Wounded and a Prisoner of War, by an Exchanged Officer

by Malcolm V. Hay

Auf wiedersehen.

Auf baldigeswiedersehen.

Auf sehrbaldigeswiedersehen.

Auf ein Rechtherzigesfrohesbaldigeswiedersehen.

We had not seen any official frightfulness for a long time. Some person in authority now came in to the restaurant and lost his temper—not with us, but with the fact of our being in the restaurant. There was no one in charge of our party, so the cursing fell upon the restaurant in general; and shortly after the irate person had departed we were carried away by stretcher-bearers to the waiting-room, which was a few yards farther down the platform.

Here we had to spend the rest of the night, and nothing was said about the hotel and comfortable beds for which our escort in the train had led us to hope. The waiting-room was furnished in a style common to most big Continental stations. The arm-chairs, upholstered in dark-green plush, were ugly and uncomfortable. The two sofas were designed to repel the weariest of travellers. Although large and lofty, the room was efficiently heated by four large radiators, and four enormous crystal candelabra hung in the centre.

At the far end of the room, which was in semi-darkness, as only one of the candelabra had been turned on, a lady in mourning was sitting alone at a small round marble-topped table. When the stretcher-bearers had gone, the lady spoke to us in perfect English. "Are you the poor soldiers who are going back to England?" she said. "How glad you must be! I read about the exchange of prisoners in the paper." This lady was of German birth, and had lived most of her life in Australia. She said the nations of Europe had gone mad, and that "this exchange of prisoners was the first sign of sanity that she had seen since leaving Australia." She asked if we had had any dinner, and said it was too late now to get anything to eat, but that if we rang the waiter would serve hot coffee.

In answer to the bell the waiter came at once, and I asked him if we could have some beer. He seemed to hesitate a minute until I produced a 20-mark note. The beer was brought in tumblers of frosted glass about a foot high. It was the best Pilsener. Britain can brew nothing to touch it. There was nothing in the waiting-room just then really altogether German except the beer (and the ugly, uncomfortable chairs). There was very little German about the waiter, who while waiting for our glasses to be emptied, entered into fluent conversation with one of the soldiers.

And the astonishing subject of his conversation was league football. The wounded soldiers, who were inclined to be sleepy when the Australian lady was bewailing the European situation, were now thoroughly enjoying themselves. The waiter told us that he had toured the North of England with a German football team during the winter of 1912-13; he knew all the professional clubs, and was personally acquainted with many of the favourite players in the north country.

One of the wounded men—Private Henry, Lancs. Fusiliers, who was an expert follower of league football—started a friendly but determined argument with Fritz (as they called the waiter) as to the merits of the different teams.