By M. JEAN MARTIN A FRENCH SERGEANT-MAJOR TRANSLATED BY MISS V. A. RANDELL WITH ILLUSTRATIONS LONDON JOHN MURRAY ALBEMARLE STREET, W TO HER THE THOUGHT OF WHOM BROUGHT CONSOLATION TO ME IN HOURS OF SUFFERING, MOURNING AND SADNESS TO HER WHO PROVED MY STRENGTH AND SAFEGUARD THROUGHOUT DAYS OF TRIAL AND DANGER TO MY FIANCÉE I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME All rights reserved...

W E have hitherto had many volumes of the doings of British soldiers at the front and in captivity, but few of our French Allies. The experiences of Monsieur J. Martin, written originally in French, give such a vivid picture of prison life in Germany, that they have an interest far beyond the mere personal one which his friends and countrymen attach to his name. Brought up in France, amidst all the charm and culture of the best French-Protestant traditions, he was educated at Rouen, and he final

T HE following is an extract from the Author’s Introduction to the French edition of this book:— With but few exceptions the incidents and scenes described in this book were actually witnessed by the author, although he was not always one of the dramatis personæ . As regards the rest they were all reported to him by personal friends whose good faith is beyond question. The authenticity of all—even of the strangest—situations here described, as well as the truth and accuracy of the pictures, may

I WAS hit, I was conscious of being hit, and yet had not heard the bursting of the shell that caused my wound. I had an impression of my feet being violently swept from the ground, and then of my falling down heavily. I was overcome with a sense of paralysis. My legs were stiff and powerless. I felt them tingling. I did not lose consciousness, however, and saw all that was surrounding me; there, a few paces away, was a dead horse, shattered by the shell that had struck me. Convinced that I was c

M ORNING dawns at last; its pale rays dim the blinding brightness of the electric lights. It brings with it a breeze which raises the dust on the platforms and blows about the straw that litters the station. The wounded wake up, stiff and cold. The dressings are hastily done by young unskilled German nurses, who have just arrived and are only at the beginning of their profession. Nervous, agitated and worn out by their journey, they look whiter than their new aprons. Their hands tremble as they

I T was right at the beginning of hostilities. The prisoners had been sent to an instruction camp, the buildings of which were still occupied by German recruits. The men, guarded by sentinels, were at that time herded together on some waste land surrounded by barbed wire; shelter there was none. We dug ourselves holes in the sand as best we could. Some green branches formed a roof; and there, exposed to the rain, we remained night and day, even without straw to lie on or coverings to protect us

H E had been wounded at the beginning of the campaign, at the time when nothing could stop the invading hordes, and much too soon for his liking. Powerless to escape from the field of battle, he soon saw himself a prisoner in the hands of the enemy. He was a sergeant, still young, and on active service when the war broke out. He was taken to a hospital in Westphalia, where he remained too short a time, considering the gravity of his wound. But as the German wounded from Ypres were coming in, in

E VENING enfolds the camp in its gloomy mantle, and like a heavy tapestry dulls the sounds and renders uncertain the movements of human beings. It is scarcely five o’clock, but the night has almost come. The camp is invisible in the darkness, the silence becomes absolute. In certain parts nothing reveals the existence there of an enclosure containing thousands of men. A dim murmur, however, rises from the regions of the kitchen, where the lamps give scarcely any light. No one makes a noise, but

I T was the middle of winter. The glorious dark blue sky glittering with stars shed a soft light, such as one can see on frosty evenings even when the moon is hidden. Not a breath! The fir-trees stood darkly in the distance, their motionless shapes outlined against the horizon. The men were happy to come out of doors this calm and frosty night to take deep breaths of the life-giving air, and by rapid walking to bring their blood to a glow. What more delightful for a captive than to walk in the p

N IGHT spreads over the camp, not a star is to be seen in the sky; gloomy, lugubrious, heavy darkness envelops it, rendered still more dismal by the rain, which, fine as a mist, falls fast and silently, penetrating our shabby garments. It is nearly nine o’clock. Silence reigns, broken occasionally by the howling of the wind. The tents—which the Germans had not yet taken the trouble to light up—formed an indistinct blot on the darkness, their existence revealed only by the flapping of the canvas

S LOWLY but with terrible certainty the work of encircling us went on day by day. A month ago we had seen experts wandering round the barbed-wire fence which enclosed us. Then the surveyors had followed, and here and there, at regular intervals, had dug up spadefuls of earth. A certain inactivity followed, which, in spite of every experience, raised a faint hope in the heart of the prisoners. But when some of our comrades appeared in the camp carrying pickaxes and spades, hope vanished. Slowly,

I T is a wet winter morning at about 6.30. The huts are deserted. The men, led by the sergeants of their companies, have gone to the kitchens and await the distribution of their “half-pints.” Carrying a bucket from which rises a thin column of steam, two prisoners come back from the boilers. Their appearance is signalled to the impatient crowd. At last! The black drink for which the prisoners long is called coffee, an hygienic beverage made of an infusion of roasted barley. It is drunk without s

C ERTAINLY Bitter, the head of the 11th Company, could not be counted among those who cherished cordial feelings for the French. The authority who had put into his hands the fate of two hundred and fifty men might rejoice that he had never shown culpable weakness towards any of the prisoners. He was a small man, with a worn face; he had a weak heart, and before the war was exempt from military service; he had only been recalled a few months since. His illness made him sometimes as pale as death,

A T this time the N.C.O.’s were not forced to do fatigue work (it appears that is changed now), and as it is human nature never to be satisfied with the lot that falls to one, the sergeants complained bitterly of this favourable treatment. Ungrateful beings, they forgot how they had rejoiced in the winter, when, sheltered in the huts, they had gathered round the fire while their comrades, at the mercy of the elements, passed days in the rain. It is true that now it was different; the spring had

T HE sound of the axes has ceased. The prisoners throw their coats over their shoulders, and taking their tools—that they must place at the feet of the sentinels—their knapsacks, bowls and tins, they wait for the roll to be called. Every one is there. At the order of the commander they go towards a clearing where the men can be easily watched during the break which lasts till 1.30. Our soldier prisoners have quickly finished their meagre repast which the parsimonious German Government doles out

I HAD been transferred in April from a camp 150 kilometres from the frontier to another much nearer to it. I had scarcely arrived at my new abode when the idea of escaping took firm hold of me, and from that moment I was careful to neglect nothing that might be useful to me later on. I soon got to know some of the men who had been at the camp from its start, and made them tell me about the escapes that had been attempted, whether successful or otherwise. In all the stories I heard I found matter