In March a Canadian doctor recently taken prisoner joined us at Bischofswerda, and although the Hague Convention does not allow doctors to be detained prisoners for any length of time, this Canadian was still there when I left in October, some seven months later. However, as far as we were concerned he was a great comfort, since we got some first-hand news as to recent events, and also some valuable medical attention and advice. His diagnosis of my case turned out to be absolutely correct, viz. that my trouble was caused by splinters of the ribs lodged in the right lung; also, owing to the long period it had been left unattended to, then a matter of a year and a half, a chronic pleurotic state had set in. The Canadian doctor had an interview with the German doctor over my case, but the German refused to find anything wrong, though he said that, should the Swiss Commission come, he would put me up for examination before them.

During the last week of May 1916 we were notified that a visit from the Swiss Commission was shortly expected, in order to collect certain officers for transfer to Switzerland. A list of those whose wounds were bad enough to allow of inspection by the commission was taken, although all officers suffering from other complaints were actually inspected by the Swiss Commission on its arrival. Great excitement reigned on the day appointed for the visit, which was fated in the end to bring very little consolation. With the exception of one officer, who had been hit in the hand, which he had more or less lost the use of, no other officer was placed on the possible list except myself.

At first the Swiss seemed desirous of taking me, but the German doctors would not hear of it. The outcome of the discussion between them was a compromise, the Swiss insisting that I should undergo a proper examination with RÖntgen rays, in order to decide if it was a splinter or something else that caused the trouble. The German doctors said it was quite unnecessary, that I was quite sound, but that, if after examination any sort of operation were necessary, it would have to take place in Germany. The Canadian doctor already mentioned gleaned from a private chat with the Swiss that the reason the Germans refused to let me go was that they were afraid of the questions which would be inevitably asked in Switzerland as to why they had left my lung unattended for the period of a year and a half, without even troubling to have a proper diagnosis made.

So ended the first visit of the Swiss Commission. Very nearly three weeks elapsed before my orders came for the medical examination, which took place at a town called Bautzen, about twenty-eight miles from Bischofswerda. It is a very large military depot, and contains a number of hospitals. To one of them myself and a Canadian officer who came with me were conducted. For some time we sat in the exercise-ground of the hospital, where a number of German wounded soldiers were sitting or walking about. We apparently caused a great deal of interest, but no insult or objectionable looks were given us—in fact, rather the opposite. It is a curious psychological fact that, with regard to those Boches who have actually fought in the front line, they seem to look upon their enemies with far greater respect, which I suppose, after all, is natural, since they have actually seen and felt the magnificent fighting qualities of our troops, and are therefore sceptically inclined towards the articles in their newspapers which continually belittle the strength of our arms. On the other hand, those who are on lines of communication, etc., believe the newspapers, having had no practical experience of their own to balance their reasoning; and, as typical of the Boche character all round, when they feel themselves to be winning or up against a weaker force than their own, they are bullies of the worst possible character.

With regard to the events which took place at the hospital at Bautzen, after seeing the specialists, immediate arrangements were made for an X-ray examination. The result of this showed our Canadian doctor to be correct. The German specialist then asked me why this had not been attended to before, and why no operation had been made. He said, “In my opinion it must be done at once; at the same time I must warn you that, owing to the length of time which has been allowed to elapse, a considerable growth has naturally taken place over the affected area.” He further said that the operation now would be a very dangerous one, and that even were it successful he could not guarantee that I would be any better, and that he would have to ask me to decide there and then if I would undergo it or not. On inquiring as to the probable result if I should not feel inclined to take the risk, he replied, “You may not get any worse, but I shall be surprised if you don’t, and I consider that tuberculosis will probably set in, if it hasn’t done so already.”

This opinion decided things for me, so I made a statement in writing that the operation was done by my own wish and at my own risk, since otherwise they would do nothing.

After a further examination my friend and I returned by train to Bischofswerda. About a week later the doctor called me down and explained that the operation was a very dangerous one, and that there would be still time for me to cry off; the commandant did the same a few days later; but the specialist’s threat of tuberculosis decided me absolutely, as there was no possible alternative. If I had the disease, I was done for; if it came through lack of an operation, I was done for; so the only thing to do was to trust to luck. Nearly another month passed before my final orders to go to hospital at KÖnigstein came through, and on the day they arrived I was told to be prepared to go off in three days’ time, according to instructions from Berlin.

On the night before I was to have proceeded to the hospital orders came to the commandant that I was to go to the reserve hospital at Dresden instead of KÖnigstein, where I eventually went. But before leaving I wrote two letters, which I gave to one of my brother officers. These two letters contained an exact account of the treatment, or rather the lack of treatment, of my wound, which was to be delivered only in case of the operation proving fatal. One was addressed to the American Ambassador and the other to my mother.

The journey to Dresden from Bischofswerda was more or less uneventful, with the exception that a cab was actually arranged for in order to convey me and the guard to the station, which of course I had to pay for, and for my luggage to Dresden, as, having no guarantee that I would not be starved at the hospital, I had taken my stock of tinned food with me, being too old a prisoner to be caught napping in that respect. The cab and transport cost me about thirty shillings, although Dresden is not much over twenty miles away.

On this journey to Dresden, and in passing through it on the way to the hospital, I had some excellent opportunities of gauging the aspect of the populace. Sour looks met me everywhere, but no insults. On the whole the people looked overworked and underfed, going about their duties in a morose sort of doggedness. Two of the main squares in Dresden were packed with recruits under training—boys of not more than sixteen or seventeen years, and men who looked over fifty, most of them being undersized and weedy.

The hospital was crammed with wounded German soldiers and a few convalescent officers. It turned out to be an enormous place, with most excellent grounds, bordering the KÖnigsvald, where a regimental band played three times a week. A clean room was allotted to me in one of the wards, and it was a great relief to find that I was to have a private one to myself.

On the morning after my arrival a well-known German specialist visited me in my room, and made a thorough examination of my chest. That afternoon a young German convalescent officer was detailed to take me out for a short walk, which we took in the KÖnigsvald, a very beautiful woodland glen, full of delightful bubbling springs and nice green glades, most refreshing to a prisoner’s eyes. The officer was very courteous and sympathetic. That evening, on my return from the walk, I was again visited by the specialist, who said he was glad to be able to inform me that I was not tubercular, as he had thought I was after his examination that morning; also he explained that, if I would place myself in his hands, he would guarantee that the operation would be performed without any great danger. By this he meant that in my present state an anÆsthetic was not advisable, and that if I would consent to undergo it without he would guarantee everything would be all right. On the following morning the operation took place, and it was most beautifully and satisfactorily done. I will not dwell upon my own feelings during the ordeal, since it does not take a vivid imagination to picture them, when one takes into consideration a big operation like this being performed without an anÆsthetic.

My treatment generally in hospital in Dresden was of the very best. I could not have been treated better had I been at home, either in the matter of attention or in food. My own nurse was especially attentive, and I shall be eternally grateful to her. This happy state of affairs, however, underwent an extraordinary change on the day Rumania entered the war, when, whilst my nurse remained staunch, the matron of the ward, who had hitherto been quite friendly, came to my room, shook her fist in my face, called me a Schweinhund Englander, cursed the English and everything appertaining to them, and gave orders that I should be cut off all my invalid food and be given the soldiers’ rations instead. This was done.

One incident I forgot to mention before, which shows up the extraordinary workings of the Boche mind. In order to have this special operation performed it had been necessary to give my parole in writing, stating that I would not attempt to escape from the time I left the prison for the hospital to the time I returned from the hospital to the prisoners’ camp. Permission to give this parole under the existing circumstances was obtained by me from the senior British officer at Bischofswerda. However, on going to the hospital, I discovered a sentry posted at the door of my room and another outside the window. Of course I immediately complained to the commandant of the hospital that I had given my parole and naturally felt exceedingly insulted at finding two sentries guarding me. He smiled and said the order came from higher up and that he could do nothing.

These two sentries remained on guard until I left the hospital, which is most humorous. Imagine placing two sentries to guard a man lying between life and death with an enormous incision in his chest, in order to prevent him escaping should he break his parole! I should only have had to walk four hundred and fifty miles in order to escape—this for one who had not even the strength to feed himself. What must the word of a German officer be worth, if he accepts another man’s parole and then takes steps to guard against its being broken?

Very gradually I began to get strong, and as soon as I could sit up in a chair I was removed from the hospital and sent back to Bischofswerda, very glad to see all my old friends again. But my removal took place too soon, and the jolting of the carriage so upset me that I was again taken ill and suffered a very considerable relapse, being confined to bed in the hospital-room at Bischofswerda. Here I stayed for over a month, during which time many little incidents of interest befell me. For instance, it appears that, contrary to all Boche rules and regulations, my parcels had been stopped and opened without any British officer being present, and, needless to say, two parcels containing a thousand marks each had been caught. Lieutenant Harbe paid me a visit in the hospital-room, sent everybody out, shut the windows, and started to bully me, although he knew I was very weak at the time. He also insulted me in every possible way. After he went I had a high temperature, and the next day reported him to the commandant.

Some days after this Mr. Jackson, the assistant of the American Ambassador, came. He paid me a visit in the hospital, and heard my tale of woe against Harbe, which he carried to the commandant, asking him to get rid of Harbe, since, during the whole period that he had been at Bischofswerda, he had deliberately tried and insulted officers to such an extent that it was difficult for them to hold themselves in check. He was therefore a very dangerous person to have in the camp, since, had any of them struck him, as he deserved, it would have been a most serious offence. However, nothing came of this, except that Harbe was forbidden to hold conversation with me unless in the presence of another officer.

After being a month in the hospital-room, I was removed to a small room by myself on the first floor, where I rapidly began to regain strength, being able to walk across the room in the first few days of October. The day before I was removed from the hospital two British officers made a very fine attempt to escape, one obtaining civilian clothes through me, the other having made a German private’s uniform. The two of them passed out of the camp disguised as the tailor who used to visit us from the town and his guard in the German uniform. They got quite clear of the camp, when an officer passing them on the road a few yards outside the camp reported the soldier to the guard-room as going down town without side arms, meaning the bayonet; and thus the two of them were caught. They were immediately court-martialled and put into cells.

On the 8th of October Harbe and three sentries stalked into my room, where I was still in bed, and informed me that I was going to be sent to a punishment camp, that all my things would now be packed in his presence, and that at four o’clock on the following morning I should leave for the new camp. I explained that I could hardly walk, and I certainly could not pack, so he started throwing my things into my two boxes. On this I sent for my great pal, who kindly came and packed everything for me, and also insisted on me taking all my food, which Harbe objected to. However, my friend persisted; and well indeed was it that he did so, since both myself and others would probably have starved had I not taken some food with me.

On the following day I got up from bed with a certain amount of effort. Proceeding to the ground floor, where an officer and guard were waiting to escort us, I found that the officer who had attempted to escape disguised as the tailor was accompanying me to the new camp. We set off in a cab to the station, and after a very trying and tiring journey reached Ingolstadt, in Bavaria, at 9.30 the same night, so that we were travelling for seventeen hours. To me, who had not been out of bed for ten weeks, excepting for my journey from Dresden to Bischofswerda, and after my very serious operation, the fatigue of the journey can well be imagined. On the top of this the officer in charge, who had been quite civil and courteous on the way, left us at the station, and we were forced to walk from the station to one of the German soldiers’ rest-camps, not being able to reach the prison at Ingolstadt that night. It was about six kilometres to this rest-camp, and the walk very nearly finished me. At the same time I had a heavy bag with me, which I should have had to carry also, had not my comrade who came with me done so. Since he was a major, it was not a very pleasant position for me; and had he not been such a splendid chap, I should have insisted on carrying it myself, an effort which would most certainly have been disastrous.

On arriving at the rest-camp, after having been forced to tramp in the centre of a muddy road, since prisoners were considered too despicable to be allowed to walk on the footpath, we found a filthy, dirty wooden building, filled with the dirtiest and most bedraggled-looking Boche soldiers I ever saw. At the end of this building was a small room, partitioned off, into which we were thrust and locked in for the night. I have seen some filthy places, but this certainly took the cake. Four beds and a table was all the furniture it could boast—the beds so close together as to be touching each other, the blankets and sheets black with dirt and grease. Fortunately our previous experience had taught us the value of Keating’s Powder, some of which we had with us, and we liberally sprinkled the whole room, bedclothes and all. To our surprise, although it was so late, a large bowl of quite good bean soup was sent to us, for which we were extremely thankful.

After we had settled for the night, three Russian officers joined us, so that we now closely resembled the old comparison of sardines in a box. But although our surroundings were so uncomfortable, I was too done up to take much notice of anything, and was thankful to crawl into bed. The following morning at 9 a.m. quite a decent breakfast was brought to us, for which, as usual, we had to pay; but still we got it, which was the main thing, and shortly afterwards were marched to a small station about half a mile away, from where we took train to Ingolstadt Fort station. On arrival there a further walk of about half a mile brought us to the fortress of Ingolstadt. As we passed over the moat into the fortress, a nasty cold feeling crept down my spine, and the words flashed across my mind, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”