Wounded and a Prisoner of War, by an Exchanged Officer

by Malcolm V. Hay

It is not often that events in life will so be shaped that the highest state of happiness can be obtained merely from the fact of finding one's self alone in a railway carriage. The absence of a sentry made itself pleasingly felt. The sitting on a soft cushion was a long-forgotten source of contentment. In my selfish joy I nearly forgot the friends I had left at the Festung.

On the left side of the line as you leave Würzburg, the Fortress stands out on the hillside at a distance of something over a mile as the crow flies. The windows of my former quarters, where we used to stand and watch the trains, could just be recognised, and as I looked a white sheet was waved up and down from the English room. I answered back with my handkerchief, waving it until the Festung Marienberg had passed out of view.

The soldiers in the adjoining carriage, having discovered that a communicating door between our two carriages was open, came in to keep me company. M——, in the K.O.S.B.'s, remarked that this was a pleasanter journey than the last we had performed together. I asked him about the other men who had been in our party, but he had lost sight of them. M—— looked thin and pale, and in far worse condition than when he left Cambrai. He told me that he had been kindly treated in hospital, but had been given very little nourishing food. Another man who was wounded in the spine and had been in another ward in the same hospital, said the treatment was fair but food short. All the other men complained of the want of food. They said that the able-bodied prisoners were most willing to work to escape the monotony of prison life, but that they were given so little food in the work camps that many of them were unable to stand the long hours, and had to return to hospital.

My recollection of this part of our journey is most vague. I took a childish pleasure in recognising the country through which we were passing, and in comparing my feelings on the two journeys. Near the first little country station after you leave Würzburg there is a large nursery, and a large notice put up by Herr Somebody with the words "Baumschule." Farther on the train passes close to a large quaintly roofed building bearing the inscription "Jägerhaus." On the journey from Cambrai I had noticed these things, and my thought, anxious to get away from reality, had speculated about the Jägerhaus and its past history, and had wondered if the owners of the Baumschule sold plants at a price cheaper than obtained at home.

But now, during the first few hours of the journey, my mind was incapable of taking in impressions. We stopped at Aschaffenburg, probably outside the station. I have no recollection. We stopped many times in the afternoon, but we took little or no interest. The men had a very small piece of black bread each, and I gave them my Leberwurst and the brown bread. Darkness came down soon. We stopped at stations now and again, and rejoiced each time the train moved on.

Night had long fallen when we made our first change. I do not remember the name of the station, but the place appeared to be of considerable size. We were helped out of the carriage by Red Cross attendants, and saw no soldiers with fixed bayonets. I was offered the choice of a stretcher or a bath-chair, and chose the latter. The night was dark and wet, the station badly lit up.

We were taken along the platform and put into the Red Cross dressing-station, which contained a sofa, two arm-chairs, an operating-table which looked as if it had never been used, and a glass cupboard with medicine bottles, rolls of lint, &c. An oil-lamp hanging from the ceiling threw a dim light.

After five minutes' wait an official looked in at the door, and was about to pop out again, when I asked a question: "Can we have something to eat?" The official said "Wait," disappeared, and promptly returned with three of his fellows. They were surprised at hearing we had not dined (it was, I think, now about 9 o'clock), and seemed doubtful if anything could be done in the absence of special orders. The situation was made easier by my offering to pay. "Für alle?" they said. "Yes, für alle."

I was wheeled off at once in the bath-chair still farther along the platform to the station restaurant, a small tidy room with half a dozen small tables covered with clean white table-cloths. A waiter came forward, helped me into a chair, and presented the menu. I ordered a beefsteak, with potatoes and peas. It was pleasant to sit down to a clean white table-cloth, with a plate (instead of the trough used in the Festung) and knives and forks and spoons.

Presently the beefsteak arrived, beautifully cooked and daintily served. I asked for some beer, but this was "verboten." "Well, then, bring me a tumbler and a corkscrew," said I, withdrawing from my greatcoat pocket the bottle of stout which Reddy had given me on my departure from the Fortress.