One afternoon German aviators bombarded the camp—very harmlessly, however—with broadsheets, and not with bombs. After an exciting race and scrum I succeeded in securing a copy. It was in the form of a child’s catechism, with as heading a quaint woodcut of a town on the Rhine. It commenced: “Mother: My child, lovst thou thy Fatherland? Son: Yes, mother, Yes, with my whole heart. Mother: Why lovst thou thy Fatherland? Son: Because there was I cradled.” It ended with an appeal for the Eighth War Loan.
Although we had, of course, no access to English newspapers, the German authorities permitted us to order the Frankfurter Zeitung and the Berliner Tageblatt, and from these the most imperative news was translated and written up daily in a communiqué book. During more urgent periods Extrablätter were posted up in the dining hut. Thus news of the great German offensive in March, 1918 percolating into camp caused us unutterable dullness and depression. Most of us seemed absolutely helpless and hopeless in these dark days.
“I love my country,” said Lieut. H—— chokingly.
To make matters worse there was almost an entire clearance of the camp, including many of the men who had added to the gaiety of such nations as were here represented. Flags were flying, and in the distant streets one could hear the sound of singing and cheering. Whether by chance, however, or, as is possible, by more delicate design, none of the banners, except the two official ones at the gate, were hung so high in the surrounding houses as blatantly and jubilantly to overlook the camp. In the case of the Russian peace, as in that with the Ukraine, the flags were hung from the topmost stories; in the present instance they were not hung above the level of the palisades, and were more evidently intended for the man in the street.
The Bath Attendant
The soldiers on sentry duty were rarely unfriendly, though they were forbidden to have any intercourse with the prisoners. Certain functionaries, however, we, of necessity, got to know more intimately. Entering the bathing hut one morning, the attendant—a new man, youthful, and of healthy and happy appearance; his predecessor was the most morose and doubtless liverish of Germans—was reading a book with a lurid cover giving an account of the U-boat campaign. He made endeavour to hide the volume from my sight. I found that he had been a sailor, and, among other English vessels, had served in the steamers of the White Star Line. He was certainly decidedly at sea as to the duties of his present office, his aim apparently being to give us a douche with the cleansing properties of a hot and the tonic virtues of a cold bath at one and the same time. All, however, in the happiest and most friendly fashion.
One morning he was in beaming, if somewhat bashful, mood, and confided to me that he had been married the previous night; showed me his ring, and ultimately a photograph of the blushing young bride—who, it must be confessed, looked decidedly older and more experienced than her mate. He further informed me that she had “viel Geld,” while he—rolling up his sleeve, and demonstrating—had nothing but his muscles. Perhaps it was owing to over-much happiness, but on that morning he seemed quite unable to manipulate the various screws and levers, so that we were quite chilled before the coming of the cold douching.
Our Orderlies
Our orderlies, like ourselves, were of various nationality, but there was a consensus of opinion that the genius of the French soldier seemed to lie most in the direction of that office. I, at all events, was fortunate in my Frenchmen. First was our faithful Gustav—breaker of cups and not too scrupulous a cleaner of the same, but nevertheless a kindly and willing servant and a shrewd. When one morning, amid great excitement and much embracing and kissing upon both cheeks by his countrymen, Gustav left the camp en route for France—his indifferent health and the long period of his captivity entitling him to an exchange—we were somewhat disconsolate.
