Chapter XXII: English Prisoners From Ypres

Up betimes for early Mass and away across Artois’ desolate plains to Douai! At the headquarters of the Chief Command we were met by Captain Lübke with his car, and he introduced us to two other participants in the day’s excursion, Councillor Göppert and the Austrian battle-scene painter, Professor Hans von Hayek. Thereupon we jumped in and tore away past Pasteur and Joan of Arc, before whom we had no further occasion to stop. We were through the town in a twinkling, and drove out under the _Porte de Roubaix_, following in a north-easterly direction the long unbroken street connecting Lille with Roubaix.

At the latter place we came across 250 English soldiers who had recently been captured, together with a number of officers, all of whom were to be conveyed to Germany in the afternoon. The men were lodged in a large hall, probably a dismantled restaurant. There was no furniture, but large beds of straw had been spread out on the floor, especially along the walls. Here the men could fix themselves up for the night. They certainly had nothing to complain of. One “Tommy,” who had a slight wound in the head, was just being treated by an English doctor, who was also a prisoner. An adjoining room with a glass roof contained long rows of tables and chairs, where the prisoners took their meals. Here I photographed a couple of groups, and the reader will be able to see for himself that the English soldiers in German captivity look neither downcast nor ill. In one picture they even have a rather cheeky and lively Frenchwoman, inclined to stoutness, sitting between them, and I must admit to their honour as serious soldiers, that it was she who begged and prayed to be allowed to be photographed with her allies and customers--for the noble lady was no less a person than the chief waitress, and it was she who saw to it that the prisoners were amply and well fed.

In the restaurant kitchen the prisoners’ fare was being cooked in large caldrons, and here, too, the kitchen staff was predominantly French. Anyone accusing the Germans of stinting the prisoners’ food allowance should take a peep at the restaurant in Roubaix. Everything was most ample and excellent. It is true that they got no oysters, truffles, lobster or plum pudding. But they got sound, solid food, and these mercenaries, who perhaps were natives of the east end of London, had probably not for a long time been so well looked after as at Roubaix. Moreover, the French waitress was not a little in love with “Tommy Atkins,” and watched over him as the mother eagle watches over her brood, to see that he always had plenty to eat.

A few days previously the catering, both in food and other things, had threatened to assume more liberal proportions than the German authorities thought desirable. The fact was that the citizens of Roubaix had decided to make a collection of _Liebesgaben_ for the English prisoners. But then the Germans thought that things were going a little too far, and stepped in and prohibited the intended feast.

In the great hall I found other members of the genus “Tommy Atkins” resting on the straw. They looked well and cheerful, and many had attractive, manly and kindly features. When I stopped in front of a group to talk to them, they made no sign of rising, but answered very politely and with the ineffable calm which distinguishes their race. They said straight out that they were satisfied with the treatment they received and with the food given them. One of them thought that one could not very well expect in war better treatment than they received here. The only thing that worried them was that they were not allowed to smoke in the hall. But the German officer standing by explained that the hall was built of inflammable material, not to speak of the dry straw, and that the Germans had no wish to see their English prisoners burnt. A large and pleasant room on the first floor accommodated three English officers, a captain and two lieutenants, and a French captain. Each of them had his own bed, clean and neat-looking, and the room also contained tables and chairs and other useful and necessary furniture. The Frenchman was in mufti, and explained, when I asked how this was, that he lived in Roubaix, and had received permission to fetch fresh clothes from his home. Like the others, he had nothing to complain of, but he was deeply distressed over the misfortunes which had come over France. He wept as he spoke of it, but comforted himself with the thought that the pendulum would soon swing the other way. Germany _could not_ in the long run keep her end up against the combined armies and navies of France, Britain, Russia and Japan, no, not even with the assistance she got from Austria-Hungary, but I could tell that his hopes were not very deeply rooted, for tears welled up in his eyes as he spoke. Poor French captain! Think how he must feel, first to be taken prisoner on the field of battle, and then to sit as a prisoner in his own native town, with his wife and family close by. But he admitted that the Germans had treated him kindly.

It is really horrible and distressing to see two of the world’s leading cultured nations endeavouring with every conceivable bait to lure the Japanese into sending their armies to the European battlefields to destroy Germanic culture. What would the result have been had this plot against the white race been successful? The whole thing is unthinkable. One obvious effect would have been the weakening of the white races in favour of the yellow. What would the future have had to say to a diplomacy which thus administered its charge? Happily the Land of the Rising Sun has wiser and more far-sighted statesmen than the Western powers. The Japanese realise that if the Europeans continue to destroy one another, those areas in the Far East which mean so much to them, will drop like ripe fruit into their hands without a single Japanese soldier having to spill his blood in the land of the white races. And, besides, has not Japan herself immense problems to solve on the coasts of the Pacific Ocean and among its islands? Is it not in Japan’s interest that the war should leave Germany’s enemies as weak as possible? The more feeble they are after the war, the greater are Japan’s prospects of figuring as their heir and successor in the Far East. But even for the solution of these problems, which belong to the near future, Japan requires a considerable display of force. In her own obvious interests she must conserve her forces during this world struggle, and patiently bide her time. Then, far beyond the European battlefields, she has another political problem looming up on the horizon--America.

Whilst I was talking politics with the French captain the Duke stood chatting with the English soldiers. I saw him point to me, and heard them exclaim: “No, really, _that_ fellow?” A moment later I had my revenge and told them who the German officer was that they had been talking to, and this surprised them even more. Perhaps they themselves will tell of our visit when the hour of peace has struck.

One of the lieutenants was a well-bred and pleasant young fellow, the son of a prominent merchant in London. His father did business with Germany, and he himself had stayed there--I believe in Hamburg--to learn the language. He said that the war had turned all his plans completely upside down, “but we had no option but to come into the war,” he thought.

We took a friendly farewell of the four officers, and drove back to Lille to pay a visit to the citadel, where a body of Indian prisoners were said to be interned. The French citadel is now a German barracks. German soldiers and military cars and a number of captured guns were ranged up in the yard, but there were no Indian prisoners, I am sorry to say. They had been moved east the same morning--for it is necessary to clear as quickly as possible all available space to make room for the fresh batches which pour in from the front in a continuous stream. However, I could do without the Indians. I had seen them before, in their own country, under India’s burning sun. There they are in their element. That is where they ought to be now. But I cannot deny that it would after all have been very interesting to meet them here again, and to find out what they thought of life in the foggy autumn of Artois and Flanders. I myself knew what it was like to try to acclimatise Indians in a colder climate. On my last journey in Tibet I had with me two Rajputs from Kashmir. When we got up amongst the mountains, they nearly froze to death, and my caravan leader, Mohammed Isa, declared that they were of no more use than the puppies we had with us. So they were discharged, and sent back to their tepid valleys. The same thing happened with my Hindoo cook from Madras. I realised that I had been guilty of a piece of stupidity in thinking that they could be used outside India. In Tibet one lives on meat, in India on vegetables. How could they possibly stand a sudden change both of climate and diet?

And now I had read in the newspapers that the British had organised a complete importation of Indians into Europe. I had found it very difficult to believe these reports, but at the front I found that they were really true. “How do you treat these Indian soldiers?” I once asked some German officers.

“We arrest them,” one answered, and another added:

“It’s not necessary, they soon freeze to death in the trenches.”

When I admit that I myself had been guilty of stupidity in thinking that the Indians could be employed in Tibet, I think I am entitled to say that Lord Curzon, who really is a man of character, made a mistake seven times greater when he expressed the hope “that he would see the Indian Lancers clear the Berlin streets, and the little brown Ghurkas make themselves at home in the park at _Sans Souci_.”[34] But as regards the actual performance of carrying this importation into effect, I consider it more than an act of stupidity--I consider it a crime.

[34] Quotation taken from Professor Steffen’s book on “War and Culture.”

Great Britain has for nearly 150 years superbly acquitted herself of the task of acting as India’s guardian, and I doubt whether any other nation would have succeeded in so gigantic an undertaking. Indian troops have fought with honour against many neighbouring peoples, and have helped to maintain order among the three hundred millions. But never before--until the present Liberal Government tried it--had it occurred to a British Government to employ coloured heathens against Christian Europeans. Such an act is a crime against culture, civilisation and Christendom, and if the English missionaries approve it, they are Pharisees and dishonest propagators of the Gospel--what the German missionaries in India think does not now matter, for they are under arrest. India’s British masters rightly despise all matrimonial bonds between the White Man and the Hindoo, and children of such marriages are indeed to be pitied. They are regarded as, and often called, mules; they are neither horse nor donkey, they are “half-castes.” In Calcutta they have their own quarters, and must not live in any other part of the town. But when the question arises of crushing the German barbarians, co-operation with the bronze-coloured peoples of India becomes good enough even for the Englishman.

Is it perhaps thought a fitting act of culture and civilisation, worthy of the twentieth century, to convey the unsuspecting Indians thousands of miles over land and sea to throw them into the struggle against the German army on European battlefields? If this question is answered in the affirmative, I for one, with the memories I have of Asia and Europe, nevertheless retain the unshaken conviction that such conduct is the height of cruelty. I do not mean cruelty to the German soldiers, for I know what they think of their Indian opponents--a blend of contempt and compassion. Besides, I do not think that the sweeping clear of the Berlin streets will come to anything, nor do I think that the trees of _Sans Souci_ will ever spread their shadows over the warriors from the Himalayan slopes, for Ghurkas may be ever so useful in a campaign against Tibetans and other frontier tribes, but in Europe they are no good. Therefore I contend it is an act of cruelty to them to force them over to the white man’s country--to die all to no purpose.

What opinion will these Indian troops harbour of their white masters? The future will show, and the survivors--if there are any--will return to India and tell what they have gone through. He who has seen something of the land of the Arabian nights--who has ridden across the crests of Himalaya--who has listened to the sighing of the wind through the deodars of Simla--who has dreamed under the moon of Tadj Mahal--who has seen the Holy Ganges slowly glide in ashen ringlets past Benares quays--who has been spellbound by the stately procession of elephants under the mango trees of Dekkan--he, in short, who loves his India and admires the order and security which British rule has brought into this vast country, needs no imagination to understand the thoughts with which the Indian soldiers will return, and the feelings with which their families and countrymen will listen to their recitals round the fireside of the humble little cottages in Himalayan valleys. I think of it all with a feeling akin to horror, for I cannot rid myself of the conviction that here, in the name of civilisation, a crime is being committed against humanity and Christendom.

Kipling has described (in “Mandalay”) in glowing, unforgettable lines the longing--one might almost call it the homesickness--which the English soldier feels who has served his time in India or Burmah.

If the English soldiers long so, with what feelings must not the Indians themselves dream of their homeland’s sunshine, its palms and tinkly temple bells! But their longing is vain. They have been taken to Flanders’ bloody battle-front and trenches to die instead to the music of German shell fire.

One cannot help asking: “Are these Indian contingents really necessary?” Do not Great Britain’s, Canada’s and Australia’s white millions suffice, not to speak of Frenchmen, Belgians, Russians, Serbians, Montenegrins, Portuguese, Turcos and Senegalese negroes? No, it almost looks like it. In _The Times_ of September 5th I read in the biggest and fattest type the following heading: “_The need for more men_.” So already at that time more men were needed to eradicate the “culture” of the German “barbarians.” In the article following this heading I read the following words: “The educational campaign undertaken by the Prime Minister as to the origin and purpose of the war had a splendid opening in the Guildhall yesterday.”[35] So there was to be an educational campaign! So the British nation must by special means be educated up to understand the cause and the object of the war! Otherwise the Englishman will stop at home and play football and cricket. No doubt the education is to be coupled with a lesson in the course of which one learns what use the Hindoos are going to be--in an emergency. The situation should really be judged against the background of G. B. Shaw’s very sensible words to the following effect: “What we must bear in mind is that if our side wins, the consequences will be a shifting of the balance of power in favour of Russia, a situation which will be much more dangerous to all the other contending parties than would be the triumph of Germany, a result which we are now by war endeavouring to prevent.”[36] In other words, a Russian victory will be much more dangerous to the warring states than a German victory. For an all-powerful Russia would threaten the whole of Europe, including England and her mastery in India, but a victorious Germany would entail no menace to Europe. One must forgive the British if they need a specially organised education to understand such a complicated problem!

[35] Steffen, page 115 _et seq._ are well worth reading.

[36] Steffen, page 97.

And what is this new popular education going to turn out like? The answer to this question is given in the English press every day. It consists in a systematic suppression of the truth. The fatal and momentous reality which is slowly bringing England to the brink of a catastrophe must be concealed under an exceedingly severe press and telegraph censorship. Of Hindenburg’s victories the English people have not the remotest idea. The realisation of the German operations in Poland is distorted into futile attempts to stop the victorious Russian march towards Berlin. The most shameful lies and malevolent calumnies are disseminated concerning the German Emperor. The Teutons are barbarians who must be crushed, and this laudable enterprise must be shared by the cultured peoples of Serbia, Senegambia, Montenegro and Portugal. The whole war is conducted on the English side on a foundation of distorted information and conscious untruths. The truth is as rare in the English press as lies are in the German. But do the people really believe all that is said in the English papers? They do, blindly and absolutely. Of this I have been convinced by letters received from England.

When one asks English prisoners why they joined in the war they answer more or less logically: “We must obey orders, you know.” If one goes further and tries to find out the reasons for England’s participation, the answers become less certain: “We must keep abreast of German competition; we must defend Belgium, whose neutrality we have guaranteed; England was bound by treaties and must keep her word.” In the press one finds yet further reasons, such as the necessity for destroying German militarism! An appeal which was sent to me and which is signed by many learned men, including several Nobel prize winners, concludes with the words: “We deeply regret that under the unfortunate influence of a military system and its lawless dreams of conquest, the state which we have once honoured now stands unmasked as Europe’s common enemy and as the enemy of all peoples who respect the law of nations. We must carry to an end the war to which we have committed ourselves. To us, as to Belgium, it is a war of self-defence, fought out for liberty and peace.”

At the same time as one feels grateful for the information that it was for the sake of liberty and peace that England declared war on Germany on the 4th of August, one cannot help feeling a little surprised that the learned gentlemen who have put their sonorous names to this paper could believe that the neutral Germanic nation of the North could ever be induced to see in the Germanic nation of the South its own and Europe’s most dangerous enemy.

The talk of German militarism recalls the old parable about the mote and the beam. Is not Britain’s supremacy of the sea built up on a military system? Can one imagine a more widespread militarism than that which spreads its recruiting nets over five continents, which reaches gratefully after the straw held out by Republican Portugal, and which advertises in every newspaper and at every street corner “the need for more men”?

The warning words of Kipling written after the Boer war now ring with a deeper and more earnest meaning than ever before.

If English culture and English learning accuse German militarism of indulging in dreams of lawless conquest, I ask: How about the Boer war? Is it perhaps an expression of the same humane solicitude for the small States that now induces England to break a lance for the sake of Belgium’s independence? It would be a wasted effort to attempt to elucidate now, when it is too late, how the great war would have developed had England kept out of it. But one thing is certain, namely, that had she done so, Belgium would not have lost her independence for longer than the duration of the war. The war would not then have assumed the dimensions of a world war such as it is now--the greatest and most tragical catastrophe that has ever visited the human race. No nation has had a greater and more world-wide responsibility to bear than England.

Before this spectacle and generally before the situation in which Great Britain now finds herself every sincere friend of England must shudder at the meaning of it all as he reads and re-reads Kipling’s “Recessional” written for the Sixty Years Jubilee in 1897. The whole British Empire was then in transports of exultation over the history of past years and over the fabulous power and glory of the immense Empire. Kipling alone stood like the guardian of the nation’s conscience and his voice was lifted up in words which will re-echo as long as there is a Briton left in the world.

Now that I have unburdened my heart to the English, let us continue our trip after the pause in the Citadel.

We drove out through the _Porte de Gand_, where there is quite a crush of fresh troops marching to the fighting line, wounded soldiers on the way to hospital, motor-lorries, ammunition columns and all that we are accustomed to see on the great war roads. On the left, we leave the _Fort de Bondues_--one of its towers is visible from the road. In the same direction, but far away, we see a captive balloon at a height of 150 metres. In its car sits an officer with a telephone through which he speaks incessantly. He cannot be reached by the enemy fire, and yet his life is in danger all the time. A little while ago one of these balloons was hit by a bomb dropped from a great height by a French aviator.

At Linselles we stopped a moment in the market-place whilst Captain Lübke entered a house to find out how far we could travel in the direction of Ypres. Whilst we were waiting, Crown Prince Rupprecht came walking along. It happened to be his dinner-hour. We chatted a couple of minutes, pausing a moment whilst an officer handed in an important report. The Crown Prince was visibly pleased with the news and hurried up to his dinner to return immediately to the fighting line. We met about twenty officers during this short pause. It was impossible to catch and note all the names in the course of the brief introduction. But one thing I do remember, and that is that they were all cheerful, friendly and full of youthful vivacity: “_Nun wie gefällt’s Ihnen, Herr Doktor?--Was denken Sie von unseren deutschen Soldaten, famose Kerls, nicht wahr?--Draussen in den Gefechtslinien ist’s etwas heiss, aber doch grossartig._”[37] And so on, always in the same light-hearted and jovial tone, as if it were a question of manœuvres; no difficulties, no unpleasantness, simply “quick-march and keep your eyes open!”--Forward, that is the main thing. Officers whose duty compels them to remain behind the firing line always long to be where the danger is, but as they always march at the head, the casualties amongst them are proportionately greater than among the men.

[37] “Well, Doctor, and how do you like it? What do you think of our German soldiers? Fine fellows, eh?--A trifle hot out in the firing line, but otherwise first-rate.”

We drove on northward to Wervicq and across the La Lys Canal, which forms the frontier between France and Belgium. A large part of the population has remained and makes a curious picture in these quaint old streets where German kitchen wagons stand steaming and smoking at quiet street corners. We advance but slowly. The whole road is encumbered with infantry, horsemen and vehicles. Here comes a party of 150 men armed with spades. “Where have you been?” we ask. “We have been to bury the dead,” they answer as if they were saying the most commonplace thing in the world. They looked more like conquering heroes than grave-diggers. They were not singing to-day, but they found it quite natural that when all Germany’s men are fighting for their country, not all can hope to return home, some must remain behind in the foreign soil, and the sacrifice is one which all are willing to make when it means Germany’s salvation.

Here lies a wrecked windmill with broken sails and near it a motor-car which has come to grief. The transport trains which we pass are as usual wreathed in foliage to mislead aviators. The smell of burning strikes our nostrils--it is not to be wondered at, for just to the left of us a whole village is in flames. I became a victim of the same excitement that I had felt each time before as I had approached the danger zone.

Presently we come to a village bearing eloquent testimony to the cruel realities of war. It boasts the peculiar name of America. At the last house in the main street we stop to make sure once more how far we may drive. Colonel von Oldershausen steps out. He is a magnificent type, a thorough soldier, straight as a poker, stiff and gracious at the same time. “Listen,” he said in answer to our question, “drive first to Kruiseik, two kilometres from here. From there you may continue one kilometre on foot until you come to the crossing between this road and the Ypres-Menin main road. If you wish to go further in the direction of Ypres I should advise you _not_ to take the main road as the whole avenue is covered by the English artillery fire. But if you keep a little way outside the ditches,” he went on, “it is not at all unlikely that you will come back with a certain amount of life left in your bodies.”

Leaning against the car, the Colonel stood gesticulating with great animation and tried to describe the situation which would have greeted us, had we continued on the main road. He fully meant what he said and assured us that he had tried several times the prescription he now recommended to us--without once being killed! The day before yesterday he had made an attack at the head of his regiment in which a third of his men had fallen; of the others, 150 got the Iron Cross. The object was realised. The enemy’s position was taken and several prisoners fell into the hands of the regiment. An English officer with whom the Colonel had been conversing had made the following remark: “We don’t mind your shells, and don’t care a rap about your shrapnel. Your rifle fire doesn’t frighten us, and we can put up with your bayonet charges. But when your men commence their infernal noisy hurrahs, it is all up with us. There is nothing in the world so trying to the nerves. One feels entirely paralysed before these confounded jerky hurrahs.”

So we took leave of the excellent Colonel and drove on in accordance with his directions. On our left, to the westward, we saw the familiar little puffs of smoke caused by the shrapnel bursting. A little further on a French airman was having a trying time with the German fire. Just as we drove into Kruiseik a shell came whizzing right over us. A large force of infantry reserves was quartered here, and the streets were crowded with officers and men. We pulled up by the side of a house and waited awhile. We were strongly dissuaded from continuing. On the previous day Kruiseik had been exposed to severe shell fire, and at the entrance to the village the road had been destroyed by some nasty holes, which were just being filled in by the engineers. Any moment we might expect a further pounding, as the enemy artillery had not changed its position since yesterday. I was much struck with the immovable calm with which officers and men stand here waiting for the fire and a very good chance of being killed. The same calm and light-hearted indifference also characterised the troops which we met further on towards Ypres. Take for instance that little hussar patrol riding towards the road swept by the English shells.

“_Deckung gegen Flieger!_” (“Take cover against aviator!”) roars an officer, and immediately everybody flattens himself against the house walls so as to present as small as possible a target from above. I suspect, however, that the aviator who was just that moment soaring over Kruiseik had something else to think about, for the anti-aircraft guns must have given him a lively time. Anyhow, he dropped no bombs on us. We had thought of returning to Bapaume, when someone came up to us with the news that if we liked to wait a minute we should see a batch of British who had just been captured at Ypres, which was only nine and a half kilometres from Kruiseik. They were 390 men all told and were expected to arrive any moment.

True enough, it was not long before the street was black with human beings. There they came, Albion’s proud scions. If you examine closely the five photographs which I took of them whilst they were marching past the outskirts of Kruiseik, you will get a very good idea of what a brand-new convoy of prisoners from the front looks like.

First came a German soldier with an English officer on his left side, a tall man of distinguished appearance. He carried his hands behind him, under his greatcoat; he did not seem to notice us at all, and appeared quite unmoved by the harrowing events which he had doubtless witnessed that very day, and his glance was fixed with an expression of utter indifference on the horizon straight ahead of him.

Then came the convoy, three abreast, the most diverse types one could imagine, dark and fair, handsome and ugly, well set up and slouching, cheerful and downcast. As I lifted my camera at them, a facetious Tommy cried out, “May I have a copy, sir?” The German guards did not love their charges. That, after all, is easy to understand, but I saw no expressions of hatred. Rank after rank drew past. They were dressed in practical and neat uniforms, a little browner in colour than the German. Most of them had nothing to carry, but some wore coats slung over the arm or over the shoulder. Some were smoking. Here and there was a slightly wounded man. When they came inside the village, they were all ordered to halt and here the prisoners were allowed to rest awhile, although they looked by no means tired. A young German lieutenant who was present when they were captured and who now headed the convoy, assured me that this particular English unit had surrendered five minutes after the attack began. But up to then they had obstinately defended their position. All the Germans I spoke to were of the same opinion respecting the individual bravery of the English--it was above all praise. The rear of the convoy was brought up by a row of carts and wagons containing seriously wounded English soldiers. One of them, I think he was a Colonel, lay comfortably on a stretcher which had been placed right across a cart, as shown in the accompanying picture. He was pale, but did not complain and lay with eyes closed without noticing the noise and bustle around him. Perhaps his light was going out, perhaps his heart had already stopped beating. Slowly the cart disappeared from view in the long procession of wounded Britons.

A moment later we, too, were travelling southward and once more drove past the melancholy cortège. “My poor old Tommy,” I thought to myself, “you have plenty of time before you to ponder over the problem why you, of all men, have been fighting against the German ‘barbarians’ and whether your pay was worthy of your doughty deeds between Ypres and Kruiseik! If anyone confronts you with this poser you will always answer: ‘I don’t know I’m sure, I had to obey orders, I suppose.’ But it will never occur to you to reply: ‘I had to go over for a while and crush the German militarism, you know,’ for such an absurd idea would remind you too forcibly of the parallel argument of putting down the drink by consumption!”

The life at and behind the front is rich in contrast. A few hours after we had seen Tommy’s tragic convoy disappear in the distance, we were listening once more to Cleving’s inimitable jest and song.