Prisoner-of-war escapes; World War, 1914-1918 -- Prisoners and prisons, German
Exclamations were heard. We distinguished the words “Los,” “Weg,” and
“Arbeiten.” We saw the imperious gestures, and the workmen having picked
up spades and pickaxes, went slowly towards the marked-out holes. The
tools were lifted painfully, with a fine sweep of the arm. They struck
the earth without energy. But numbers prevailed in spite of goodwill,
and the nothing done by each nevertheless came to something by the end
of the day.
The next day and during many days the men laboured. The holes were deep
and the posts solid enough to resist anything.
But here we must do justice to our fellows; they attacked their task
with a most praiseworthy moderation. One might have thought that, like
the Trappist’s fathers, the prisoners were digging their own graves, for
their ardour was such as would have made a road-maker of Paris turn pale
with scorn.
The day dawned at last when, all round the camp, stakes two metres high
stood white, shining and aggressive against the dark trunks of the
sweet-smelling firs so soothing with their beauty. The electricians,
recruited from our professionals, were told to lay the wires which were
to surround and support the electrified fencing. Pataud counselling a
strike was never more listened to, never more obeyed, than were our
friends who encouraged the engineers to waste time. For a long while one
might have thought that the installation would never be finished, and
again the hope sprang that peace would find this barbarity still in its
first stage.
But one fine day to our horror we saw the ends of the wire being joined.
The circuit was complete, the prison was shut for ever.
For one moment there was consternation amongst the wood-gatherers. They
could no longer get near the firs, and all stood there, with mouths
open, like sleepers rudely awakened from their dreams.
Then, as in all difficult circumstances, in the time of need a man was
found, “the man of the hour,” Claude, a timid collector of twigs, a man
so shy that he only dared to warm one hand at a time, rose up and showed
what was hidden in his heart.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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