In the Line of Battle: Soldiers' Stories of the War
History
In the Line of Battle: Soldiers' Stories of the War
World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives
I was in this hospital in Belgium for a fortnight, and was then
moved into Germany, being sent to Münster, in Westphalia, with a
lot of wounded Germans. It seemed as if, in leaving Belgium, I had
said good-bye to civilisation, in view of what happened during my
imprisonment in Germany.
I very soon made acquaintance with German brutality to British
prisoners of war--brutality and cowardice, of which I saw constant
signs in my captivity; I say cowardice advisedly, because only a coward
will hit and bully a man who can’t hit back. On that point, however,
there is some consolation. It was practically a death matter to strike
a German soldier, even under great provocation; but if you were struck
first, you had your remedy, and nothing pleased a British soldier more
than to be struck, because that gave him his chance, and many a hard
British fist got home on a fat German jowl. I shall always be thankful
to know that I got one or two in on my own account, though I had only
my left arm to work with. I did not, of course, strike until I had been
struck first; but when I did hit out I got my own back, with a lot of
interest.
That is getting off the track a bit, so I will go back. At Münster I
was taken into a disused circus which had been turned into a hospital
for prisoners, and when I got there the doctor examined my wound. It
was all raw, but he messed about to that extent that I fainted. Two
mornings afterwards--they only dressed us every two mornings--I was
lying on a table, to be dressed. The job was to be done by a young
German student, a born brute, for I tell only the plain truth when I
say that he deliberately cut the flesh of my only arm with his lancet
and scissors.
“English swine!” he said. “He’s had one arm off, and he ought to have
the other off, too!”
This was the type of fellow who was let loose on wounded helpless
British prisoners of war.
Those dressings were horrible experiences, as a rule, for I was held
down on the table by German orderlies, who had about as much feeling
and compassion as the table itself.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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