Wounded and a Prisoner of War, by an Exchanged Officer

h, was handed to all the prisoners on the train. I have kept this interesting document, the heading of which is as follows: "A short account of facts from Official Germa

war news for November, is evidently a mo

ouins attack Egypt. As a result of bad treatment 17 Ger

Conquered English cannons placed for exhibition before

shmen in Germany between the ages of 17

n all fronts, with just a passing reference to

over the English attack against Akaba, the Holy City

marines in the channel no more Engl

ned, I attach great importance to it, to prove well founded the fact that, in my opinion, England is already beaten, as an England that hides its fleet in such a war as this, and do

h and Russians at Schotel-Arab. 750 English troops kil

controll [sic] the S

onth of November works out at 268,508, and on one single day, the 14

was distributed broadcast among the prisoners. The only result of reading such an obviously biassed account of the war was that,

ng a great deal of pain from the cramped position, the jolting of the train, and from want of nourishing food. The

wife and children, with whom he was to spend a week's leave in the neighbourhood of Coblenz. I tried to find out if h

setting sun, which they had hidden during the day. We had no light in the carriage, and the blackness of the interior darkness was relieved only by the twinkling lights on the distant banks of the Rhine. By t

wo fat sentries, and their place was taken by two men who belonged to some very antiquated sort of Bavarian Landsturm, harmless, inoffensive creatures both of them. They actually put their rifles up on the rack, whereas the other sentries had clung tight to theirs on the whole journey from Camb

ong inspecting the wounded. He asked if there were any men who required to have their wounds dressed, explaining

dation for five badly wounded men was insufficient, so that they had to lie on top of each

ur not having had any food, promising to send some along at once. We got some nice hot coffee, a larg

Highlander, and came no doubt from the mountain forests of Bavaria, produced a co

station where we stopped people took it in turns to come right into the carriage, and we met with considerable annoyance and impertinence from many of them. One German

e impossible to think of sleep, for whenever I tried or pretended to

Cambrai and Coblenz had been to a certain extent tamed by experience at the front, whereas the older and more ignorant class of Landsturm, who at every station forced their a

that we had occasion to be really alarmed at the ho

uniforms collected outside our carriage and proceeded to go through a pantomimic exhibition of hate. The leader of this mob was a nasty-looking ruffian, more than half drunk, who kept calling on us to come outside and fight; also threatening to come inside

to be plagued by a constant stream of visitors. One group of these soldiers came in about five in the morning and behaved with great rude

upon the seat, the others standing round pointing with their fingers at the poor mutilated face with coarse jeering laughter. The young Irish soldier sat patiently through it all-his blind eye was a running sore, t

ivilians in this country-they must number several millions-who should be ashamed to be

s there a man in Carlow or in all Ireland w

ot, of men of a well-known regiment kicked and beaten along the road to a German prison-none of these things, no atrocity of Louvain, no story of wom

scription." I have no means of ascertaining how far this be true, but whether true or not, I know that if the Irish people could see this war as it really is, as the G

round of insult, painfully cramped on the hard benches, and half frozen with the cold

reminded me in many ways of Speyside. The air blowing from the spruce woods was most refreshing, and i

y smallest stations. We seemed at last to be getting away from the omnipresent German soldier, for the wild-looking country through which we were passing did

was to be hoped for from any of the stations, we agreed to pool what provisions we could get together between us. I had nothing but half of my G

denly opened the door leading into the corridor, and proceeded to pour a volume of abuse on us all, finally s

ruck! After this excited individual had passed away, I asked the sentries what all the discourse was about, and they said that the fellow enjoyed getting a chance to

at about 11 o'clock the train entered the picturesque valley of the river Main, on the banks of which the town of Wü

tion when it became obvious that

iage the young Irishman, whose name was Patrick Flynn, begged me to accept the only thing he had to give me as a souvenir, and pressed into my hand a Belgian five-cen

g Mari

TER

ZBU

meus; inveteravi inter omnes

us the full benefit of the freezing north-easterly wind. The vehicle into which the stretchers were lifted does not deserve the name of ambulance, nor had it any pretension to the title, for it was not even honoured with a Red Cross. It was just a common lorry, such as is used in the district for carting wood, covered with a tarpaulin supported by a longitudinal bar on transverse stays. The tarpaulin, which had been rolled up on one side while the stretchers were being placed in position, was rolled down again. A German ambulance man jumped up behind and off we went. Each stretcher was provided with a blanket, which afforded some small protection from the cold blast which blew through the open end of the cart. None of the soldiers with whom I had travelled from France were in this cart, and at first I thought that all the occupants were Frenchmen. But the man next me was an Englishman, dressed in French uniform, who had been with me in hospital at Cambrai. His face was so drawn and haggard that I had s

g place; he presently came up and politely asked me my name and rank in very good English. This, I afterwards discovered, was Dr Zinck. He told me that I was to be sent up to the fortress. I was helped off the stretcher, and, owing to the cold, had great difficulty in hobbling along, and was ve

egnable site, which had been used for defensive purposes from the earliest times of which any historic trace has been recorded. When St Kilian in the seventh century brought Christianity to Franconia from far Iona, he was at first

unfortunate survivors were taken away to the Festung Marienberg. "Thirty-six of them," says a contemporary writer, "had their heads cut off, and the council and aldermen have been taken prisoners; God only knows what will be done with them." It was a common punishment in those days for a prisoner to have his eyes gouged out, or his fingers chopped off. At the present time these som

en laid out as a garden with shrubs and well-grown trees. "There," said my sentry, "is where the officers can make their daily promenade." This I need hardly say was not to be our privilege. The second wall is of great thickness, so that the entrance i

shape, is some 60 to 70 ya

e the prisoners' rooms. A fifteenth-century chapel stands in the far corner on the site chosen by St Kilian. An aggressive watch-tower, dating from the eleventh cent

r and formally handed over to a German N.C.O. named Poerringer, who had charge

nd Chapel, Fest

tair we turned through a door on our right, which led into a large and very medieval-looking guard-room, a long, low room faintly lit up by narrow windows deeply set in immensely thick walls. In one of these window recesses was a desk and chair barred

French doctor sitting on a chair farther up the room within speaking distance. A thoughtless Bonjour, Docteur

e unmilitary-looking uniform, the crowd of squat, slouching, and for the most part bearded, round-bellied creatures,

dirty green jacket, and always a big black leather belt to keep in the rebellious stomach. They appeared most of them to be wood-cutters, charcoal-burners, workers in the beau

m, and did not go about with a ridiculous bayonet, came back with some papers which had to be filled in, and by virtue of which my official status as a prisoner wo

arried on in English, of which

tried this word when explaining the cause of my lameness to Mr Poerringer, and was much astonished at the result. "Is that all that is the matter?" said he; "you will soon get cured here." Weary of trying to make myself understood, I protest

there would be no exchanges until the war was over. My request for a room to myself, so that I could hope for sleep, was not passed, no such room being available, and the column was left a blank. In this first interview Mr Poerringer was trying hard, probably under orders, to p

lest of the five rooms which opened into the corridor, occupied by nine French officers, who were then seated at a long table enjoying their midday meal. My new-found British comrades introduced me to the senior officer, Colonel Lepeltier, who welcomed me with the greatest kindness, and offered me the best that could be supplied from their private store of food and drink, including a bottle of very excellent Bavarian beer, for which, after the exhaustion of the past few days, I felt most thankful. The room, which served as living and sleeping room for ten officers, was none too large. The furniture consisted of the large wooden dining-table, a small wooden table and chair for each officer, two washhand-stands, and two

Captain Reddy and Parke gave me an outline of their misfortunes. Reddy had been more unfortunate than any of us. He was travelling in Austria before the war broke out, and was arrested on his way home before war had actually been declared. Along with Parke and a number of British civilians, men and women, who were travelling in the same train, he was stopped at Aschaffenburg and taken first to the police station and then to prison. The

ried fruits, articles of toilet, and beer. Every prisoner was entitled at this time to write one letter a day. A hot bath was to be had once a month, prisoners being taken down in batches under strong escort to publ

es was, on the whole, of bad quali

of potato bread, and a cu

from day to day in colour but not

t always pork, disguised in strange manner. Once a week we had

age, sometimes varied by

s out