The head-commandant of Kegworth, Lieutenant-Colonel P., an old Indian Army man, was the commandant of Donington Hall also, which was only five miles away. He was a terrible old martinet, but at bottom not a bad fellow, and one could get along with him all right if one knew how to treat him. Cheek was the only means of impressing him. He was not particularly pleased at my arrival, for which I did not blame him. When he was walking down the ranks and saw me again for the first time among his flock, he growled, 'I wish I had never seen you,' to which I replied, 'The same here.' This struck him as being so natural that he had to laugh. I always returned him a Roland for his Oliver, and I must say that I was one of the few people who always got on well with this strange man—in spite of all the squabbles we had.
A few months passed, during which, of course, I was not idle. I had, on my arrival, found some comrades of the same mind as myself, and we at once got to work. But it was soon evident that there were even less chances of escape from Kegworth than from Donington, especially after the escape of the twenty-three officers. In the meantime I bombarded the commandant with written complaints which I wished to be forwarded to the War Office and Admiralty in London. The consequence was that, in November, I was summoned to appear before the Prize Court about the middle of the month. Now, I thought, was the opportunity for putting into practice the plan of escape which I had prepared. I had waited a long time for an opportunity of this sort, and had made the most detailed preparations. So had the English, as I discovered when we were ready to start. Instead of the one officer who previously accompanied me, I now had an escort of three officers and four men with fixed bayonets! This had not entered into my calculations. But better was to come. Instead of being taken to the Prize Court, where I had been cited as a witness, I was taken to the military detention barracks at Cromwell Gardens, where, for nearly two weeks, I was left to my reflections. No notice whatever was taken of my questions and complaints. I could only conclude that I was going to be charged again in connection with the Aud expedition.
The diminutive, dirty, icy-cold cell at Cromwell Gardens, and the outrageous treatment which I experienced at the hands of the officers there, who were not ashamed to insult me in the most vulgar manner, to knock me about and threaten me (weakened as I was by bad food), made these days almost worse than the first days of my imprisonment at Queenstown and Chatham. The cell was on the fourth floor of the building. I could see from my window the neighbouring houses and churches, and thus learned that I was in the South Kensington district, which had recently been attacked, time after time, by our bombing machines. Had I been lodged here by way of reprisal or as a protection against further attacks? After some days I was taken in a motor-lorry to the Prize Court. There I saw my first and second mates again, but had time to exchange only a few words with them.
The Prize Court, presided over by the Germanophobe, Sir Samuel Evans (who has since died) with the collaboration of the Attorney-General, Sir Frederick Smith, who had previously conducted the case for the Crown in the Casement trial, was only a farce. Sir Frederick Smith had just finished a long speech and sat down with a self-satisfied air, squinting alternately at me and at the tail of his wig, which appeared to be annoying him. Judges, interpreters, pressmen, and spectators strained their necks in order to have a good look at me. Then I had to go into the witness box and was allowed to make a few statements, which led to a lively exchange of words between Sir S. Evans and Sir F. Smith on the one hand, and me on the other, for I protested against the treatment accorded me, and against this, in my opinion, illegal interrogation.
In a few minutes I was back in the motor-lorry on my way to the prison, conscious of having effected nothing.
My food consisted of a couple of slices of bread morning and evening, watery tea, and some thin, greasy soup, which was supplemented by either rotten herrings or a couple of potatoes. The herrings I threw away. The food was served in a dirty mug without a handle. My bed was a torn straw-mattress covered with old blood-stains. This was the only luxury I had. There was not even a towel. I got fresh air only through the draughty cracks of my ill-fitting window—too much fresh air, in fact, for it was bitterly cold November weather.
I noticed by the behaviour of the warders that something strange was happening. It was not till afterwards that I learned I had been the subject of lively debates in the House of Commons and in the Press. It was not altogether on account of the Libau affair.
A Member of Parliament had asked how it was possible that a Hun officer should breakfast in a restaurant-car in the company of a British officer, and be served by a British waiter?
The question referred to my journey to London to the Prize Court (or rather to the detention barracks), during which the English officer escorting me had offered me some refreshment. During this time of national danger the English Parliament debated the silly question for nearly a week! So I was once more the target of satires and cartoons in all the scurrilous papers, under headings such as, 'The Hun officer in the dining-car,' or 'Casement's pal.'