My first impressions of Karlsruhe had been depressing beyond description. For just a little while it seemed that I only got release from one kind of German hell to enter another.The bitter irony of it made me laugh the night before, but there are two kinds of laughter and one has no mirth in it. In spite of its wires, the first view of Karlsruhe Lager was interesting. I had been saddened too by the sight of the town. These old, grey, reposeful buildings seemed to hide much in silent suffering. One had the feeling that not here was the cause of war, but only much of its unhappy consequences. That city which should have been a centre of quiet peace was full of sorrow, all because militant Prussia in its arrogance had torn up a scrap of paper that held nothing more valuable than its pledged word, its national honour, the mere consequences of which were death, devastation and untold agonies.
The worst part of Karlsruhe was the wall about seven feet high, which shut off the prisoners from a view of the outside world. On top of the wall was about eighteen inches of barbed wire, and six feet inside the wall a strong barbed wire barrier about six feet high. Prisoners were forbidden to venture between the fences, were warned that if they even touched the inner wires they might be shot, but the rule was never enforced. The sentries posted inside and out were all of the Landsturm, for the most part elderly men. They wore the field grey of the German Army, but as headgear a curious kind of box helmet, flat on top and with a little brush in front of it that in some way seemed familiar. I learned later that these were the identical helmets worn by the German infantry in the war of 1870, which had been kept in store all these years waiting for ‘The Day’, its opportunities in conquest, and—for the world generally and Germany in particular—its tragedy. The rifles that they carried too were apparently the old ‘Needle Gun’, about as efficient today as the men who used them. So were the old war and new linked up; the Needle Gun, Germany’s first triumph in the manufacture of arms, and the French Mitrailleuse, foreshadowing the devastating machine gun of the Western Front.
Carried into the compound I could not, to the great wonderment of the stretcher-bearers, suppress my sense of delight. Under the trees were groups of officers, some reading, some yarning, some basking in the sun. Oh, the delight of being in close touch with comrades again, though at Freiburg some few of those comrades were not too cordial. I was of that young, presumptuous, untaught citizen army, they most of the old military cult with the old military contempt for irregulars. Many of them were taken at Mons. They had little tidings of what the new, unauthorised, wholly irregular Soldiers of Empire were doing, or, knowing it, no longer wondered that Germany was lashing out. While the greatest of British military leaders had wholly recast their ideas, these victims of circumstance had, through no fault of their own, learned little and forgotten nothing. If they sought sometimes to make the intruder in military matters feel his inferiority, they were all the same Britons, brave men, and companions in misfortune.
In the camp hospital there were but three patients, and I was put to bed at once. The orderlies were both careful and kind. On seeing my wounds one little dapper chap remarked:
‘You’ll be sent to England.’
‘Do you think so?’ I asked eagerly.
‘It’s a fair proposition, don’t you think?’ I shrugged my shoulders, doubting.
‘Don’t fear,’ he said. ‘You’ll soon be repatriated. It’s a certainty.’
Up to that moment I had determined to report at Karlsruhe my treatment on the journey down but, with the cheering talk of repatriation, considered it discreet to swallow my resentment and say nothing. I had written something of my feelings in papers left in my kit at Bochum, and began to worry lest these should be found and used against me.
A German interpreter came and explained that he must search me, but soon satisfied himself that all was right.
‘You owe us thirty odd marks,’ he said.
‘What for?’
‘For the latter part of your keep at Bochum.’
I laughed, explained that I had no money, had received none since I was taken prisoner, and so could not possibly pay.
‘Oh, you must have received it. You should have received it. There must be something wrong. We’ll write and see that you get your money.’ He explained that in the meantime, if I had funds in London, I could draw a cheque and get it cashed through the American Express Company. I immediately drew a cheque for £10 and in four days received the money.26
As soon as I had settled down the other patients fairly bombarded me with questions.
‘Where were you taken?’ ‘Where have you been?’ ‘How have they treated you?’ ‘Did you get your parcels?’
I explained that I had only just begun to receive parcels before leaving Bochum.
‘Perhaps you are hungry?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I guess some ANZAC wafers and bully beef would suit me very well now.’
‘Are you an Australian?’ one of them asked eagerly. ‘I’m from New South Wales, but I’ve lived in Melbourne for years. Any smokes? No? Well, we’ll soon get you something to eat and smoke. We’ll fix you.’
And they did. Then I in turn began to question. The silence of months found tongue, speech so long repressed bubbled into words. It was such a relief to find myself amongst Britishers again and welcomed in the grand old way. Jibes, scowls and sneers from faces full of hate had so long been my share of man’s companionship that any little act of kindness, the one touch of Nature that makes the whole world kin, deeply affected me. I have mentioned such unexpected occurrences in the changing of my bed at Cambrai, the kindness shown by the lady on the way to Karlsruhe. They were Germans and kindness from them in my experience was so unusual that I am the more glad to acknowledge it, for I cannot forget how grateful I was, how much it meant to me. May Heaven bless them with good and true friends should they ever know the need.
My new Australian friend was Lieutenant Arthur McQuiggin of the 14th Battalion, who had been wounded and taken prisoner at Bullecourt.27 The other two in hospital were infantry officers, one of whom explained the camp rules. I would find the officials, he said, a pretty decent lot, and Commandant a particularly fine chap. That estimate was a just one. He did all that could reasonably have been expected to make the conditions better for prisoners of war, spoke to us as if we were human beings, not in the Bochum manner as beasts. He had permitted a library for the use of prisoners of about three hundred volumes, chiefly German editions of English works, most of them the Tauchnitz editions well known in Germany, the books being, of course, paid for by the prisoners.
An English Colonel brought me a book and asked me how I stood for food, and on telling him that I had none until parcels could be transferred from Bochum, he said, ‘Well, we haven’t much, but I’ll see what I can do for you.’ He brought me a tin of condensed milk and part of a tin of meat.
Some time afterwards the Commandant mentioned one day that he had been eleven years in England attached to the German Embassy, and added, ‘Those were the happiest years of my life.’ I heard later that he had also been in France upon other employment before the war, and being suspected as a spy, got a hint to leave the country. Still that’s all in the business. Let him who is without reproach cast the first stone.
There were about a hundred and fifty officers in the Lager of whom about a hundred were receiving parcels. From these a deduction was made for an emergency food pool to help others. There was never enough to go round, but it was a delicious topping off for the German ration. The difficulty in hospital was that, while their Red Cross orderlies spoke French, few prisoners could do it. On hearing me speak a few words of French the attendants appointed me ward interpreter, and I managed somehow to carry off the bluff. It seemed to me now that I must have talked for days after entering Karlsruhe camp.
‘Cully, you were just irrepressible,’ McQuiggan said to me afterwards, and with my experience of the bad black north, the conditions of this ward seemed luxury. The bed was an old iron cot and we slept upon wood shavings, but there was a print pillow-slip, a rough calico sheet, and two blankets enclosed in a print bag cover. Then we got a change once in six weeks, or two changes in that time if the Neutral Committee were expected to visit.We always knew they were coming at least twenty four hours before they arrived, and the camp authorities were advised much earlier. The orderlies got to work brushing up and making everything cleaner and brighter. They would suggest that the English officers who, in that warm sunny weather were accustomed to knock about in flannels and blazers, should put on their uniform for the inspection which, in that it was never a surprise visit, became something of a farce. The Neutral Commissioner, in this case a Dutchman, was in his inspection of the camp always closely attended by the Commandant. He rarely asked a question. He just took a glance here and there and passed on.
‘How are your wounds getting on?’ ‘Have you been long in hospital?’ were the only two questions he asked, and always before one could answer he shot away again. The inspection was wholly perfunctory, though personally I had, as may be realised, little cause for complaint. One has heard much of the Neutral Commission during the war. To be candid, it seemed to me and to others with whom I spoke just distressing duplicity, an arrangement to suit the purposes of the Hun alone. The first doctor at Karlsruhe was decent and always amiable, generally offered us a cigarette, but as a physician he seemed to be a bit careless. His successor, as to whose professional skill there could be no doubts at all, was especially bitter against the British.
Some few weeks after I reached Karlsruhe, Captain Frederick Hoad, another Australian, and nephew of the late Major General Sir John Charles Hoad, was brought in.28 He too had been very badly treated. Part of the muscle of one leg had been shot away, and in hospital he was so neglected that his wounds were fly-blown. The curious thing about it was their assurance that this had probably saved his leg from amputation, a mystery for which only a professional man may offer an explanation. He had been twelve months a prisoner, the greater part of the time with Russians, Romanians, Belgians and French, to none of whom he was able to speak. In all that period he had no food parcels, and altogether was in a bad way. Soon afterwards he was exchanged and sent to Switzerland, chiefly, I understand, through the interest and intervention of Miss Leila Doubleday and some influential American friends.
It was at Karlsruhe that I met a very good friend in Captain Alexander Hall of the Mercantile Marine, whose steamer Katherine had been captured and destroyed by the German raider Möwe in the North Atlantic. He was a month on the raider before being landed at Kiel and was sent straight down to Karlsruhe. Our friendship soon ripened into the most sincere regard. We found that we had many ideas and aspirations in common, were both concerned and spoke often about our dear ones at home. He was about the same age as my father—to whom, strangely enough, he bore a strong resemblance—and always called me his boy. I must acknowledge with feelings of deepest gratitude the great help and influence of Captain Hall at that time. If I was in pain, and I still suffered greatly, he was a devoted attendant, looking after me as if I were really his own son. With experience of German hospitals and German hate, my mind had become something of a wilderness of confused thought, full of spiteful and morose feelings. I had almost lost faith in humanity, so long I had known only the Hun with his total lack of generosity or fair play. So much I detested him that I was deaf to every appeal from the Sisters of Mercy at Bochum, even when their entreaties became almost a demand. It was the genial influence of Captain Hall, his broadminded humanity and unshaken faith that mainly helped to restore my faith in my kind, to bring my mind back to a healthy normal state again. I met him when I was broken in body, disordered in mind, and much in need of healing, and his words of cheery hope were of inestimable value. It was a delight to meet him again at Heidelberg, later again in Switzerland, and to share his pleasure when he had the good fortune to be repatriated to Scotland and his dear ones there.
At Karlsruhe there was still a severe economy in food, the menu of acorn coffee, black bread, thin soup, potatoes and carrots, running its baleful course. Without the Red Cross parcels it would have meant slow starvation to many prisoners. At Karlsruhe a cat which came about the hospital suddenly disappeared, and questioning Parnell, one of the French attendants, he said, ‘Ah well, we ate it.’ Noticing my grimace of disgust he asked, ‘Why not? It is all the same as rabbit.’
Amongst the prisoners was a Canadian, Lieutenant G. D. Hunter of the Royal Flying Corps, who had been almost starved to death, the thinnest man I ever saw. When brought down a bullet had gone through the fleshy part of the arm, a wound that with decent treatment should have been perfectly cured in about three weeks. After putting on the field dressing the Germans took him back behind their lines and never allowed him to touch the bandage for ten days. When it was finally taken off in Germany the arm was rotting and had to be immediately amputated close to the shoulder. It was another of very many instances in which carelessness seemed to be a deliberate policy, leading only to one consequence. It meant much to a prisoner’s luck where he was taken. In a hospital in Southern Germany, either Baden or Bavaria, he had a fighting chance, but anyone with experience may conjecture how many cases of murder and mutilation must be credited to the Prussian who, wherever you meet him, in the line or behind it, is an abomination, a bully in victory, a cur in defeat, and treacherous always. You may deem this all morbid mania, or hysterical prejudice, but if there is one nationality upon earth that I think I know it is the Prussian. For so long I had little else to do than study him.