Sixteen Months in Four German Prisons: Wesel, Sennelager, Klingelputz, RuhlebenTalbot, Frederick Arthur Ambrose
History
Sixteen Months in Four German Prisons: Wesel, Sennelager, Klingelputz, Ruhleben
Talbot, Frederick Arthur Ambrose
World War, 1914-1918 -- Prisoners and prisons
At the thought of a smoke I nearly jumped for joy. There was nothing for
which I had been yearning so much as the solace of a cigarette. I took
one from his proffered case.
"H'sh! I cannot stay any longer now. The guard might get suspicious. But
I will do all I can for you. I will come to see you every night at this
time. I will make you as comfortable as I can as a return for the many
courtesies and kindnesses I received while in London. Now light up and
jump up to the ventilator to puff the smoke out. If they smell tobacco
in the cell you will get into serious trouble."
He bade me good-night and the next instant I was at the window to enjoy
the only peaceful few minutes of pleasure which had come my way since my
arrest. My smoke completed I settled down to sleep with additional
comfort.
At 2.30 in the morning I was once more awakened. The door flew open and
in rushed my friend the young officer. He was terribly agitated. He
grasped both my hands and I felt that he was trembling like a leaf. His
voice was so broken that he could scarcely speak.
"Good God! Do you know what has happened? Great Britain has declared war
on Germany!" Like a child he burst out crying. As for myself I knew
hardly what to think. I had been hoping against hope that the
circumstance of our still keeping friendly relations would facilitate my
speedy release. This hope was fairly blasted now, and I was certain to
meet with far shorter shrift and harsher treatment than had already been
meted out to me. I may say that this was the first intelligence I had
received about the outbreak of war with Great Britain.
Stifling his emotion the officer went on.
"I am very sorry it has happened. I shall not be able to see you again!"
"Why?"
"I have to leave for the front. I have ten minutes to say farewell to my
poor old mother." Here he broke down once more. "My poor mother," he
wailed. "It will kill her. She does not know a soul in Wesel. We are
utter strangers. I was summoned back from London only a week or two
ago." He gave vent to another outburst of sobbing.
"Cheer up!" I said soothingly, "you'll see her when you come back!"
"Come back?" he echoed bitterly. "No! I shall never come back. I shall
never see her again! Good-bye! Remember that I always thought kindly of
the English. But I won't forget you before I go!"
His fatalistic resignation somewhat moved me. He was inwardly convinced
that he was going to his death. But I appreciated his sparing a little
of his bare ten minutes to give me a parting visit. I also thank him for
remembering me as he had promised. Shortly after he had gone the gaoler
came to my cell with a sack of fresh straw to serve as a mattress. The
young officer had paid him to extend me this slight privilege. To me it
was like a Heaven-sent blessing, because it enabled me to seek a little
repose without subjecting my bleeding hips to further damage.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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