Considering all things, Crefeld was not at all a bad camp. It was a cavalry barracks, and compared to Gütersloh, it suffered from lack of space, for our only play ground was the barrack square, with the buildings all around it, forming a rectangle.
It had been a mixed camp previous to our arrival, but the Allied officers had been transferred elsewhere, and Crefeld was turned into an all-British camp. There were five hundred of us congregated here.
The advent of the Güterslogians was viewed with mixed feelings by the old stagers – nearly all regular officers captured early in the war – who had become thoroughly fungoid and almost defunct on account, presumably, of the mouldy atmosphere of the place, and absence of concentrated enterprises.
A collection of regular officers is an unedifying business. They somehow lack the “go” – the bubbling spirit, of men in other walks of life, such as tax collectors, undertakers, and other black-coated gentry that formed a great part of the Gütersloh crowd. With but one common occupation, there was no variety in their intercourse with one another. Their minds had become cramped, till one by one they had slunk into their dens, and become rooted and whiskery.
Imagine their feelings, therefore, when two hundred and seventy-five wild animals were suddenly let loose among them. The convent-like serenity of the camp was horribly disturbed, and these hermits disliked us intensely for it. In fact, a great number of them refused to have anything to do with the newcomers, and settled down more earnestly to their hibernation. This cold-shoulder attitude, in most cases, lasted throughout the remainder of our captivity. There were a few who blossomed out into tolerably sociable prisoners, later, when conditions in subsequent camps brought us closer together, but Crefeld remained a divided camp throughout our period of occupation.
The Commandant was a beery gentleman with a roseate nose, but a good sport and left us to do very much as we liked. His subordinate officers were mostly dug-outs and quite harmless. One of them, Crab by nickname, on account of his habit of walking sideways, was the prime comedian of the camp. He suffered acutely from his inability to keep his sword in its place, which, every time he took a step, would get caught between his legs, and only by a process of pirouetting could he disentangle himself. We could never make out the reason why his sword misbehaved in this fashion, but there was a suspicion in the minds of some of us that his knees bent the wrong way. He was also extremely shortsighted. Being uncommonly polite by nature (for a German) he would salute everybody and his right arm was invariably working like a pump handle every time he sallied forth on to the parade-ground. One day, he was addressing several prisoners, and after completing his talk, he as usual turned to each one and saluted. He never realised that the last officer he saluted happened to be a lamp-post!
Another splendid example of German militarism was a lieutenant who appeared to be wearing the uniform of a portly uncle on his mother’s side, for his tunic was so big around the waist (he being of particularly slight build) that he must have spent a great deal of time each morning gathering the garment into pleats and keeping them in place with his belt. The skirt, however, being excessively long, stuck to his knees as he walked, and the whole works gradually worked round his body in a spiral, twisting the belt with it, with the result that sometimes his sword was hanging down in front, sometimes behind, like a tail.
Then there was the head interpreter, whose passion for using unpronounceable words put him into many an awkward situation.
The food at Crefeld was excellent. Being only about twelve miles from the Dutch frontier, war had not hit the neighborhood as hard as in other parts of the country, and really good meals were served every day, with fresh meat, a luxury to us, and free drinks twice a week. One could live and keep fat on our rations. Clean tablecloths, and proper table ware were provided, and cooking and service all that one could wish for, under the circumstances.
The one desire of the Güterslogians was to wake the place up, and this we proceeded to do immediately after arrival. Games were organised – which were not a great success, by the way, due to the rough, hard ground of the barrack square. A fall invariably meant cuts on the hands and knees, and several men were badly hurt. The old Crefelders had a theatre and plays and concerts had been given, but a play they produced soon after we arrived was extremely poor and the scenery was crude and lighting bad.
The Gütersloh Dramatic Club, therefore, decided to do something really great, and after intensive preparation, “You Never Can Tell,” by Bernard Shaw, was produced.
Willoughby and I, with our faithful henchmen, Adams and Rogers, got a studio in a loft in one of the buildings, and here we toiled almost night and day, with Brown equally hard at work on the costumes. Brown, I might mention, was a wonder with the needle. Rancher, cow-boy, and a good many other wild things in his past life, his ability in making ladies’ clothes was something that we could never understand. With half a pillowcase, a tablecloth, an odd lace curtain, a few paper bags and a couple of beads, he would turn out the most fascinating creations.
The play was a great success. The acting was extraordinarily good, thanks to a very able stage manager in Lt. Tudor Hart, who had trained at one time under Sir Herbert Tree, and the scenery was the best thing the Wilbern Studio ever turned out. The theatre had been completely re-decorated, and the stage lighting entirely re-designed and equipped by our expert staff. A professional actor, one of the prisoners, observed that it was the best amateur play he had ever witnessed. This was not bad, when it is considered that the mechanical part of the settings was made out of biscuit tins, broomsticks, and other odds and ends.
We started publication of the Crefeld magazine about three weeks after our arrival, and it was in connection with this, and the play, that I was given permission to go into town, with the secretary of the Dramatic Club and a German soldier to look after us in case of trouble – which was actually quite unnecessary, as the citizens of Crefeld were not in the least hostile – in fact, quite the reverse, as it turned out. I had quite an enjoyable outing – my first experience of mixing with ordinary human beings since the day I was taken prisoner, ten months before. We were, of course, on parole. It felt very strange walking through the streets of the town – it was rather like walking in a dream – it seemed unreal. We were the object of much curiosity to the passersby, but they appeared quite friendly, and a few even gave us a smile of welcome! We almost felt as if we were free again, for our guide kept at a respectful distance behind.
Our first objective was a large store for the purpose of purchasing wallpaper for the stage scenery. We created quite a lot of excitement, but the people there were extremely obliging, the manager hovering round us and offering chairs, and doing his best to make us comfortable! We had quite a collection of the staff and the girls in the various departments we went through were quite thrilled I feel sure!!
Our purchase made, we hied unto a large printing firm to make arrangements for the printing of the magazine. Here again, the proprietor and his staff were wonderfully kind and attentive. We were taken to the manager’s private office, and offered cigarettes, and business was discussed in a most amicable manner. Indeed, so cordial was our meeting, that our soldier guide felt painfully ill at ease – wondering whether he should remove his cap, or take off his bayonet. He stood in the corner looking terribly uncomfortable and sheepish. After the discussion was over, the proprietor took us all over the works, explaining the various presses, etc. It seemed so extraordinary to me that over there at the front we were doing our best to kill each other, while here in Crefeld we were being treated like princes by our enemies! Had these people known beforehand of our visit, it would not have surprised me to find a red carpet and awning leading to the entrance, with the staff on the top step waiting to receive us!
Our life at Crefeld was much like that at Gütersloh. The chief occupation consisted of walking round and round the barrack square in twos and threes, and reading. The camp was run by the Germans very much in the same way. There were two roll-calls – one in the morning, and one about six in the evening.
There were not so many activities – entertainments were few and far between, and most of us suffered a great deal from monotony, though I was again fortunate in being able to occupy my time in drawing. We kept to our own rooms more than we did at Gütersloh, and the spirit of comradeship was not so evident here, and we gradually lost touch with each other, in a way, through lack of a properly organised social system, such as we had had in the previous camp.
Sunday was a gala day. It was then that a great part of the population of Crefeld paraded up and down the road that ran along by the side of the barracks, in order to “see the prisoners.” Girls in their smartest frocks would saunter by, giggling and making eyes at us, as we gazed down on the procession from our windows. Heads filled every window in our building, for after Gütersloh it was quite a novelty to see real, live women.
Days passed very slowly. Living as we were, cut off from the outside world to a great extent, bottled up in a small space, weeks dragged on like months, and months like years. Peace seemed far away out of sight, and the prospect of freedom that might be years to regain weighed heavily on our minds.
It was almost impossible to escape from Crefeld. One or two attempts were made – one officer actually did get out, hidden under a pile of refuse in a garbage cart, but he was recaptured the same afternoon. Dressed in a civilian suit that had been smuggled into the camp, he very foolishly walked through the town, and was recognized by one of the prison guards. Once away, the escaper stood a very good chance of getting into Holland owing to the very close proximity to the frontier.
The P.T.’s again were active in tunnelling operations, but difficulties here were even greater than at Gütersloh. Although only about thirty feet of excavating was required to get beyond the line of sentries outside the fence, the soil was very hard and stony, and without proper implements, digging was a laborious process. The disposal of the excavated soil, also, was a tough problem, for scattering it in the barrack square meant certain detection. It was carried to the top of the building and shot down various ventilating shafts.
The entrance shaft to the tunnel was very ingeniously concealed. As there was no cellar, digging had to be done from the level of the ground floor. There was a passage running the whole length of the building in which some of the old Crefelders had constructed cubicles with wood and cardboard as a sort of private den. In one of these cubicles, a false end wall was made, allowing a space between it and the real wall, like a double-bottomed box on end.
Within this space was hidden the opening of the shaft. In this attempt, again, the P.T.’s were disappointed, for we were moved from the camp when the tunnel was only half finished.
A party of mercantile marine officers joined us at Crefeld. They were mostly captains of British steamers that had been sunk by submarines, and in many cases, the only survivors. They told us some harrowing tales – of how their ships had been torpedoed, and when they had got into their boats, they had been shelled by the enemy craft. One of the “Old Bold Mates” as they had been dubbed by the rest of us, told us that after his ship had gone down, the survivors who had been picked up by the submarine were made to stand on deck, he alone being taken below, the hatches shut down, and the U-boat submerged. Those left on deck were of course drowned. Another, a captain of a large freighter, had attempted to ram the submarine in self defense, but failed to do so in time, his ship being blown up before he reached the U-boat. Although many of his men were swimming about in the water, and picked up by the Germans, he alone had been retained, the others being pushed back into the water again and left to drown. He was daily expecting to be taken away to be tried, and, like Capt. Fryatt, shot. I don’t know what became of him, or of the other mercantile officers, for they did not follow us when we left Crefeld, and we never heard of them again. One old salt was very keen to help me in my theatrical work, and made some of the mechanical lighting effects for me, such as the rippling reflection of the moon on the sea, etc. which he carried out excellently.
They were all splendid men.
I was only two months at Crefeld. One fine day, a battalion of fighting troops, complete with steel helmets and machine guns, suddenly appeared and completely surrounded the camp. Sentries were posted every few yards, machine guns were placed at points that covered every inch of the place, inside and out, and guns were mounted in position covering the roads outside.
We could not understand what was taking place. Rumors flew thick and fast, the most insistent being that we were to be assembled in the barrack square and the machine guns turned on us. It was not a cheerful proposition. For a whole week we were left in a state of nervous suspense. True, we kept pretty cheerful in spite of the cloud hovering over us, but to be murdered in cold blood after months of captivity was not exactly appetising.
At length we were told to pack up and prepare for departure on the morrow.
The roll-call that evening was a complete fiasco for the prison authorities. In the middle of it we broke away, and collecting every bit of combustible material that we could lay our hands on, we started bonfires in various parts of the square. There were dozens of them, and the Germans were in a bad state of nerves lest the whole barracks should burn down.
We had no idea as to where we were going to, or why we were being sent away. The sudden invasion of fighting troops, the placing of machine guns in strategic positions, all pointed to trouble of some sort, and yet we had been a peaceable crowd.
Some had suggested a possible attack on the prison by armed mobs, and yet the attitude of the Germans had not been in the least hostile.
It was some time later that we learned the reason of the upheaval. I cannot vouch for the absolute truth of the explanation, but it seemed the most feasible, the most probable, and I myself am convinced of it, as were most of us.
About this time, the British Army was suffering from a shortage of officers. Up till then there had been a terrific loss of officers at the front. In every action the proportion of officers killed far exceeded the men, as was natural, considering the position of leadership they had to assume in any fight.
The best men, the flower of Britain’s youth, were those who had borne the brunt in the early part of the war. There were not many of them left.
The War Office was badly in need of men of experience and training for the more responsible positions, but the Regulars had been practically wiped out in 1914.
They wanted the original officers of the New Army, men who had been selected from the educated classes. With the army growing into millions, there were not enough officers to go round, and they had, perforce, to find the most suitable among the rank and file and give them commissions. They were able enough and brave enough, these men, but they lacked the personality, the sense of leadership, or whatever it was that men of education in some way possessed.
It was becoming a serious problem. And here in Crefeld were five hundred officers of all ranks – the remnants of the old crowd: Regulars, New Army, and Territorials – just the type of men the War Office was crying out for.
A Grand Escape was organized. The prisoners at Crefeld were to get out in a body. They were divided up into groups, each group in charge of a senior officer, and on a given date they were to seize the guard, commandeer their arms, and march to the frontier. There would be an air-raid on the town, the citizens would be in a panic. Spies in the town were in touch with the senior officers in camp. So well was the plot concealed that none of us knew anything at all about it, except those who were to take charge. It was to take place without warning. We would be told to assemble in the barrack square within five minutes, the situation quickly explained, and before the prison authorities could realise what was taking place, the gates would be forced, and we would be out and away.
The scheme was quite practicable. It was only about twelve miles to the frontier, which could have been covered in less than three hours. It was well known to us that there were practically no troops in the vicinity. A company of cyclist scouts were quartered somewhere round about, but they could not have done much harm. The guards and sentries could have been taken by surprise and overpowered without much damage, if properly planned. Armed with their rifles, advancing in proper formation with cover parties in front, at the rear and sides, we could have managed it without much loss. It would have been a wonderful thing.
But the German secret service got wind of it. Troops were rushed to Crefeld and surrounded the camp. With the whole place bristling with machine guns and sentries every few yards, the plot was a wash-out. I feel it is the only explanation to the breaking up of the camp, and our experiences in the camps to which we were sent confirm this.
The journey from the camp to the railway station was one of the most amusing incidents in war-prison history.
After months and years of existence in prison camps, we had collected a great number of articles, both useful and ornamental. Furniture, books, pets, our rooms were full of things that helped to make life a little brighter. Most of us had boxes or trunks, but not enough to hold all our cherished belongings. There was grave doubt in our minds as to whether we should ever see them again if we relied on the Germans to have them sent on to wherever we were going, and most of us decided to carry as many things as we could, ourselves.
The parade on the barrack square was a marvellous sight. Smart naval officers with zinc baths balanced on their heads, containing varied assortments of culinary utensils, clocks, clothing, books, etc., Captains of His Majesty’s Brigade of Guards loaded with collections of boots, pictures, gramophones, and other odds and ends. Lancers, dragoons, artillerymen, officers of all ranks and all regiments, looking for all the world like animated Christmas trees, with all kinds of articles and all manner of packages dangling from their buttons, their shoulder straps and their Sam Browne belts, rugs and rolls of linoleum under their arms, curtains festooned about their necks, their hands grasping tennis rackets and hockey sticks, skates, kettles, rabbit hutches, suit cases, electric table lamps and toasters, chairs, odd bits of clothing found at the last moment – never did officers of the British Army present such a comic spectacle!
The trek to the railway station was a sight for the gods. A long line of panting men, groaning under their burdens, flanked on each side by armed guards; in close order in front where marched those whose baggage was the lightest, but straggling far behind in twos and threes, tottering along with shuffling feet and goggling eyes, prisoners who carried on their backs such heavy articles as easy chairs and chests of drawers, trunks and crates, piled high with every conceivable kind of object attached thereto. And here and there along the road behind were men struggling to free themselves from their encumbrances, while purple-faced German soldiers were endeavoring to urge them on, rattling their rifles in the faces of the victims, or tugging at their belts, cursing madly. And the road itself littered with discarded baggage as far as the eye could see.
And all this under a sizzling hot sun. Those who had imagined that the easiest way to carry clothing was to wear it, positively hissed with steam as they trudged along inside innumerable layers of shirts, vests, tunics and greatcoats. It was the most screamingly funny caravan that ever set out on a journey – at any rate to the wondering onlookers that lined the road on either side as we neared the town. To us, it was the most miserable march on record. One by one, many of our dearest possessions were dropped into the dust and lost forever, while each and all, with clenched teeth, vehemently cursed the war, the Kaiser and the heat, mostly drowned by the noise of jingling pots and pans suspended from our belts.
One can imagine the stampede of natives as they dashed into the road to collect as many of the things we had dropped as they could, as soon as we were out of sight. A more dispirited party of men as we were never entered a railway train. It was bitter irony that those things we had packed in our trunks and left behind which we did not care whether we ever saw again or not, eventually turned up at the next camp.
Reported Missing 