The prisoners of war camp at Gütersloh was considered one of the best camps in Germany. Built as a lunatic asylum and completed just before the war but never used as an asylum, it consisted of several large buildings irregularly placed in a delightful pine wood.
It was well fenced in by two parallel rows of barbed wire, about eight feet apart, well lighted by arc lamps at night and guarded by armed sentries at frequent intervals. The size of the camp may be judged by the time taken to walk round along the wire – from fifteen to twenty minutes – or roughly, a mile.
There were about fifteen hundred prisoners here – Russian, French, Belgian and British officers, many of whom had been incarcerated here since the beginning of the war, two years before my arrival.
I was extremely fortunate in being sent to this camp, for it was run as a “show” camp by the Germans – that is, a camp to which unsuspecting ambassadors of neutral countries were directed for the purpose of examination and report to their respective governments, and therefore a model of how a war prisoners’ camp should be managed.
The commandant, an excellent gentleman, was kind and courteous, and with the idea that his business was solely to prevent us from escaping, and to keep law and order, allowed the prisoners a great deal of latitude in regard to the conduct of the camp.
It was, in effect, a kind of Socialism in its most ideal form. The interior management of the camp was entirely in the hands of the prisoners. A system of international committees had charge of the various organizations – the commissariat department, entertainments, games, etc. with sub-committees of members of each nationality directing their own national organizations. Thus, the whole camp was run in perfect harmony. It was like a little world of its own, with its nations ruled by their respective kings, in the persons of senior officers, and the various departments under them.
The camp was practically self-contained. It had its own power and lighting plant, electrically operated kitchens and an electric laundry. There was a restaurant, and a store where practically anything could be obtained, a theatre where really splendid performances were given every night during the winter months, with a new programme every week, and a bandstand, where in the summer fine music by professional and amateur artists could be enjoyed – these of course were prisoners. There were sixteen tennis courts, a football ground and a hockey field, which during the winter was flooded to enable ice-hockey to be played. These were all constructed by the prisoners themselves. Health being one of the chief items in our existence, games played an important part as far as the British and French were concerned, and many international matches were fought, both in football and hockey, with a tennis tournament in the summer.
All this may give an impression of blissful existence, but such activities and amusements were absolutely necessary in order to keep ourselves fit both physically and mentally. As our liberty, more or less, was gradually curtailed in subsequent changes of camps, we suffered a great deal.
The different nationalities were housed in separate buildings as far as it was practicable, the British house being known as “B” House.
These buildings were comfortable enough, with good lighting and steam heat, and officers were permitted to decorate their rooms according to their own fancy. The rooms were of different sizes, holding from one to ten prisoners each, senior officers having the smaller rooms. New arrivals were put in a large room in another house where they usually remained two or three months. I was fortunate in being asked to fill a vacancy in one of the smaller rooms shortly after my arrival, and I remained in this room with my four fellow-prisoners during the whole of the period I was at Gütersloh, and a nicer lot of friends I shall never wish to meet.
There was a Common Room in each house, where papers etc. were to be found (if one was lucky) and camp magazines, and where we foregathered when we felt sociably inclined.
Meals were served in a large dining shed for the whole camp.
The food obtainable was wholly inadequate to keep us in decent condition, and both the British and the French (and Belgian) officers relied entirely on food sent from home. This was cooked by chefs in the main kitchen and served by French orderlies. The Russians, however, were unable to get supplies from their country owing to blockade, and most of them, particularly those who were not well off financially, suffered a great deal through semi-starvation. There were several of them who were so weak through want of nourishment that they could barely crawl to the dining shed.
Most of the British, French and Belgian officers did what they could to supply food to these men, each taking care of a “regiment,” that is, officers of the same regiment captured at the same time, to whom we gave cereals etc. as far as we were able to do so from our own somewhat scanty stock.
New arrivals, who were unable to get supplies from home for from six weeks to two months, were supplied from a “common box,” to which each of us also contributed, in charge of a responsible officer. Clothes etc. could be also be obtained by new prisoners from the “common box” until they could have money sent from home, and further articles purchased in the canteen.
Parcels from home arrived extraordinarily regularly and very few were lost. These parcels were placed by the Germans in the “Parcel Room,” and opened by German orderlies in the presence of the recipient, and forbidden articles such as newspapers, maps and compasses and other things useful to would-be “escapers” were confiscated. However, as there were a British and a French officer in charge of the parcel room, very few contraband articles were actually found by the Germans!
Besides the dining shed, there was a restaurant where, by paying exorbitant prices, fairly good meals could be obtained. But only the wealthy could afford this luxury, and I do not believe I went in there more than two or three times.
It was necessary that every member should contribute something towards the good of the community, and every new arrival was carefully questioned as to his profession, trade, or particular talent. We were a cosmopolitan crowd – men from all the corners of the earth were gathered here, and most of us gave generously of our labours. Actors, artists, carpenters and electricians worked hard for the various dramatic clubs, those who could write supplied the camp magazines with excellent literature, singers and musicians were in great demand for concerts and parties, while many others were actively employed in the different organizations controlling entertainments and games, food and housing, church services, hospital, the common box, parcels from home, mail, library, and so on.
Private soldiers, in charge of non-commissioned officers, looked after the officers’ rooms – while the dining rooms, kitchens, laundry, etc. were staffed by trained men. Men of all trades worked in the camp – tailors, shoe-makers, plumbers and carpenters, painters, mechanics – in fact, practically everything necessary could be obtained within the camp. It was, indeed, a little world of its own.
With most of us, the chief occupation was learning languages. Within a very short time after arrival, a newcomer would be seen walking round and round the camp with his teacher – a French or Russian officer, whose eagerness to learn English was only equalled by the eagerness of the Britisher to learn their respective languages. It was extremely amusing to watch some helpless victim twisting his jaw into odd shapes in a pathetic endeavor to pronounce Russian in the correct manner, while more amusing still was to hear some French nobleman trying to talk English with a strong Irish brogue. Many of us became expert linguists, and my own French teacher actually had the colossal patience to learn the meaning of every word in the English dictionary.
But, in spite of these various activities, time hung heavily on our hands. Walking round the wire was a monotonous form of exercise. Some took up hobbies of different kinds, others grew vegetables in small allotments, or raised plants, or kept bees, but most of the time was spent in reading. As an artist, I was fortunate in being able to devote practically the whole time to work, and was kept busy from morning till night. There were magazines to be illustrated, scenery for the plays to be painted; menus, and cards, and programmes to be designed and stencilled. Drawings of topical subjects were in great demand as souvenirs and mementos by my fellow-prisoners, and I had enough commissions to keep me occupied as long as the war lasted. It was all excellent practice for me, and it was mainly this valuable experience that induced me to take up drawing as a profession after the war.
For those studiously inclined there were classes for different subjects under competent and experienced teachers, even including fancy dancing, and many lectures were given by those who knew what they were talking about – on music, art and literature, travel, history, colonization, and so on.
But as far as I was concerned, my chief interest lay in our own dramatic club. We had a properly fitted theatre, complete in almost every detail, controlled by a society known as the Cercle Artistique Gütersloh composed of senior officers of the various nationalities, of which I was made an honorary member on account of work I did in the decoration of the theatre. The C.A.G., as it was commonly called, was responsible for the allocation of time for performances of the various clubs, and had the privilege of witnessing the dress rehearsal of every play. Considering the difficulty we had in getting proper materials for the setting and costumes, it was remarkable how well these plays were put on.
I shared a studio with another British officer, Lieut. Willoughby of the South Staffordshire Regt. and here we labored for hours every day, with the help of two assistants, Lieut. Rogers as electrician, and Lieut. Adams as carpenter, working on the scenery for the several plays we produced. Our studio was large and well-equipped, for which we had to thank the Commandant, who always took a keen interest in our work and who paid us many visits. Later the combination developed into what was called the Wilbern Studio, which I understand became famous throughout the prison camps in Germany. Besides the scene painting and other art work we did, we became the publishers of one of the camp magazines, The Warren. As the result of his experience in Germany, Willoughby became a professional scenic artist after the war, and designed many successful settings and costumes for C.B.Cochran’s revues in London.
The most successful play produced by the British Amateur Dramatic Club was a pantomime, Blue Beard, at Christmas time, 1916. Owing to its popularity, it ran for three weeks – the longest run on record in our little theatre. The opening night was marred by an incident which nearly wrecked the play. During the progress of the first act, two inconsiderate Russian officers cut the wire and escaped. They were, however, seen by one of the sentries, and the alarm sounded. On such occasions, the whole camp was assembled on the parade ground for roll-call. The theatre was cleared – actors in their costumes were bundled out into the biting wind and snow. As the chief wife of the Sheikh, my costume was of the flimsiest nature – consisting mainly of baggy pantaloons, a pair of breast plates, and a yashmak, with beads in the interstices, as it were. The other wives were even more scantily clad, and in spite of great-coats hurriedly put on, we were almost perished with the cold. We were standing in the snowstorm for over an hour, with the result that the chorus of wives sounded like a bogfull of frogs for the rest of the run of that piece, while an explosive sneeze in the middle of a plaintive ensemble would so upset the hero prince that he would drop his scimitar on his toe and stop the music by a volley of curses.
It was interesting to note the type of plays favored by the various clubs. The Russians devoted the whole of their productions to sentimental plays and plays with human interest, with as much “sob stuff” as they could put in. The French shows were of the gay and flighty variety, mostly unfit for production outside a prison camp, while ours leaned towards the farcical, alternating with musical revues and vaudeville.
Lieut. Dion, the French scenic artist turned out some wonderful effects, the most successful being for the balcony scene in Cyrano de Bergerac. Considering that the size of the stage was only twelve feet wide and nine feet deep, it was remarkable what distance he managed to put into the background.
Besides magazines published in “B” House, we boasted a daily newspaper. The editors were wonderfully clever in “reading between the lines” of the German papers, and succeeded in giving us pretty accurate information as to the situation “outside” – very often quite the reverse of the news given in the German dailies – which were confirmed by our own papers smuggled into the camp from time to time. When the tanks were first introduced by the British, for instance, the German papers belittled the effect they had on their troops and much was made of photographs of derelict tanks. In many cases they were obviously of the same tank photographed from different angles, but described as taken at different points of the front. Again, when the intensive submarine campaign began, the German papers were full of the terrible destruction of British ships, particularly in the North Sea, and yet it had no effect whatever on the arrival of our parcels from home, which continued to come in regularly. The Commandant would not believe that our parcels actually came from England, declaring most emphatically that it was impossible. Later on, when the U-boats did do a great deal of damage to our shipping, it did affect our parcels, not as regards their arrival at Gütersloh, but owing to the scarcity of food at home. Parcels were then dispatched by certain organizations and our own people were not permitted to send any foodstuffs to prisoners. Consequently they lacked variety and to a certain extent the amount was reduced.
On the whole, we got on very well with the Russians and the French, particularly the former. Some of the old regulars were splendid men, and the Cossacks were a picturesque lot. They were extremely musical – many of them having beautiful voices, and their choir and balalaika orchestra were very popular.
On one occasion, when two more Russians escaped, a roll call was made of all the Russian prisoners in front of “A” House, the administrative building. These men stood perfectly still – twelve or fourteen hundred of them, until it was over, and then with one movement they all turned and slowly walked back to their houses singing the Volga Boatmen song. It was one of the most impressive things I have ever seen.
The Russians were extremely hospitable, and even though they lacked food, the feasts they gave to those of us who were fortunate enough to enjoy their friendship were sybaritic in the extreme. I was invited, with another Britisher, to dinner with my “regiment,” and it was one that I shall never forget. They had saved and hoarded all kinds of food for weeks, and this they cooked themselves. The table was loaded with dishes of various sorts, and most tastefully decorated. Our hosts did not eat with us – they simply waited on us and entertained us. One served the food, another kept our glasses filled with wine, the rest played on stringed instruments and sang. Our plates were constantly replenished, and we ate till we nearly burst – we had to. It was considered impolite to refuse anything. When we were on the point of collapse, and our hosts saw that our eyes were beginning to bulge, they produced tall tumblers which they filled to the brim with wine. Filling their own glasses and rising to their feet, they sang some peculiar song. On this we were expected to stand and drain the glass with one wallop. If we paused for breath, they howled their song, in order, I presume, to give us encouragement. When the glass was empty, we had to place it upside down on our heads to show that not one drop remained. After that we dispersed – the guests being taken back to “B” House in a wheelbarrow and deposited at the top of the front steps. The Russians then ranged themselves in line at the bottom, and more songs were sung, after which they crept back to their quarters, avoiding as far as possible the night patrol, for prisoners were not permitted to remain out after ten P.M. except on special occasions. This was a memorable night on account of the fact that my friend and I spent most of the night putting each other to bed, much to the annoyance of the other occupants of our respective rooms, and those of the rooms through which we had to pass to get from one to the other. After I had put him in bed and tucked him up and wished him “Good night,” my friend would decide that it would be impossible for me to find my way back to my room at the other end of the house alone, and getting out of bed, he would escort me there and tuck me up in my bed. It would then occur to me that he would not be able to get back to his room without assistance and I would then get up and help him back. We trotted backwards and forwards through the house till almost daylight and many were the books and other articles that were shied at us.
Prisoners were on certain days of the week allowed out of camp, for walks, on parole. Escorted by a soldier, more, I fancy, as a protection against possible trouble from the natives than as a guard, we would wander off into the country and enjoy the escape from the confinement of the camp. On such occasions we would make ourselves as presentable as possible, as far as our somewhat ragged and stained uniforms would allow, mainly for the sake of self respect rather than in the forlorn hope of catching some maiden’s eye. They were an opportunity to remind ourselves that we were respectable human beings and not a pack of wild animals prowling round in a wire cage.
The complete lack of female companionship had a great effect on our manners and speech, as can be well imagined. In course of time we almost forgot what a woman looked like, and if some prisoner was successful in turning himself into a pretty girl in theatrical performances, he immediately became the centre of attraction. A real woman, if our minds could conjure up any image of her, was an ethereal being floating about in a gauze balloon somewhere in the dim beyond. It became almost impossible for me to imagine what a woman’s voice was like and one of the most wonderful experiences I had on my release from captivity was hearing a woman speak. It was intensely thrilling, and the touch of a woman’s hand cast a magic spell over me! It made me feel utterly childish!
The following episode will show how much we, unconsciously, missed the society of the other sex: The French held a Mardi Gras festival, to which the officers of the other nations were invited. There were tableaux and a concert, followed by a dance, and each nation gave various scenes – those of the British consisting of a bacchanalian feast and a tableau representing the British Empire. I was given the part of India in the latter scene, and I managed to turn myself into an extraordinarily pretty girl – at any rate to my hungering fellow prisoners I was a goddess. During the dance that followed, ladies were, of course, very much in demand – there being only half a dozen or so in female costume. It was really remarkable how, unconsciously, the manners and speech of my partners changed. They became suddenly courteous and polite, and acted exactly as if I were a woman and treated me with the greatest respect! After each dance I was escorted to a seat, and coffee and ices pressed upon me. I had the time of my life, and, I regret to say, made many a man’s heart bounce inside his chest by flirting with him outrageously. I was a very popular person for several days afterward.
The Russians, being extremely sentimental by nature, suffered most in this respect, I think. The Russian dinner to which I was invited took place a week or so after the performance of Blue Beard we gave, in which I took the part of Zuleika, the chief wife of the sheikh. It was apparent that I made a great impression on one of my hosts, a bearded gentleman of portly mien, for during the dinner he sat next to me and spent the whole time stroking my sleeve and murmuring “Zuleika” in a sloppy fashion, even though at the time I was in uniform and looked about as much like an Arabian damsel as a boiled pudding would. His sighs and amorous glances made me positively sick.
Gütersloh was an exceedingly difficult camp to escape from, and only two escapes took place while I was there, both by Russians. In each case they “jumped the wire,” but were recaptured later.
There were, however, two or three parties among the British who were digging tunnels and possibly several among the other nationals that we did not know of.
The great difficulty as regards tunnelling lay in the concealment of the entrance. As every inch of the camp was periodically examined by the Germans, it was no easy matter to find a suitable place from which to start the tunnel. A perpendicular pit had first to be dug out, and the tunnel excavated from the bottom of it. A very clever contrivance was made by one of our own parties to elude the vigilant eyes of the Germans. A bottomless wooden box, with a hinged lid, was made, and this was sunk into the ground inside a sort of shelter, many of which dotted the camps, and used as secluded nooks for the purpose of study by some of the prisoners. The lid of the box was coated with glue and sand and pine needles scattered over and set flush to the ground. The digging was done through this box, and when the alarm was given, the lid was lowered, and sand and pine needles thrown over it, which successfully hid the arrangement. The diggers would then be found seated, busily engaged in learning the Russian grammar, or something of the sort, probably on top of the box.
The second difficulty was the disposal of the sand – the soil here was entirely of sand – and many ingenious methods were employed. It was obvious that a mound of sand gradually increasing in size would be investigated by the Germans and watched, and therefore the sand had to be scattered around. The common practice was to tie up the lower openings of trouser legs, thus forming two sacks, which were put over the shoulders and made to hang down under each arm. These, when filled, were hidden by raincoats put on by those detailed to dispose of the sand, and by loosening the string, the sand was allowed to dribble out as the men walked round the camp. It had to be done very carefully and in small quantities, as freshly dug sand being damp, a trail of it could be easily spotted by the watchful Huns, and the whole thing discovered. Indeed, I believe it was this particular feature that enabled the Germans to discover this particular tunnel. They made a raid, and it was only in the nick of time that those participating in digging operations got away.
The third difficulty was the question of the sand falling in, while other troubles, such as flooding, beset the would-be escapers, and were doubtless the causes of the many failures.
What would have been a very successful effort was that being worked by a secret organization known as the P.T. or “Pink Toes.” I do not know the origin of this name, or indeed even the full list of members of the society. In fact, many of our men did not even know of its existence. It was a marvel of organization and ingenuity, and it reflects great credit on the members of the society in that, although the Germans knew that this tunnel was being dug and suspected the very place where it was being dug from, and many raids were made, it was never discovered during our stay at Gütersloh. Had it not been for the fact that the whole British community was in March, 1917, moved from that camp to Crefeld, this tunnel would have been completed, and a great number of us escaped and some possibly got through to Holland.
As I was not a member of this society, I cannot give accurate details. It was carried out in great secrecy, and members were pledged to silence. As I had an indirect connection with the operations, I was perhaps more conversant with what was going on than any other officer not in the organization.
The colossal difficulties encountered by the men were only surmounted by colossal efforts and ingenuity, and the final tunnel was the result of experience learned from several failures. I believe two or three abandoned tunnels from various parts of “B” House were credited to these patient workers. They were given up partly owing to obstacles which were unsurmountable, and partly owing to lack of proper organization at first. Only by careful selection of experts in their own particular jobs, and a perfected system of sentry duty was the project made practicable.
The tunnel was dug from one of the cellars in “B” House, and when completed, would have reached a length of over a hundred and fifty feet, emerging at the far end in a pine copse a fair distance outside the camp and out of sight of the sentries patrolling the barbed wire fences.
The main difficulty at the commencement was the position of the downward shaft. The cellar was bare, with a concrete floor. It was obvious that to break up the concrete would be immediately noticed by the Germans. The only break in the emptiness of this cellar was a flight of stone steps leading down into it. It was these steps that solved the question. With great patience the lower steps were separated bodily from the remaining flight, and moved forward on rollers running on wooden slides. Within the gap thus formed, the shaft was begun, and dug down to a depth of about twelve feet, or possibly more, to clear the foundations.
The next question was, again, the disposal of the sand. The house had a large garret running the full length from end to end, with our chapel at one end. The whole of this garret, including the space below the floor boards of the chapel was gradually filled to a depth of several inches with sand. The sand was deposited on the lath and plaster of the ceilings of the rooms below – there being no floor in the main portion – and all would have been well had not the ceilings begun to bulge ominously.
Digging operations were carried on at a good pace so long as the workers were able to deposit the sand within the house. But as soon as the danger of the ceilings falling in presented itself, other means had to be found, and for the rest of the time the sand had to be scattered about the camp, which somewhat hindered the rapid progress of the work.
In place of the make-shift trouser-leg arrangement, these men used canvas bags connected together with tape, and slung over the shoulders in the same way, with a sort of valve at the bottom of each sack which regulated the flow of sand.
The horizontal tunnel branching out from the bottom of the shaft was about eighteen inches wide and two feet high. Owing to the loose nature of the sand, the walls and ceiling had to be shored up with timber. The difficulty of obtaining the necessary wood in quantity was overcome through the employment of our studio as the buying medium. For the purpose of making scenery for our theatricals, we were in the habit of purchasing wood from the town, and in ordering, we would send for a great deal more than was actually required – the surplus being smuggled into “B” House and hidden until it was required. During the summer, when the theatre was more or less closed, the material was obtained from various sources, chiefly from woodwork in the building – cupboards and tables being broken up and used for the purpose.
As the tunnel extended, the difficulty of moving the sand back from the point of digging to the shaft, owing to the narrowness of the passage, became acute, and a sort of railway was eventually constructed, with a trolley running on wooden rails, by means of which the excavated sand was quickly removed. The trolley was pulled backwards and forwards by means of a crank and ropes, situated in a sort of niche at the bottom of the shaft.
Ventilation was another source of trouble, and fresh air had to be circulated by means of electric fans. Wires for the current were connected to the house supply, and carefully hidden. This also enabled the tunnel to be well lit by electric light.
A set-back occurred when a large padlock was put on the door opening into the cellar by the Huns. It was suggested by one of the members that a panel in the door could be cut out and swung on a hinge, and to prove the feasibility of this arrangement, he cut out a panel in the door of one of the rooms, camouflaging it so neatly that, when closed, it was impossible to detect it except by careful scrutiny. The suggestion was rejected, owing presumably, to the small size of the opening, and the resultant difficulty in getting the bags of sand through. Keys were therefore made for unlocking the padlocks, an impression of the original key in the possession of the Huns having been obtained through an orderly working in the German porter’s room.
The greatest obstacle that had to be overcome, however, was flooding. After heavy rain, the tunnel would fill with water, and work was necessarily suspended for long periods at first, but later this was prevented by installing pumps.
When it is considered that such machinery was constructed out of odds and ends – pieces of iron bedsteads, iron pipes, etc., it is remarkable the amount of ingenuity that was displayed.
A system of watch and alarms in case of danger was developed to a high degree. Work was done in relays, day and night. On the approach of any Germans, some form of signal was given. The steps were slid back into place, thus closing and effectually hiding the opening of the shaft, and even a careful search of the cellar could not reveal the secret entrance, so wonderfully camouflaged were the movable steps, even the mortar that was supposedly holding the steps together being so fixed that it followed every break in the surface of the stone, and appeared to all intents and purposes to cement the steps together.
It was a great blow to these keen workers that, after months of patient toil, they were unable to finish the tunnel. When only about ninety feet had been excavated, the entire British community was suddenly ordered to move to another camp. An attempt by two of the P.T.’s to get out on the night before the departure failed on account of the fact that the end of the tunnel was just below the sentry’s beat, whose footsteps they could hear above, and of course to dig up and get out meant certain capture.
The tunnel was handed over to the Russians, but owing to lack of proper organization, it was discovered by the Germans three days after we left. This is not surprising, considering that a direct view could be obtained of the door to the entrance porch of the building, out of which the steps led down into the cellar. For hours at a time we could see Langensiepen, the German interpreter who practically managed the whole camp, standing at this window with his eyes on the door. He knew of the existence of this tunnel, and suspected the entrance to be in this cellar, and the slightest slip would have given the whole business away.
For many reasons we were sorry to leave Gütersloh. We had made many friends among the Allied officers, we had spent much time and labor in constructing playing grounds and tennis courts, and money in decorating our rooms and making them comfortable. We had no idea as to what the new camp would be like, and we felt that we should be having to start everything all over again. It meant the break up of our small world.
We left Gütersloh in March, 1917. Our Allied friends gave us a wonderful “send off” and their cheers and songs of farewell followed us a long way down the road to the town.
Looking back on my life at Gütersloh, the one great impression I have of it is that of splendid comradeship. Unselfishness, and the desire to help one another, to work together for the common good, to give all that we could unhesitatingly, to sacrifice our own feelings for others. Whatever was required of each of us we did gladly. All distinctions of rank or class were buried. Regulars, Territorials and New Army officers lived in perfect harmony. Side or swank was non-existent, and I never heard a single word spoken in anger, nor a quarrel of any sort. I have nothing but pleasant recollections of Gütersloh, and what there were of unpleasant experiences – and there were, of course, a great many – I have forgotten.
Reported Missing 