Told by Wilhelm Hegeler, Popular German Novelist
The strange mixture of races on the western front is here depicted by a noted German author in the form of a prison guard’s narrative of his daily life.
I—THE ANIMALS IN THE “ZOO”
There they lie in a gloomy room of the railroad station, the English prisoners, together with their allies from the Old and New Worlds. The room used to be the waiting room for non-smokers, and it is no darker or uglier than any of the other rooms, only it seems so because of its occupants.
“Service at the Zoo.” Every one of us knows what this means—duty with the prisoners. Our soldiers have invented good-natured nicknames for the Turcos, Indians, and Algerians that they meet here: “The men from the monkey theatre,” “The Masqueraders,” “The Hagenbeck Troop.” But they walk past the Englishmen in silent hatred. A little sympathy is needed, even for banter.
The prisoners’ room is empty, except for a few inmates who for various reasons could not be sent away. I am on duty here to-day. Crumpled forms squat on mattresses along the wall like multi-colored bundles of clothing. Not much is to be seen of their faces. Only a black arm, a lank yellow hand, a gaudy blue sash, a pair of wide red trousers stand out. There they crouch in the same stoical calm as they did before their houses in the distant Orient, with the exception that they, with the instinct of wounded animals, hide their faces.
An Englishman lies on a bed opposite them. He looks at me expectantly as if he wants to say something. But although I am not forbidden to talk with the prisoners, I feel no necessity for doing so.
An hour goes by. From time to time I give a drink to the Orientals who ask me for it through gestures. At last the Englishman can keep silent no longer and asks:
“Will they treat us very severely?”
I shrug my shoulders. “People feel angry at the English. Our soldiers assert that they waved white flags and then threw hand grenades.”
“I don’t know anything about that. That may have been the case earlier, but I have been in the war only eight days. A week ago I was in Newcastle with my wife.”
He takes a tin case from under his shirt, opens it, and looks at it for a long time. Then he shows me the case, which contains the picture of a woman, his wife. Then he takes a piece of paper from his trousers pocket and shows me that, too. A name and address are written on it.
“That is the man who bound up my wound on the field of battle. He was very good to me. After the war I shall write to him.”
After a long period of silence he begins to talk again. But I do not think further conversation timely. I only pay attention once and that is when he explains to me his grade in the service and his rate of pay. He is something like a Sergeant and says, pointing to his insignia: “A common soldier gets only so much; with this insignia he gets so much more, and when he has both, as I have, he gets so much.” He names the munificent sum with visible pride.
II—”A BELGIAN IN GERMAN UNIFORM”
Then the door opens and my comrade announces in a tone that implies something unusual: “A Belgian in a German uniform.” I look at the man in astonishment. Why is he allowed to run around without any guard in particular? The expression of his face is rather stupid. He sits down near the stove and crosses his legs comfortably. I ask him how he got the uniform. He answers in Flemish. Before an explanation is possible the hospital corps men bring in six or seven Englishmen on stretchers. Now quick work is necessary. Mattresses must be spread out on the floor and the people changed from bed to bed. The room is filled with inquisitive hospital corps men and soldiers. I shove them all out. When the door is finally closed again I count my prisoners and find the Belgian is missing. I rush outside to look around the station platform. There stands my Belgian on the doorstep. I seize his arm in an almost friendly manner and invite him to come inside again. At last he tells me how he got the uniform. He insists he got it in the hospital in the place of his own tattered one. I shake my head increduously, but the chaffeur who brought the prisoner hurries up and verifies the story.
Now the station commandant comes along and is also of the opinion that the prisoner must get some other kind of clothing. “But,” he orders, “first ask the staff doctor if his uniform can be taken off without any danger to his wounds.” I don’t have to do this, because the wound is on his upper thigh. I hunt up an unclaimed English cloak and, with visible relief, the Belgian warrior crawls out of the German lion’s skin.
III—PRISON KEEPER TELLS HIS STORY
New prisoners are brought in—Frenchmen, Scotchmen, and Canadians. Many of the first-named cough frightfully. When they are asked where they got that, they answer that they have had it the whole Winter long. There is a lank, powerful-looking non-commissioned officer among them. He makes a sign to me and confesses confidentially that he is very hungry. I tell him he must have patience, as there will soon be coffee and bread given out.
“Bread? Black bread?” He curls up his nose. “May I not have a little pastry, perhaps?”
“You just try our black bread,” is my reply. “It is the same as we have ourselves. We are better than we are supposed to be in France.”
“Yes, that’s true,” he agrees. “They told us that the prisoners were badly treated in Germany. Now I see that such is not the case. Besides, they tell you the same thing about our prisoners in France. But they, too, do not have it so bad. On the contrary. I have seen some of them myself in Brittany. They get a quart of cider a day. There was an enormous crop of apples last Summer. And there is enough to eat. And besides that, they are allowed to stroll through the city a couple of hours every afternoon.”
I permit myself to make a mental reservation regarding the last assertion, but a Frenchman brought in a little later makes the same statement.
A fairly educated and intelligent Canadian joins in the conversation and puts the question that occupies all of them the most: “What sort of fate awaits the prisoners?”
“You will have to work a few hours a day. Still, you are paid extra for that.”
“It is tough to have to sit in close rooms all the time.”
“No,” I answer, “the wooden houses are surrounded by broad, open places. I, myself, have seen Englishmen playing football in a prison camp.”
Then his eyes sparkle and he lets slip the remark: “That is certainly better than in Canada.” Presumably he refers to the camp of the civilians interned there. I ask him why he enlisted. He colors up and answers, with a somewhat embarrassed smile: “Well, I knew that my country was in danger, so I wanted to aid it.” And this smile seems to me to betray less the embarrassment of a man looking for a clever answer than that of an educated person not liking to use pathetic expressions. For the entire man has the appearance of frankness and decency.
In these days when fresh batches of prisoners are coming along all the time I have answered many more questions. They are almost always the same questions and receive the same answers. I have also seen convoys of unwounded prisoners wending their way by day and by night along lonely roads not so very far back of the front. I have repeatedly asked prisoners how they were being treated. Many had requests to make; none had a complaint. On the other hand, I saw many acts of kindness performed by the doctors, by the sisters, and, not the fewest, by the soldiers.