome! Evidently an optimist! "Neuf millions" is all the French he knows; it is his estimate of the strength of that portion of the Russian army which is at present mobilised.
November 3.—Letter from home—the first since I left England on August 16. Infinitely cheering; no news, though, owing to fear of the censor, except a few details about the battery on September 1.
November 9.—Overcrowding becoming desperate. A seventh added to our room to-day—a French lieutenant whom we nicknamed Brigadier Gerard, because he's always twirling his moustache in front of the glass. There are so many prisoners here now that we have to have two services for each meal—i.e. breakfast 8 and 9 a.m., lunch 11.45 a.m. and 1.15 p.m. supper 6.45 and 8 p.m. One does a week of each alternately, with the idea presumably that constant change is good for the digestion. But the day consists of fifteen long waking hours all the same. There are moments when I hate all my fellow humans here. A youthful Russian who inhabits this room irritates me almost beyond endurance by singing and whistling the same tune all day long. Poor devil, he's got no books and nothing on earth to do—but if only he'd go and make his noises outside. I find myself unable to fix my mind on anything and sometimes I feel that this life will drive me mad. It's a hell of moral, physical, and mental inactivity. I'd rather do a year here with a room to myself than six months as things are at present.
November 11.—Somebody got a bundle of old Daily Graphics past the censor, I can't think how. As they were the first English papers we'd seen for ages they were most interesting.
November 14.—Howling gale and heavy rain all yesterday and the day before. Hope the German fleet is at sea in it! Have made great friends with Tonnot, the French captain of Colonial Infantry with whom I travelled from Maubeuge. He talks interestingly on a variety of subjects and I am learning a certain amount of French from him. Curious how much more well endowed with the critical spirit the average Frenchman is than the Englishman of a corresponding class. The latter is more inclined to take men and affairs and life for granted.
Am getting anxious about the non-arrival of my parcels. Clothes, books, and tobacco are what I want. Dozens of officers who arrived after me have received parcels. In my saner moments I know that it is purely a matter of chance, but I have a tendency, when day after day a list of names is put up and mine is not amongst them, to grind my teeth in rage and regard it as a personal spite on the part of the German Government. The arrival of letters and parcels is the only event of any importance in this monotonous life. An officer who receives two or three of either on the same day is regarded in much the same light, as, at home, one regards some lucky person who has inherited a fortune. Every pleasure is relative and depends on circumstances. Here, a tin of tobacco and two pairs of pyjamas are joys untold.
November 21.—The same continuous stream of rumours and counter-rumours continues to flow in. Heard this week that Lille had been retaken and that four French corps were marching on Mons. The latter theory borne out by the arrival of some very badly wounded prisoners from the hospital at that place. No confirmation, however. Learnt of the Prime Minister's speech on War loans, in which he stated that the war will not last as long as expected. This is comforting, as he is not given to exaggeration. Perfect weather—dry, frosty, sunny. Long to be on mountains instead of trudging round this damnable square.