We brought the three poor fellows, pale and trembling, to our end of the hut, and gave them as good a meal as our parcels would afford. One of them had a bayonet wound in his neck, which the N.C.O. had given him. He had jabbed him with the point of his bayonet, to quicken his speed. In spite of their exhaustion, they ate ravenously, and fell asleep at once, worn out with the long hours of working as well as by the brutal treatment they had received.
But there was no sleep for the poor victims—until the long, black sleep of unconsciousness rolled over them and in mercy blotted out their misery—for the N.C.O.'s came for them and dragged them away from us, and the sickening spectacle began again.
There were just eleven of us, British and Canadians, in the camp at this time, twelve of the British having been sent away; and it happened that this was the day, July 4th, that we wrote our cards. We remembered that when the men had written cards about the lice it had brought results: we had no other way of communication with the world, and although this was a very poor one, still it was all we had. We knew our cards would never get out of Germany; indeed, we were afraid they would never leave the camp, but we would try.
We went to the place where the cards were kept, which was in charge of a Polish Jew, who also acted as interpreter. He had been in the Russian Army, and had been taken prisoner in the early days of the war. There was a young Russian with him who did clerical work in the camp. They were both in tears. The Jew walked up and down, wringing his hands and calling upon the God of Abraham and of Isaac and of Jacob! Sometimes he put his hands over his ears... for the cries of his countrymen came through the window.
When we got our cards, we wrote about what had happened. Some of the cards were written to John Bull; some to the British War-Office; some to the newspapers; some to friends in England, imploring them to appeal to the United States Government at Washington, to interfere for humanity's sake. We eased our minds by saying, as far as we could say it on a card, what we thought of the Germans. Every card was full of it, but the subject was hardly touched. I never knew before the full meaning of that phrase, "Words are inadequate."
Words were no relief!—we wanted to kill—kill—kill.
The running of the Russians went on for days. Every one of them who came in from the farm got it—without mercy.... Different N.C.O.'s performed the gruesome rites...
We had only one hope of quick results. The Commandant of the camp at Celle—that is the main Cellelager—had an English wife, and had, perhaps for that reason, been deprived of his command as an Admiral of the fleet. We hoped he would hear of our cards—or, better still, that his wife might hear.