Of the four camps I was interned in, Holzminden was by far the worst, in fact, it was considered by most to be the worst officers’ camp in Germany.
Of course we knew of men’s camps that were veritable hells. We heard many lurid tales of ill treatment, suffering, disease, and even murder that went on in these prisons from our orderlies, who had experience of them. From one camp – I think it was Minden, as far as I can remember, a party of British soldiers were sent to the salt mines of Silesia. My informant, who was in a small squad of seven men, was the only one who returned after twelve months hard labour in the mines. The other six died, owing to the horrible conditions. In camps where the Feldwebels – or non-commissioned officers – were of the brutal type, men were tormented incessantly, and we heard on many occasions, of men tortured and flayed alive. I knew of one man who, because he had refused to stoke a boiler on account of burns he had received due to an explosion, was tied to a post and flogged till he lost consciousness.
How many of the British prisoners were shot it would be impossible even to guess. From time to time we would hear of men being shot for trivial offences. These men, of course, were reported as having died from illness.
Badly treated as our own men were in many camps, their experiences were as nothing compared to the sufferings undergone by Russian, Roumanian and Servian soldiers. We heard of innumerable instances of absolutely barbaric treatment – starvation and flogging being the chief instruments used by the Huns in order to make the wretched prisoners work, exhausted and in deplorable condition as they must have been through lack of proper food.
The Russians, Roumanians and Servian prisoners were regarded by their captors as more or less savages, and treated as such. I believe that our own Indian and other native colonial troops were better treated, much as they were despised by the Huns. In spite of their hatred for England, the Germans had a sneaking, cowardly regard for the British, and always gave us the impression that they were afraid of us. This may be due, in a large measure, to the fact that we always kept up an independent attitude, and would never stand any nonsense from them. One German officer at Gütersloh declared that he would rather look after fifty Russians or French than a dozen Englishmen, and in the event of trouble, we invariably managed to get what we wanted in the end. The German is a coward, and the more one gives way to him, the more aggressive and objectionable he becomes. But as soon as one makes it clear to him that one is not going to stand any hanky-panky from him, he climbs down. We could always tell from the manners of the Germans how the wind was blowing at the front. When they were getting the better of the situation, their arrogance and domineering attitude would immediately become manifest, whereas, when things were not going so well for them, they became more manageable and sometimes even polite. I am speaking of Germans in general. There were a few who were positive brutes, while others were extremely amiable and kind all the time. I found that the officers were not so bad as the non-commissioned officers. These, when put in authority over us, tried to make the most of it. But they never got much out of us, however.
Holzminden camp was a large, modern and well-equipped infantry barracks, situated some distance from the town, and not far from the River Weser of “Pied Piper” fame.
It consisted of two buildings, and a fair-sized parade ground, with the parcel room and shower baths inside the wire, and the guards’ quarters just outside the gate. We were well guarded by wire netting fences and sentries, but the parade ground was very badly lighted at night, which made Holzminden a relatively easy camp to get out of, and many attempts were made, as I will describe later.
Our arrival at the camp was marred by two unfortunate incidents. First, we were made to strip and our clothing and persons carefully examined for contraband articles – which resulted in many of us losing valuable escape gear. Second, my tin helmet, to which I had stuck for so long, disappeared. It was the only one in camp, for being of steel, our helmets were much prized by the Bosches and were promptly confiscated on arrival in the first German prison camp. Mine, for some reason, was never taken from me, and disguised as a wash-hand basin with wooden tripod legs painted to match, it had managed to evade recognition right up till then. I was particularly anxious to bring it home with me – being, for one thing, the only souvenir of the war I possessed, and for the reason that it had a very ugly dent in it where a piece of shrapnel had biffed it, thus saving my life. I had dreamed dreams of proudly showing it to my wife after the war – and possibly in later years handed down from one generation to the next. “Great-grandfather’s helmet, hanging above the mantel-shelf – see the dent in it?”
The Commandant at Holzminden was one Niemeyer, late resident of Milwaukee, Wis., a gentleman of the worst possible type that Germany produced. He was a swine, and loathed and detested by prisoners and guards alike. A beast that polluted the very air we breathed. I knew of only two other Huns equal to him in character – his brother, commandant at the British prison camp of Clausthal, and General von Hӓnisch, in command of the Tenth Army Corps, in whose district we were unfortunately situated. Von Hӓnisch was probably the worst of the trio, but more about him later.
Niemeyer was an arrogant and loud-voiced individual with a portly figure, fleshy face, and a pair of bulbous, fish-like eyes. He delighted in airing his English, with a strong Milwaukee accent, and his voice echoed through the camp from the morning till night – badgering the prisoners and guards.
On our arrival, he made it quite clear to us that, although we had had an easy time in past camps, he was there to treat us as prisoners of war and that we were not to expect any decency from him. He would see to it that we would be treated with the contempt we deserved. He flourished a revolver, with the words: “I have the pistol, you know; I am the top dog, you know; and I will shoot, you know; I guess you know.” We came to know that revolver pretty well later on.
His pet expression: “I guess you know” became the slogan in camp, and in any rumpus that we became involved, when Niemeyer would hold forth, his words were always drowned by a chorus of “I guess you know,” which made the proceedings a positive fiasco from Niemeyer’s point of view, and we got a great deal of amusement out of it.
Practically the whole of the old Crefeld crowd was congregated at Holzminden, besides several new arrivals from France – about five hundred altogether. The following spring, when the Germans made their great (and final) drive against the British front, we were reinforced by fifty or more new prisoners.
We were crammed ten to eleven in a room and space was so limited that we had to “double-deck” our beds, that is, place one above the other, the beds being so constructed as to enable us to do this, in order to relieve the awful congestion. As we were not allowed to have our boxes in our rooms – indeed, lack of room made it impossible for us to have them in any case – and only a small locker was provided for each, the rooms became a medley of clothes and household goods immediately, causing great discomfort and inconvenience. We were simply sitting on each other’s laps, almost.
There was a dining room on the top floor of each house, where meals were served once a day. Food consisted of stew, every day. This stew was merely a soapsuddy broth of potatoes in liquid form interspersed with carrots at frequent intervals. A careful search sometimes revealed a piece of meat of doubtful character – probably horse-meat – but very few of us took advantage of the provender provided, and we relied entirely on our parcels from home. Occasionally, a longing for fresh vegetables made us poke about in the stew tub, but the taste was horrible and it was necessity rather than inclination that prompted us to act in this undignified way.
For the first month or two, cooking was a nightmare. We were not permitted to deface the parade ground with home-made stoves, and the Huns only provided us with two very small domestic stoves with a twelve by fourteen inch hot-plate – it can be imagined that cooking for five hundred hungry souls was an impossibility. The crush in the “cook-house” – merely an open shed – at meal times, can only be left to the imagination. Later on, large well-built stoves were made for us, which were a great boon, though cooking out of doors in the winter was anything but pleasant.
Late summer and autumn passed more or less uneventfully, except for frequent rows with Niemeyer. These were due partly to the Commandant’s temper and insolent attitude towards us, and partly owing to the fact that we were getting more and more unruly on parade. One sportsman, a Regular, and one of the finest fellows I ever knew, did not seem to care in the least what the Germans did to him. During roll-call, he would step out from his place in the line, and wander about, causing the Huns a great deal of inconvenience – which was his object in doing so. He spent a great part of his time in the cells, undergoing solitary confinement, for his “insubordination.” Gradually, the attitude of causing the Huns as much trouble as possible spread to the whole camp, until in time a small war was waging incessantly between the prisoners and their captors. It was quite a common occurrence to see two or three of the prisoners being rated by the Commandant, who, after several minutes of shouting and rampaging, would be left standing in a fury, the prisoners having left him without taking the slightest notice of him.
Sometimes the Commandant would be seen in the middle of a crowd of prisoners, white in the face and inarticulate with rage, while a chorus of “I guess you know; I guess you know” would be circulating round him.
All day long we would hear his unpleasant Teuton voice either yelling at the guards or screaming at the prisoners. Orders “forbidding” this, that, and the other became more and more frequent, and he did his best to make our lives a misery to us in every possible way.
His own men feared him and despised him. According to the German military code, it was no disgrace for an officer to strike a private soldier, and Niemeyer took advantage of this prerogative by using his hand and the toe of his boot on many an unfortunate sentry or soldier working in the camp who gave him the slightest reason for losing his temper. Even his own officers and under-officers got the benefit of his “frightfulness.”
It was a very remarkable thing that, although he made himself so objectionable to everybody, he had an idea that we cherished a strong admiration and even affection for him. On one occasion, he accosted one of our senior officers, and said to him, while quite a number of prisoners were in close vicinity:-“Tell me, Major, as man to man, what do your officers think of me?” “As man to man, Captain Niemeyer,” replied the British officer, “They think you are a damned scoundrel.” Niemeyer, realising that he had simply asked for it, retired in confusion, followed by the usual chorus from those standing round, and much laughter.
The guards were quite a decent lot of men. As all available young and able bodied men were sent to the front, those on duty in Germany were entirely of the “landwehr” – old and decrepit men, the sick and the lame. Our guards, in all the camps, were a sorry crowd, and owing to the lack of food, for they were fed abominably – the policy being that while the troops at the front required the best of food, those on home duty had to put up with anything – were weak and lethargic. In fact, the food that was served to us, which we could not and would not eat, was the regulation ration served to the troops in Germany. The men were in a state of semi-starvation and looked it. It is a fact that, in the evenings when we were shut up indoors, we could see these men prowling round the rubbish heaps whereon were thrown our empty food cans, in the hope of picking out bits of food left in them.
These men, however, bore us no ill will in spite of their hardships, and would have been on quite friendly terms with us, had Niemeyer left them alone. But he was forever at them, and if a soldier was seen even talking to one of us, he was severely disciplined. Niemeyer did his best to instil hatred and “frightfulness” into these men, and rather than incur his displeasure, they carried out his orders as best they could.
The morning roll-call was at nine o’clock. We were expected to turn out, properly dressed, to answer our names, but the warning was given by a small drummer boy, the beat of whose drum was not sufficiently loud to rouse us from our sleep, and several times we failed to turn out on parade.
On these occasions, a party of guards would invade our rooms, and turn us out of bed with the butts of their rifles. It was extremely unpleasant to be poked in the ribs in this way, and we didn’t like it, and I really believe that the soldiers themselves – most of them – didn’t like doing it, but they did it with much gusto, nevertheless, with the possibility of Niemeyer in the offing giving them strength.
Much as they feared Niemeyer, and shook in their boots at his approach, his violent outbursts and ridiculous exhibitions of “frightfulness” caused a great deal of amusement among the soldiers. Often during a row, I have seen the sentries outside the wire grinning at his antics, their faces turning into solid expressionless masks in a twinkling at the least sign of the Commandant turning in their direction.
On one occasion, Niemeyer happened to be walking outside our building, and “Bobby” Grey – our parcels expert – threw a potato at him from an upper window, which, perhaps luckily for “Bobby”, missed him. A soldier standing by remarked to one of the prisoners: “Hm, it’s a pity it didn’t hit him!”
One dark stormy night, the figure of a harassed British officer, with a pack on his back, was seen running for dear life round the corner of the parcels office building, with Niemeyer, flourishing his revolver, after him. Two reports followed, and then silence. Those of us who were witnesses to this drama held our breath in awful suspense. A few minutes later, the officer crept into his room, minus the pack, and somewhat the worse for wear. He explained that he was attempting to “get out” via the parcels office window, but, unluckily, ran straight into the Commandant, who happened to be on one of his nocturnal prowls. After a short chase, Niemeyer fired at him, but the officer managed to get away without damage, as far as the corner of his building. Here, however, he was confronted by a sentry, and finding his retreat cut off, he was about to make another dash towards the parcels office, when the sentry, catching hold of his sleeve, whispered “Come, this way,” took him round to the back of the building and pushed him into the building through a window, much to the officer’s surprise. However, a guttural curse, a grunt, and “Niemeyer” in a tone of disgust made it pretty clear what the sentry thought about the whole business. Seized with a sudden sense of gratitude and generosity, the officer thrust his pack, having quickly extracted his compass and maps, into the hands of the sentry, explaining in pidgin German that there was food inside, much to the sentry’s joy.
We suffered intensely from cold during the first half of the winter at Holzminden, owing to the entire absence of fuel for heating our rooms. There were stoves in the rooms, but no coal was supplied by the Germans. The weather was bitterly cold, with snow and heavy frost. At first we managed to get some warmth by burning anything combustible that we could lay our hands on – and our rooms were stripped bare of every vestige of woodwork – skirtings, locker doors, bed-boards, and surplus furniture being broken up and put into the stoves.
There was a cinder path running round the barrack square, and we were treated to the amusing spectacle of dignified British officers of the higher branches of the services – peers and baronets and other respected sons of the aristocracy – crawling round on their hands and knees with sacks, denuding the path of whatever they could pick up that was likely to burn.
One day, a cartload of coal arrived, amid cheers from the prisoners. This was led in triumph to “B” house, but to our disgust, we were told that it was not intended for our use, but was to be shot into the cellar for the use of the guards. The cart was left standing in front of the coal-shoot, and immediately a procession was formed by the prisoners, who walked round and round the square – two or three hundred of us. As each individual passed the coal cart, a hand would be thrust out, grasping a lump of coal, which was quickly pocketed. It was really comical to see the succession of extended arms as each prisoner passed the cart, like a troop of Fascists saluting the coal! In a very short time every bit of coal had disappeared, and the faces of the Germans when they found the empty cart was a sight for the gods!!
We spent an extremely miserable Christmas. It was so cold that we spent most of the time indoors, huddled up under a mass of clothing. There was no means whatever of getting warmth into ourselves – we got up in the morning all aglow, but an hour’s roll-call in the biting wind outside left us absolutely frozen for the rest of the day. Many of us spent the days in bed. If any members of some room found wood, and a fire was started in the stove, it was immediately the magnet that drew crowds from all the neighboring rooms – sometimes the room would be so packed that one could hardly move, and the atmosphere positively solid with tobacco smoke.
It was after a raid on the dining room, when several tables and benches were broken up and taken off that the Germans decided to supply us with coal.
Considering the hardships that we suffered in this respect, it was a wonder that we managed to keep as healthy as we did, for influenza was unknown in the camp, and very few of us had colds.
The food question was a nuisance. The contents of our parcels were stored in one of the rooms in the cellar of “B” house, and these were opened by one German when they were to be taken out. Consequently, “drawing time” as the process was called, was a tiresome business, and necessitated standing in a queue for several hours. We each had a shelf in this room allotted to us, numbered, whereupon our canned goods were placed by the Germans, transferred from the parcels office after examination. We were permitted to take away from the parcels office anything that was obviously impossible to hide – any contraband goods – but canned goods were only obtainable after being opened by the Germans, and the contents turned out on to a dish and examined.
We had eggs sent from Holland, but more often than not, they arrived in a semi-decomposed state. These, however, were as a rule cooked with much flavouring to drown the smell, and only those that positively made us sick were thrown away.
Bread was sent either from Denmark or Switzerland, according to the fancy of each individual. In either case, there were drawbacks which we had to overcome. Danish bread always arrived in a solid state, due to age, and it is a fact that one officer actually drove a nail into a board, using a loaf as a hammer. Soaking in water was the usual remedy for the hardness, and much of it was broken up into crumbs and mixed with other food. Swiss bread had the one good quality of remaining more or less spongy, but nine times out of ten, the major portion had to be cut away, owing to mould. The remainder was pretty good, and edible except for the horrible taste of mould.
We gained much experience in cooking, and many were the excellent dishes we turned out from odds and ends. Owing to lack of space on the hot-plate of the universal cook stoves supplied by the Germans, only one or two pots were employed by each mess. Usually, the contents of several cans were turned out into one pot – corned beef, sausages, vegetables, etc. mixed with bread crumbs and “soup squares” and anything else we thought suitable, and boiled up into a stew. In order to vary the flavour, different kinds of flavouring were used, but on occasions when these were not procurable, other means were found – hair-oil and toothpaste being the most popular. A concoction consisting of salmon, asparagus, sweet biscuits, potted chicken paste, and brilliantine tasted better than it sounds, though possibly our palates were so hardened by constant applications of unspeakable mixtures, that they were insensible to the discord of unharmonising tastes.
One memorable evening, I supplied my mess with a blanc mange into which I had put a handful of herbs, thinking, all unconsciously, of the wonderful flavour this would impart to an otherwise unappetising dish, for the rest of the meal consisted only of rotten eggs floating about in water poured out of someone else’s stew pot before cooking, but I certainly did not deserve the unkind remarks hurled at me by my messmates after the first spoonful. As a punishment, I was obliged to cook for the next three days, and wash up the dishes without the assistance of the others.
It was usually the cook’s prerogative to wash up, while the other members did the drying, but on this occasion I had to do the whole blooming performance myself, each time!
Some of the older men did better in the cooking business, and one large mess gloried in the possession of a titled gentleman who actually enjoyed the horrible task! He became their permanent chef, cooking their meals every day, and was the proud owner of a name which was given him – “Smeller” – owing to the weird materials he used in his culinary operations, causing great discomfort to the other cooks round the stove. I have often since imagined this baronet in his own kitchen in his palatial mansion in Park Lane, supervising the staff in their preparation for some banquet, suggesting, perhaps the use of Pomade Hongroise to give just that extra flavour to the fois gras en casserole a la Pompadour.
The favourite method of punishment meted out to us by the Commandant after an attempted escape by any member of the camp was the cutting off of the food supply. On these occasions, we were locked up in our buildings, and the “tin room” closed so that we were unable to get our food. However, after the first experience of starvation, we hoarded a few tins in various hiding places in our rooms, so that we did not suffer particularly in this respect, though not being able to go out to the cook-house was a little trying, having to resort to the use of our own stoves – when fuel was available – in turns. These stoves, being of the upright variety, with only a small fire-door, resulted very often in the pots being upset inside, while the smell of smoke that clung to the food, and the prevalence of ashes, bits of coal and soot that managed to fall into the pot added to the general misery. However, we took all these trials and tribulations with a good heart, and rather enjoyed the humour of the situation than otherwise.
It was during one of these “lock-ups” that an episode occurred which resulted in much damage to property and Niemeyer’s nerves.
There was an attempt to escape in broad daylight, made by one of the prisoners, which, however, was a failure. The alarm was given, and Niemeyer rushed into the square followed by a mob of armed guards.
The prisoners were rushed into the buildings, which were then locked, and the Commandant gave orders that anyone looking out of the windows would be promptly shot. Sentries were posted below with instructions to fire on sight, while Niemeyer tore up and down screaming with rage, and soldiers scurried about all over the square, more I fancy in order to look as if they were doing something than with any definite purpose.
Our prime comedian and parcel expert, “Bobby” Grey, thereupon rigged up an excellent imitation of a British prisoner of war, with a pillow, a tunic, and a cardboard face, stuck on the end of a broomstick. Crouching below the window sill, he thrust this dummy up into full view of the sentry below, who promptly raised his rifle and fired, breaking a pane of glass, the bullet going through the ceiling. This being the top floor, there was no danger of anyone above being hit. Quickly the dummy was lowered, and exposed at another window. Another pane of glass fell tinkling on to the floor. Hurrying to the next room, and the next, all along the whole length of the building, the elusive figure was the cause of shattered window panes, while Niemeyer shrieked and rampaged, outside. When finally he ran into the building and up the stairs, expecting no doubt to find a line of corpses stretched out in each room, all he found was a smiling bundle with a broomstick leg lying prostrate in the passage, with a party of prisoners busily cranking the empty sleeves, endeavoring to restore it to life by means of artificial respiration!
Niemeyer’s expression can be left to the imagination.
As time went on, Niemeyer’s life became more and more a misery to him, owing to our systemized methods of managing every situation.
One day, a party of prisoners became involved in a rumpus with Niemeyer on the barrack square. After a short battle of words, Niemeyer lost his temper and ordered the prisoners to be arrested and put into cells. Before, however, this could be carried out by the guards, a crowd of fellow prisoners surrounded the party and escorted them to the building, where they promptly disappeared. Niemeyer blew his whistle, and a squad of armed soldiers hurried on the scene, forming into line a few yards in front of the crowd, which had by this time had assumed quite a size. Niemeyer, yelling to us that unless we dispersed immediately, he would order his men to shoot, ran about in a state of apoplexy, but all the reply he received was a chorus of “I guess you know, I guess you know.” He thereupon gave some order to his men, who proceeded to load their rifles with as much noise as they could make with a view to making an impression. This had the effect of causing loud laughter with more “I guess you know.” There followed much rattling of rifle bolts, loading and unloading, commands and counter-commands from the purple faced Commandant, and finally, unable to do anything in the face of a perfectly innocent crowd obviously enjoying themselves thoroughly, Niemeyer ordered his men to “about turn” and march back to their quarters!
There were several hardy individuals who used to indulge in a cold bath under the pump, even in the coldest weather, followed by their “daily dozen.” One of these Spartans, for some reason, in the middle of his exercises, got on the wrong side of Niemeyer, and spent the next ten minutes being chased all round the barrack square in a state of complete nudity, with Niemeyer and a couple of guards after him trying to arrest him for insolence!! During this exhibition, a wag mounted a box and declared in a loud voice to such prisoners as were in his vicinity that he was prepared to accept any odds in favour of the hare, while others ran after the pursuers with words of encouragement and much panting of breath. The hare escaped, which was fortunate, as the prospect of sitting in a freezing cell without a vestige of clothing – and this is what would probably have happened had he been caught – was extremely unpleasant.
In spite of obstacles and want of enthusiasm, a few concerts and plays were given by parties of energetic fellows. There were no dramatic clubs or societies formed here – the B.A.D.S. had died a natural death at Schwarmstedt, and was never revived. The property and costumes, on our departure from Crefeld, had been sent to a warehouse in Hamburg for storage, and are, as far as I know, still there awaiting claim, as is also the extensive library which we had formed at Gütersloh and Crefeld, amounting to many thousand books. These books had been sent out from England by a society formed for the express purpose of supplying books to prisoners of war, and contained many fine volumes given by private collectors and book-lovers, and were of considerable value.
The performances given at Holzminden were necessarily of a very primitive nature on account of the difficulty of obtaining materials for scenery, etc. The stage was composed of dining tables placed together, which gave way every now and then under the strain of a spirited jig dance by a clever officer of one of the Irish regiments. It was at one of these concerts that an event occurred which brought home to us the realisation of how cut off we were from the life of the outside world. It was given at the time when the last German offensive had brought into the camp a large number of new prisoners, fresh from France. In the interval, the new prisoners in the audience began to sing a song that we had never heard before. The rest of us dropped our conversation to listen, and it made a great impression on us, this song from home. It caused a lump in our throats, and tears to well up in our eyes. The song was “Keep the Home Fires Burning,” which was evidently very popular in England at the time. To our home-hungry souls it was inexpressibly stirring.
One of the greatest crimes that could be committed by a prisoner was to strike a guard, and the penalty was death. I was very nearly the victim on one occasion.
A sudden surprise raid was made by the Germans on the building in which my room was located. At the time I happened to be on the top floor, spending the evening with some Canadians in their room. Mine was on the ground floor. Quite unaware that a raid was in progress, I ran down the stairs to get back to my room, when, rounding a bend, I ran straight into an armed sentry, almost knocking him over. He had been stationed there to prevent any prisoners entering the ground floor corridor. Without a word, the sentry jabbed me in the stomach with the butt of his rifle, causing intense pain which almost doubled me up. My senses left me, and losing all self-control, I gave the sentry a terrific whack in the face. Immediately, the sentry reversed his rifle in order to drive his bayonet into me, but I managed to seize the barrel and there followed a scuffle.
Luckily for me, five or six officers at the top of the stairs heard the commotion below, ran down the stairs, and hustled the sentry, while I dashed up the stairs out of danger – just in time, for several German soldiers, who had also heard the struggle, emerged from the doorway. The officers ran up after me, followed by the men, but we all managed to disappear into the rooms at the top of the stairs without being caught.
In this camp, our trunks and boxes were kept in the attics of the buildings, which were locked to prevent us from getting anything without examination.
At a certain hour each day, those of us who wished to obtain articles from our boxes would wait at the door to the attic until the arrival of a German soldier, who let us in, and who examined everything that was taken out. Often, it was a tedious business, for the Hun was never punctual, and sometimes we were obliged to wait an hour or more for his advent. There arrived in camp one day an Australian officer, captured during the last German push, who turned out to be a first class lock-picker. There was not a lock in camp that he could not pick, and armed with a piece of bent steel wire, he performed marvels of burglary in the room which contained confiscated property. Ever after, those who wished to get to his boxes in the attic could do so at any time with the help of this gentleman. In order to keep the Germans from spotting this arrangement, a few officers would wait at the door at the usual time, but merely as a camouflage. But the Australian was a veritable god-send to would-be escapers, for with his little instrument the door to the store room holding confiscated articles was at his mercy, and maps, compasses, cameras, etc. useful for any purpose could always be obtained without trouble. Indeed, many of those contemplating a “get-away” kept their gear in the store room, this being the best cache in the whole camp!!
Finally, however, the Germans found out the reason why contraband articles were increasing in numbers in the store room, and a large bolt was fitted to the door on the inside – there being another door leading into the German officers quarters, at the opposite end of the room.
We were able to buy many things at the canteen which was established after two or three months, but wines and spirits were very expensive and extremely poor in quality. It was supposed that drinks were made specially for prison camps, and, suspecting that they contained chemicals of an injurious nature – for they tasted abominably at times – most of us refrained from purchasing them.
This led to the establishment of stills in one of the empty cellars, to which a forced entry had been made. A wonderful contraption of biscuit tins and lengths of garden hose stolen from the Huns was made by two prisoners, which was quite a success, so we were told, though I did not have the privilege of tasting the liquor manufactured. The method of obtaining the necessary ingredients was kept a close secret.
Three of my friends kept up a still, using potatoes as the basic element. The result was horrible in the extreme. I was invited to join in the first carousal, and the first mouthful of the liquid twisted my face into a knot. We were all violently sick, and the still was immediately kicked apart into its component parts and heartily cursed by each.
Another party launched out into the manufacture of wine, made from dried raisins. It tasted like vinegar and smelt like old clothes, and the firm quickly went into liquidation.
Owing to restricted space in our rooms, occupations and hobbies were not very popular, though rug-making, wood-carving, and even crochet work were indulged in by many. As I had no studio in this camp, I was forced to work with my table jammed in between two beds, using my bed as a chair. Unfortunately, a Scotchman occupied the whole of his conscious hours sitting on the other end and practising the bagpipe. It was ghastly, to say the least. And when Ross, my mess-mate, began to learn the banjo, and played “Swanee River” with one finger from morning till night – being the only thing he could play, or rather, the only tune he knew perfectly, the resultant discord made the rest of us in the room almost mad. Under these conditions, it is a wonder to me that we managed to keep more or less sane, though one gentleman became so nervy that he finally developed “sleep-walking” and made our nights hideous as well as our days by prowling round the room and getting into other people’s beds.
We had no mattresses or springs on our beds, bed-boards taking the place of the latter. As these were often cut too short to span the width of the bed, they had the unpleasant habit of falling through at odd moments.
Often in the middle of the night we would be awakened by a crash and a volley of curses, to behold some unfortunate victim lying on the floor under his bed with his feet in the air and his head in a smother of bedclothes, having fallen right through his bed!
Having associated with officers of various nationalities, camp language became in course of time, of a very piebald nature. Conversation with Germans, most of whom spoke no English, was a trying business, but with a good mixture of German, French and English, we were pretty well understood. The chief difficulty lay in trying to make the German in charge of the tin-room, where our food was stored, understand what we wanted from our respective lockers. “I want zwei tins peas, schvein avec salt (ham or bacon) and a couple of pains (bread) and be quick about it, you pie-faced sausage,” invariably resulted in half a dozen articles being brought which were not at all what we wanted. However, with a grunt or so to suggest a pig, and various acrobatic feats with the jaw to represent the various motions resulting from different forms of food in masticating, the Germans became in time fairly expert at guessing our requirements. It was quite a common sight to see a distinguished member of the aristocracy making a thorough ass of himself by trying to imitate a gentleman in the act of eating spaghetti, or asparagus, or bleating like a sheep when he required mutton. These performances greatly lessened the tediousness of waiting in a queue for hours at a time for our tins.
Niemeyer, who prided himself on his knowledge of English, gave cause to a great deal of merriment. One day, while having words with a party of prisoners in the barrack square, he ended up a long speech with the words: “Yes, shentlemen, you tink I am der fool. I guess you know. You tink I don’t know nodding, but I tell you, I know damn all!” It can easily be imagined how such words of wisdom were greeted by the prisoners. A yell of joy would burst out, and they were invariably adopted later as a sort of slogan in camp.
Bribery and corruption were brought to a high pitch of excellence in this camp, and many of the German under-officers were well in our pay, the main article for bribery being soap. This commodity being unobtainable in Germany, it was considered worth its weight in gold. One of the sergeant-majors was given enough soap to enable him to stock a fair-sized shop. This lack of soap was, however, very detrimental to our underclothing, which always came back from the laundry smelling very strongly of chemicals, and owing to the use of these chemicals, materials soon perished. Our clothing became in course of time stained a dirty brown, and notes sent to the laundry for better washing usually brought back the reply that if we sent them soap they would wash the clothes whiter. Some idiots actually did send soap, with the absurd idea that it would be used for the purpose of washing their clothes – but of course it never did any good.
Niemeyer gloried in the possession of two police dogs, which were to be trained for the purpose of tracking down prisoners who had escaped. He took great pains in teaching these animals the art of pursuit, and every evening, after we were locked in our houses, he prowled round the grounds with the dogs at his heels, getting them thoroughly acquainted, as I supposed, with the scent of our footprints! However, the animals were kept in a state of semi-starvation, and the idea of training dogs, to Niemeyer’s mind, being apparently by cruel methods – a perfectly natural system to a Prussian – they were a pitiable couple of sleuth hounds, a fact which was immediately taken advantage of by the prisoners, for no pains were spared to get the dogs thoroughly into our confidence! We fed them, and petted them (when no Huns were in sight,) until we were perfectly satisfied that we should have no trouble from that source! Indeed, so friendly did the dogs become that great difficulty was experienced in preventing them from giving the show away by their exhibition of affection for anyone in khaki.
One day, two dare-devil officers, W- and M-, who had escaped from every camp they had been in – eleven I think it was – and who were later shot by the Huns after their thirteenth attempt, jumped the iron fence in broad daylight. They were, however, spotted by a German who happened to be in one of the cellars, looking out of the window, and the alarm was given. There followed a remarkable chase across country. Far away, running like mad, the two Englishmen, making for the railway embankment and the shelter of the woods beyond, while straggling out of the camp in twos and threes, soldiers of every shape and size – doddering old men, and game-legged youngsters – the halt and the lame – and duddest of duds of the German army! And last, but not least – the soldier in charge of the dogs, with his miserable animals dragged by leashes unwillingly behind him. On the alarm, every window in the buildings, every vantage point had been immediately packed by dense crowds of prisoners watching the chase, urging the Germans on with shouts of encouragement and yells of laughter. As soon as the dogs appeared, cries of “Good doggie,” “Come along, then,” “Come to papa,” and so on burst forth, which had the desired effect.
The kennel man loosened the leashes and pointing the dogs in the direction of the fleeing prisoners said “Shoosh, shoosh,” or something of the sort, and gave the animals a push from behind. There followed a perfect shriek of laughter from the camp as the animals immediately turned about and trotted back to the camp, their tails waving farewell to their gesticulating keeper! Above the noise of cheers and catcalls, Niemeyer’s voice could be heard roaring like a demented bull, giving orders to the sentries who had been posted in the square, to fire at the windows. He was running hither and thither, his face livid with rage, and brandishing his revolver. I was looking out of the window at the end of the passage, together with about thirty other fellows. As the sentry below raised his rifle to fire, we all fell in a tangled mass of arms and legs and bodies onto the floor, and the noise of splintering glass and crack of the bullets as they hit the ceiling above us was drowned by the curses of those on top of the seething mass, and the groans of those underneath!
Similar scenes were being enacted at each window along the passage. Fortunately, no one was hit. The ensuing disentanglement and rush back to our respective rooms as the Huns dashed up the stairs was indeed a wonderful sight! All that the Germans found in the passage, however, was a litter of broken spectacles, pipes, books and other odds and ends under each window, and one unfortunate gentleman dangling by the hem of his coat on to the window catch, who was promptly seized and marched off to cells.
W – and M – were caught beyond the railway by some men working in the fields and brought back, and were later sent to one of the fortresses. We heard of their last attempted escape two or three weeks later, and their subsequent death at the hands of the Huns. In order to prevent them from giving further trouble, they were put against a wall and shot.
The usual punishment for attempted escape was solitary confinement in cells for two weeks, and for carrying maps and compasses, a further two weeks, making a total of one month “in jug.” The cells were dark and damp and unwholesome, the sole article of furniture being a bed. Food, however, could be sent to the victims by their friends, and books. Incorrigible escapers were sent to a fortress, usually in the middle of one of the forests, where their treatment was of the worst possible.
I mentioned at the beginning of this chapter about von Hӓnisch – the general in command of the Tenth Army Corps, under whose jurisdiction we were unfortunately placed. If anything, he was worse than Niemeyer, for with his authority, he was in a position to make life a hell for us if he so wished, and actually did his best to make it so. He was a typical Prussian of the most brutal and arrogant type, and cherished an intense hatred for the British on account of his having been sent back from the Somme front as the result of some strategical error, which enabled the British troops to break through his line. He was also the head of the Pan-Germanic Party, a party pledged to smash Britain, and one of those sections of political men responsible for the war.
His visits to camp were few and far between, but they were always marked by wholesale trouble and misery. On each occasion, we were called out on parade for his inspection, this being simply a means to gratify his passion for insulting us. He would walk down the line, picking out here and there a prisoner on whom he would shower the most disgusting abuses, and at the least sign of insubordination – or the least hesitation on the part of the prisoner to carry out his order, or reply to his insinuating questions, the victim would be marched off to cells. On one occasion, he struck one of the prisoners on the cheek because the latter refused to reply to some insulting question. His remarks were always punctuated by much spitting, and the contemptuous manner in which he spoke of us as “die Schweinhund Englӓnder” made us positively itch to get at his throat.
After parade, his custom was to inspect our rooms. Considering the fact that we were packed into a small space, our rooms were anything but tidy – lack of locker space necessitated our hanging all our clothes on nails in the walls, while our numerous belongings were piled up in corners. Von Hӓnisch’s usual observation as he entered each room was, “Ach – pig-sty. Make these schweinhunds clean out the rooms,” at the same time spitting on the floor. Niemeyer, hovering round his chief, perspiring with funk, would bustle round badgering everybody, including his own men. The abject fear with which he regarded his general used to make us positively sick. He was dithery with nervousness, and after each of these visits, he kept the whole camp on tenterhooks owing to his nerves for days, while every notice-board was plastered with sheaves of “Verboten” orders – which of course nobody ever took any notice of. These orders as a rule had a strange habit of disappearing as soon as they were posted.
During one of von Hӓnisch’s visits to my own particular room, one of my room mates – Taylor, a Scotch schoolmaster from Perth, and a great friend of mine, very nearly lost his life.
It is the custom in our own army to keep our service caps on our heads when addressing superior officers, whether indoors or out. When von Hӓnisch entered the room, Taylor was standing by his bed, wearing his Glengarry. On the general’s entrance, we all stood to attention. Von Hӓnisch looked at Taylor, and shouted to him to take his cap off. Taylor made no reply, and continued to stand at attention. The general, purple in the face, yelled at him again to take off his cap, and still Taylor did not move. Thereupon von Hӓnisch, raving like a madman and ordering his men to take the prisoner to the cells, sprang forward, presumably to remove the offending headgear himself. Taylor, white in the face, suddenly took off his camp, and flung it full in the general’s face, saying: “Take it, you bloody swine.” Immediately, pandemonium broke loose. As the soldiers ran up, just about to drive their bayonets into Taylor’s stomach, we one and all surrounded him and hustled him out through the door, past the mob of soldiers outside, and in two seconds we were gone – leaving the gibbering general, Niemeyer and the soldiers in the empty room. From our hiding places we could hear von Hӓnisch roaring down the passage, telling his men to shoot on sight. The following day Niemeyer informed the senior British officer that the occupants of our room were to be arrested, tried, and probably shot, but the S.B.O. politely informed the Commandant that if any one of us was so much as touched by his men, the whole camp would be burned down, and that there would be an inquiry made by the Dutch Ambassador as to the conduct of the camp which would not be particularly pleasant for either von Hӓnisch or Niemeyer himself. We never heard anything more about it.
In a camp like this, one came across many men whom one had known in years gone by, in many out of the way places of the world. There were one or two of my old school friends there, and an Australian whom I had met in the Far East, while one of the newcomers from the battle front I had last seen at Cape Helles, in Gallipoli. He was in the regiment there to which I had been attached in the autumn of 1915. Couchman, a fellow officer in my own battalion in France, who was one of the few survivors of the battle in which I was taken prisoner, was also captured a month later at practically the same spot where I was taken. And there was G -, a pilot in the Royal Air Force, whom I had known in Italy before the war, besides two or three others who were with me in the reserve battalion of my regiment in England during the early part of the war. Many were the old friendships revived – men who had toiled and struggled together in the wilds of northern Canada, or in the tropical jungles, or fought in the same wars of bygone days – South Africa, in Mexico, or Albania – soldiers of fortune, these, whose tunics bore the ribbons of many forgotten campaigns – hard-bitten men who went from one country to another where there was any trouble brewing. It was intensely interesting to sit of an evening and hear these men talk of their experiences. Explorers, pearl fishers, skippers of wind-jammers who had spent their lives roaming the seven seas; trappers and gold-diggers, missionaries, men on government service in the heart of Central Africa or in the uttermost corners of the earth. Sons of millionaires, and ex-convicts, the pampered darlings of London society and beach combers from South Sea islands – what a wonderful collection of tales might have been written of these men had someone of a literary mind jotted down the stories of their lives. It has always been a very great regret to me that I have lost touch with them. We had discussed in prison the formation of a prisoners-of-war club, with headquarters in London after the war, but it never materialised. It would have been a unique organization, as well as the means of keeping up friendships made under such peculiar circumstances – friendships that were very closely knit together under the common bond of adversity.
Reported Missing 