EVENING 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 the silence of every person, an individual muteness imposed by the sadness of the monotonous day just drawing to its close, the sound of steps which the sand deadens, all is transformed into a dull hum, like the murmur of a distant ocean.

In the almost total darkness the men, one by one, in their companies file past the kitchen doors, to take the basins of soup allotted to them. They are narrowly watched by their non-commissioned officers, who try to prevent one man coming twice to the disadvantage of his comrades, for no basin is given beyond the number of men in the company. The soup, alas! is quickly swallowed; what takes the longest time is to form the lines in front of the kitchens. There you flounder about in deep mud, sometimes for an hour, and when your turn comes to be served the pot is perhaps empty and you are obliged to go and join another company in front of another door. Once in possession of their rations, the men, basins in hand, go a little way beyond the waiting lines and, standing, drink their soup, for there is no other place where they can go. Indeed, the sentinels, whose bayonets from time to time gleam, watch that no one goes to his tent taking a basin with him, for the number of these utensils is very limited. Some men, in order to receive a supplementary ration, pass their evening in picking up from under the feet of their comrades the basins thrown negligently down, when once they are emptied. These, collected together near the boilers, are again used after being summarily washed.

This evening meal is lugubrious. The men in the semi-darkness have the feeling that they are swallowing their pittance like beasts of burden. They experience cruelly the full force of their misery. There they are, eating from a basin of rough metal, with greasy, rusted brim, food which the dogs at home would turn from in disgust. Like animals, they must lap up their soup, for they have neither spoon nor fork. Light also is refused them; and as there are no benches, it is not possible for the prisoners to sit down to the meal.

Poor fellows, they even envy the pig, who may without shame gobble up a mixture less objectionable than what is offered to them, the soldier-prisoners.

Their courage begins to fail! Every one is demoralised! Confinement weighs on their shoulders. The sky is black, hearts are heavy. There is not a star in the sky, not a gleam of hope in the soul!

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Suddenly, piercing the darkness, a dazzling light has flashed out, flooding the camp with its brilliance. This light, cast by a gigantic lamp hung at the top of a raised pole, flickers, flares, wavers, then is finally fixed.

At this signal, which all seem to wait for, the place round the kitchens is instantly deserted. Every one hurries to finish his meal and to hurry away; the life of the camp, fleeing from the darkness, is in a moment transported towards the part bathed in a warm brightness, under the incandescent globe, whose kindly light expels the shadows and, for the moment at least, drives sad thoughts away.

The open space which stretches away under the violet lamp is some two hundred metres long. It is bordered by thin, leafless trees, their gaunt branches standing out, the colour of dead wood.

It is shut in at both ends by the artificial means of protection which German ingenuity knows so well how to get together. To right and left are tents, their yellow canvas flapping in the wind; farther on stand out the more definite outlines of huts, now being built. At regular intervals there are drinking fountains with wooden shelters, at the present time used by prisoners to do their washing. Here is the Forum of the inhabitants of the camp; here is what they call their “Flea Market.”

The coal fires that are crackling in the neighbourhood of the pole, deserted a few seconds ago, are now crowded, as if by enchantment, by a dense and noisy throng. Men arrive, running at full speed. Their haste recalls the madness of moths that on a summer’s evening hurl themselves blindly against the glass of a lamp. Greedily they dispute every inch of the lighted ground. From the earth, suddenly flooded with the violet light, a pale-faced populace seems to have sprung. Tables are set up, bending under the weight of goods of all kinds, piled up in a moment by active hands; gaming-tables are prepared, and already hawkers go about offering their provisions or their knick-knacks to all comers. There reigns the animation of a fair in a crowded quarter of a town. One meets Frenchmen with red or blue caps, Belgians with bright-coloured ones, Englishmen in khaki, Zouaves and Algerians in their turbans.

In rivalry, one with another, the merchants, shouting in different languages, try by their own shrill cries to dominate the deafening noise of their competitors. It is the hour when the greater number of the Boches have gone to their barracks or home, leaving the prisoners to themselves. The camp,

guarded on the outskirts by a few sentinels, who warm themselves at a glowing brazier, is now in the possession of the prisoners. They have no corvÉes to fear, the day of work is over, the enemy has disappeared. Reaction comes abruptly, suddenly, completely, even with passion the crowd goes like a whirlwind towards the light, with a noise like mad schoolboys invading the playground.

In the mud, in the puddles, all splash good-humouredly. In places, one has to accomplish marvellous feats to keep balance on the few bricks thrown over a deep puddle, where the awkward sometimes sink in, leaving their sabots behind them, to the loud joy of the spectators.

A passive item in this feverish movement, the prisoner goes on, pushed at the pleasure of a varied and cosmopolitan crowd, which moves along noiselessly, without definite direction. The pressure is so great that you cannot choose your way, you are just carried on.

Towards the centre of bustle and light, with its crowd going to and fro, everybody hastens, impelled by the desire of movement, of society and clamour. Penniless or not it is good to be at the Flea Market. There you are plunged back again into life, you get away from yourself, and the sight of this animation puts to flight the last inclination to sadness. When all day long your soul has been lonely, melancholy and wandering, it is sweet to mingle with the crowd, free from care, which, indifferent to trouble, gives itself to the experiences of the moment. The prisoner who wanders about in the market seems mentally bewildered; he is deafened by the din of voices, dazzled and stunned by the ever-changing spectacle of bright colours that moves around him. He finds no opportunity for his own thoughts. He is caught, body and soul, in this tumultuous machine, is a part of this crowd, which finds its sole joy in the fact that it is a crowd. Here is the heart of the camp, pulsating with life till the hour of curfew.

The preparations have been rapid, and now the market is in full swing. They sell from stalls, they sell in the crowd. Buyers and venders mingle together.

Here is an Algerian sharpshooter with a swarthy face and splendid large brown eyes, shaded by long lashes, a merry fellow, but a bit of a knave. A broad smile shows his teeth, magnificent white teeth, glittering like pearls in his copper-coloured face. Under his short cloak—how is it that he has not yet sold it?—he holds carefully hidden a loaf made for civilians, that he has probably taken from a baker too busy to protect his goods. To likely customers he shows the best golden-brown corner, the crustiest part of his loaf. You are weak in face of the temptation; even if a few seconds ago, when making up your accounts, you made a vow not to be led into expense, you feel you are about to yield. “You want bread, Sidi?” “Me have bread good.” “How much your loaf?” “Eight penny, Sidi.” “Go on, it is too dear.” The smile fades, the eyes darken, the face of the Arab expresses indignation. Ah! if he could he would strangle this Sidi, he would tear this Frenchman’s face with his long sharp nails for insulting him by thinking his loaf too dear! But he cannot even dispute, knowing too little French. He passes on, or rather the pressure of the crowd separates the two. If, later, chance brings them together again, the Moor, recognising his man, refrains from offering his wares again, but gives a gracious smile and winks his eye at the man whom he admires, as if to say: “You more clever than me,” and also: “Me find buyer.”

The question of bread takes precedence of all others. From the opening of the market, we hasten to know the price for the day—a price which varies according to the demand and the supply of the stock.[2]

The bread costs fifty pfennigs the kilogramme outside the camp, and its price within varies from sixpence to eightpence, according to the quantity for sale or the success of certain speculators who, hiding their bread in the early hours, sell at the maximum price.

The entrance to the shops is congested. The buyers form a line, examine the goods, bargain, buy, pay and go away. The curious watch this strange commerce.

The wretchedly poor, those who since the first day of their captivity have not had a sou to spend, and who have had to be content with the repulsive and insufficient food meted out by the German administration, look with envious eyes at these provisions that they will never taste: the golden-brown loaves, pots of artificial honey—better than the real honey—fancy jams made of glucose, cubes of margarine, butter made from plants, tins of condensed milk, chocolate and lumps of sugar that help to make the bitter morning coffee more palatable; packets of tobacco, cigarettes, cigars.... Cries of all sorts resound in your ears. It is an international emporium, where all moneys have currency—English or French copper, Belgian or German nickel. Prices are quoted in sous.

Between the close ranks men glide, a camp saucepan in one hand, a quarter-litre measure in the other. “Milk chocolate, all hot, all boiling, two sous the quarter litre.” Tempters! they take off the wooden lid. The steam rises hot, thick and fragrant in the sharp evening air. What a glorious smell! If you have only two sous in your pocket you must yield. It is the soup that has left a disagreeable taste in your mouth, it is hunger that torments you; it is the herring that has made you thirsty, or the freshness of the night that has dried your throat. In short, your two sous pass into the seller’s pocket, and, in the midst of the crowd that jostles along, you put your lips to the burning tin pot, where so many others have been before.

Farther on, a jolly Englishman, who, on a rustic table that can be taken to pieces, has traced different figures—a king, a queen, the Jack, a diamond, etc., for dice—is shouting: “Come on, come on, my lads! Where you like and where you fancy! The more you put down, the more you pick up! Who says the Jack? Who says the lucky diamond? Who says the King?”

He has rattled his dice in a wooden cup and turned them out. “Up she comes! No luck!” and, always smiling pays out or pockets his money according to the chances of the game. There is a crowd round his table. You might think you were at Monte Carlo. “You come here barefoot, you go away in a motor!” There are players of all nationalities. Here one meets Frenchmen from the North, Frenchmen from the South, Frenchmen from all our provinces. One sees Britons from all parts of the United Kingdom, Belgians—Flemish and Walloons; natives of Tunis, Morocco and Senegal, each one playing with the passion peculiar to his race. All try to forget in the excitement of play their cares and the sadness of their exile. “Up she comes!” The banker is getting rich and the poor fellows, stupefied, see their last sous vanishing. On some of them fortune smiles, and if they are sensible at once go away to exchange their gains for bread, chocolate or tobacco. Costers go round offering goods to all who pass—this one a cloak, another puttees, another knives cleverly made out of nails flattened between two stones, sharpened on a flint and finished with a bit of cord for a handle. Some go so far as to sell their rations of bread or the herring they have received, for they would sooner go without food than tobacco. An Englishman who is barefoot tries to sell his boots, a Moroccan his cloak, his belt and a shirt that he has filched in the afternoon while it was drying in the sun. Some shopmen have only a single plank, on which are exhibited the knick-knacks made in the camp: knives, scarf-pins, post cards, shoes, and forage-caps cut out of the military blankets that come from Maubeuge; mandolines made from a cigar-box and strings bought in town by a kind-hearted sentinel.

Some thousands of men wander round or lounge about. The pickpockets have a good time and give themselves to their work with a will. You are pushed and jostled. You meet friends on the way and stop to chat. Some—always the same men—bring information of a sensational character, the truth of which they vouch for. Gatherings take place, talkers raise their voices, the crowd gather round to listen to a speech. When the orator has finished the movement begins again, and thus it goes on till bedtime.

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Nailed to a post stuck in the ground a huge wooden sign announces in artistic letters that there exists in the camp a “CafÉ Biard. Coffee, chocolate, at 1d.” The finger of a hand painted black shows the way.

There, behind the tents, fires are lighted, which glow in the darkness. In their flickering light, human figures move to and fro. Approaching, one hears a voice crying, “Coffee, chocolate, all hot, all boiling; two sous the quarter litre at CafÉ Biard!” The establishment has a good name. It is there that the Élite in the camp meet, for the drinks are of the finest quality and the installation is luxurious. The proprietor exhibits with pardonable pride the four cups of coarse china which he alone possesses. Cups in the camp! Imagine such a thing! Just think a little what that means! The table—made of a few planks, cleverly abstracted from those destined for the building of the sheds—is kept very clean, and the china is plunged into water and carefully wiped each time it has been used.

The opener of this “saloon” is making a fortune. Because of the prosperity of his establishment he has been obliged to engage assistants, whose duties are strictly defined. One has to keep up the fires, another to fetch water, a third prepares the drinks in the saucepans or cooks the food, a fourth serves the customers, while a fifth washes the cups. The boss, a genial man, receives you kindly, so that he has no lack of customers.

As under the Regency, it is at the coffee-house that one has rendezvous; here one discusses the war and politics, and the meetings are of the most animated character. It is a thoroughly French corner.

Of course there are imitators, but the “CafÉ Biard” has not been touched by its rivals; it remains incontestably the first of its kind.

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Suddenly a shrill whistle is heard, more piercing than the noise of the assembly. Others answer, men come running in, and by their cries sow consternation and confusion in the market. “The Patrol!”

Armed German soldiers have been signalled, entering the bounds of the camp. They approach the ground. The news spreads like wildfire, and after a few moments of rushing, hustling and distracted flight, the market remains under the flickering light with its long, open space, bare, silent, clear of people. Tables, games, merchandise, sellers, buyers and loafers, all have disappeared, with the same fairy-like rapidity that brought them there. The prisoners find themselves huddled together in disorder inside the neighbouring tents, where they wait patiently till the danger is over. Some clever plunderers have turned this moment of panic to account, and found the means to enrich themselves at the cost of their comrades with pots of honey, jam, packets of tobacco, etc. It is necessary for every one to live!

In step the Teuton soldiers come out from the dark on to this empty space and are dazzled by the light of the swinging lamp. They arrive just in time to see the heels of the last fugitives. The attack has failed!

It is strictly forbidden to civilians to sell the least thing to the prisoners, and as a natural result the prisoners must not sell any food bought in Germany. All other commerce is equally forbidden. Therefore everything found at the market has no right to be there, and must be seized and considered as a lawful prize.

But they arrive too late, and for all the spoil they can seize, they are obliged to content themselves with some planks left by the tradesmen in their flight. With these under their arms the Huns make the tour of the tents like conquerors.

Over there, however, the sellers of hot drinks have not been warned. Peacefully they continue their commerce. Their fires, still burning, attract the attention of the patrol. With shouts as if they were attacking, the soldiers rush towards the fires, on which some pots are steaming. They kick them over with their boots, seize them and burn their fingers with the handles.

Hampered by their rifles, the ponderous Germans cannot easily give chase, and the men run lightly away and escape. Certain merchants, the cleverest, succeed in saving their goods. The patrol continues its march, and the spoil is enriched by a few tins of condensed milk and some packets of sugar, chocolate and ground coffee and pieces of wood used for burning. Savagely obeying their destructive instincts, the soldiers stamp out the still smoking fires with their iron-shod boots. Groping in the darkness they have rendered more complete, they rapidly collect in a heap the spoil that has fallen to them.

Victorious, in single file, preceded by their corporal, they advance by a dark, narrow passage between two tents. In the darkness the sentinels stumble over the pegs, get entangled in the stretched cords, fall, and in their fall drop the dishes and saucepans with which they are encumbered. From this narrow way, where it is as dark as the grave, a tumult arises, the dull sound of falling bodies, the oaths of those who have been thrown down, and of those they have knocked against. They are cursed and hustled as “stupid geese,” who could not pay attention and who hurt the others with their weapons. It is a deafening noise, and causes indescribable joy to the prisoners huddled in the tents.

At last the little detachment has gained the lighted part. Once united, the Huns continue their progress in silence and good order to the guardhouse. They do not look like conquerors. Inconvenienced by the food they carry, encumbered by kitchen utensils, embarrassed by the wood under their arms, they walk with hanging heads and woeful faces. They have burnt their fingers, they have floundered through puddles, in their fall they have covered their uniforms and helmets with mud. The condensed milk flows from the open tins, making their hands sticky, staining their things; the saucepans leave traces of soot on their tunics and trousers, the half-burnt wood blackens their chests and sleeves.

Dirty, grotesque, their helmets on one side, made more ridiculous still by the rage they feel, furious at returning without a prisoner, ashamed and vexed like marauders caught in the act, they defile under the mocking eyes of the prisoners, who do not hide their amusement and begin to jest at these underlings who rob the poor.

The next day the market will drive as good a trade, the customers will be just as numerous; the CafÉ Biard will peacefully continue its flourishing business.

The Huns will scarcely care to renew their escapade; they have only gained a Pyrrhic victory.