The only spare hut was some distance down the road, but as this was outside the camp, a special guard had to be mounted outside my door.

The question of feeding me was evidently found to be rather a perplexing one, and a German N.C.O., who could speak English, came to see me about it.

"You do not get the same rations at Osnabruck as private soldiers?

No?"

I saw an opportunity and took it.

"No, special food is always provided for officers."

"What do you usually get?"

"Meat, vegetables, pudding or fruit, and coffee."

"Zo! But how much do you get? Do you get _all_ that?"

"Yes. As much as we like to pay for."

"But the money. How do you pay?"

"Oh, I will pay cash before I leave."

"Goot. I will send you a dinner."

"By the way, what about my orderly? Bring in the same for him."

"Is dot usual? I vill gif him rations mit der men."

"That's against regulations in Osnabruck. Officers pay for their orderlies' food. Bring him the same as me. By the way, sausages and coffee for breakfast for both."

The meals were excellent, and I was glad we were moved off next day before the commandant came back to discover that I had bluffed the sergeant.

At the end of the following day we arrived in Aachen, and again, being the only officer, the difficulty arose about my accommodation.

This time I was placed in a real hospital which was used for German officers, and the accommodation was quite as good as I would expect in England. There were six nurses in this hospital, kind and generous in their treatment, and they fed me with every delicacy they could find, and waited upon me hand and foot.

Cotton was ordered to return to Osnabruck, and was replaced by a German orderly. An armed guard was placed outside my bedroom door, day and night, and whenever I took exercise in the garden, I could hear his footsteps behind me, following me wherever I went, and spitting on the ground every two or three yards.

On the second day after my arrival, I went for my final examination, and the medical officer told me he would send his sergeant-major, who could speak good English, to have a talk with me that evening. What did that mean? Why should he want to talk to me? I became suspicious and awaited his coming with some uneasiness.

He arrived about 7 o'clock that evening, bringing a friend and two bottles of wine. They opened the wine and we smoked together.

Conversation was going to be very difficult. I felt I was going to be pumped for information.

It was going to be a battle of wits--I could feel it in my veins.

I made up my mind to be pleasant and tactful and meet every question by asking one.

As a matter of fact, I was mistaken. They were Germans who had lived in England and worked at the Deutsche Bank in George Yard, Lombard Street, until war broke out, and had lived in Highbury. I soon found out that they were not bad fellows at all, although their opening conversation did put my back up, and make me suspicious.

"London must be full of soldiers?"

I replied cautiously:

"Well, I suppose the big cities, London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, must all be full of soldiers these days."

"But what do the English people really think about the cause of the war?"

"Well," I replied evasively, "it's difficult to say, because people in England who talk, don't think; and people who think, don't talk."

"Well, do you think when the war is over there will be any hard feeling? Do you think things will settle down, and we shall be able to live there again as we did before?"

"Well, that depends upon the people's feelings after the war."

"You know, we cannot understand the English people; you are very hard to understand, the way you do things."

"How so?"

"Well, look at the way you have got your army together. It's marvellous; we all admit it. It surprised us.

"Look at your colonies. We thought Canada and Australia would break away; or at the very best, would not send over more than about 50,000 men.

"But what we cannot understand is why a country which can organise and handle such an enormous army, is unable to manage its civilian population."

"In what way do you mean?"

"Well, look at Ireland; fancy allowing that sort of thing! And the strikes you have! You build an army, and then allow your people to hinder it by striking."

"How can you help it?"

"You don't find strikes in Germany, because we organise our civil population for war, as well as the military population.

"There was one strike a little while ago, not for more money, but because the men felt they were not getting the food they were ent.i.tled to. Do you know what we did?--We put them all in uniform, and sent them on to the Somme, and we sent back from the Somme an equal number of soldiers to replace them in the factory."

"When do you think the war will be over?" I asked.

"When each side realises that it can't exterminate the other. Look what we've done on the Somme! You've lost, let us say, 700,000 men, and we have lost, say 500,000; and how far have you got? You'll never beat us. If you bend us back more, all we shall have to do is to retire to a new line, and you will have to begin your work all over again. You can bend, but you can't break us."

"Well, you tried it, and now it's our turn."

"Yes; but it will never end that way. Do you know that for months past we've been digging a new line, a straight line between Lille and Verdun, which will shorten our line by half? And if you bend that we will build another farther back. It can go on for ever at that rate."

"What about the blockade?"

"Of course, that's a farce. You've been doing your best to starve us for over two years. Do I look starved? We may not get as good food as we should like, but we get enough to live on, because we've got it properly systemised; whereas you let your people eat what they like."

Yes, there was truth in that; and after drinking all his wine, I turned into bed; for to-morrow I was to be free!

At 7 o'clock on the following evening motor-cars, each with two trailers, went towards the station, filled with totally disabled soldiers, en route for England.

Even their captors thought it was not worth while to keep them.