Meeting the Enemy (37 page)

The outward manifestations of melancholia might vary but the root cause was almost always the same: time. Time enough to think, time enough to worry, time enough to feel hemmed in and claustrophobic. In a letter written on 9 June 1917 by an anonymous Cambridge graduate, a story emerges of men living on the mental edge. ‘Everybody’s nerves are getting worse . . . these circumstances [of internment] deaden the mind and induce a kind of hopeless apathy and indifference to life outside . . .’

It was in no one’s interest to let this situation continue. In 1916, James Gerard, the US ambassador in Berlin, warned that British civilians interned at Ruhleben camp were seriously depressed and no longer complained about conditions. ‘There was abundant evidence that many of the prisoners, especially among the older men, had become insane; and as regards the younger men there must be a limit to their endurance.’

In June 1917, the British Cabinet agreed to send three representatives to a conference at The Hague, called to address the issue of prisoners of war and internees and chaired by a Dutch diplomat. The Germans sent three delegates. On 2 July an agreement was reached. Not only would there be a resumption of repatriation, but the Netherlands agreed to intern 1,600 invalid prisoners of war from Britain and 400 from Germany. Three steamers, clearly identified as hospital ships, would criss-cross the North Sea between Rotterdam and the Lincolnshire port of Boston to facilitate repatriation. Exchanges began in October 1917 and as, naturally, there was public enthusiasm for ridding Britain of enemy aliens, the British government expanded the operation to the exchange of German and Austrian internees for wounded and sick British POWs.

At his camp in London, Richard Noschke had first applied for repatriation in the autumn of 1916. He had been interviewed but nothing further was heard. Then, in January 1918, he discovered that further batches of civilian prisoners were being permitted to leave and he immediately put his name forward. ‘All of a sudden on 14 February 1918 a list was put up and I found my name amongst them, great was the excitement to be free once more. We had to give up our heavy luggage next morning and leave Alexandra Palace at 6 a.m., on the 16th.’

The men who were due to leave were allowed to make a special application to see their families one last time. ‘It was a sad day for all of us as no one knew if we shall ever see them again, it was a very sad farewell but at the same time the thought of freedom overshadowed everything.’

It said something of the mental state of these men that freedom seemed to take priority over ever seeing their wives and children again. For prisoners held for three years, saving their sanity was often akin to saving their lives. The Hague agreement made specific provision for the repatriation of ‘suitable subjects’ among combatants who had been eighteen months in captivity and were now suffering from serious and clear mental deterioration, or, as it was called, ‘barbed-wire disease’. Interned civilians were as likely to suffer as soldiers. Men like Richard Noschke
had
to get away.

On the morning of 16 February, 185 men rose early for a quick breakfast consisting of tea and two potatoes each before leaving Alexandra Palace for King’s Cross station. Accompanied by a strong military escort with bayonets fixed, the men were locked into carriages before the train left for Spalding, on the Lincolnshire coast. There, under the hostile gaze of civilians, they filed into an old workhouse-turned-makeshift camp. Twenty-one men were allocated to each filthy room, with access to a small garden for exercise. Meanwhile, detectives from London were sent to carefully examine all private baggage destined for Germany, confiscating anything deemed government property. All books and paperwork were removed apart from personal documents, while money amounting to more than £10 was confiscated. The luggage was then sealed and thorough body searches made of all those due to be deported.

A week later the men, Noschke included, were transferred by train to Boston to await a ship to take them home:

We remained on the train for nearly an hour as all our luggage was thrown out of the different luggage vans and so fearfully handled by those in charge of it; we only looked on from the train. They broke most of the boxes, and smashed them against each other in such a blind fury as was never experienced before, actually played football with the lighter articles, the officials and also the officers who had escorted us looked silent on, several of our men protested, but it was of no use. Many articles were by this time hanging out of their boxes and trunks, but they were all mercilessly thrown down a slipway on to the waiting tug. At last we were let out of our train one by one; everyone had to go before the Port Deportation official, give his name and number once more and then was allowed to pass on to the waiting steam tug. After all were on, off we started through the Dock gates into the long creek leading to Boston Wash.

As soon as our steam tug left the dockside, up went a lot of flags and bunting all over the Dock sheds and harbour. We first wondered what was up, but we soon realised that the Red Cross ships which were going to take us home, had also brought some British prisoners home, and a welcome had been prepared for them, but as our train came in first, all the flags had been removed, only to be put up again after we had left. As soon as we got outside the dock there was the other tug waiting ready to come in, full of British wounded prisoners and civilians, some shouting at us, some booing, others gesticulating. As we passed close by, it seemed to give the impression as if all these people thought that we were to blame for all their trouble, thousands of men and women and children were standing all round the surrounding meadows looking on, some taking up a threatening attitude against us.

An hour later the tug left the creek and entered open sea. A few miles away lay three Red Cross ships, the SS
Königin Regentes
, the
Sindora
and the
Zeeland
.
Other parties of men were expected from the Isle of Man and Sleaford, so the ships waited until everyone was on board before heading off. All in all, the journey from Alexandra Palace to Germany took fourteen days.

Anger at the treatment to which detainees were subjected led to a series of complaints from the German authorities throughout the spring and summer. Written statements were presented to the British government in which returning internees and prisoners complained of the wanton pilfering of their possessions as they were checked through at the docks. There were complaints that items as small as soap, razors and family photographs had been taken. Personal belongings, from leather suitcases to trumpets, gold watches to boots, were missing, and the damage to property, including bags casually slashed open, had been widespread and apparently sanctioned. There were reports that soldiers were seen with their hands and pockets full of stolen property, indeed, according to one witness, these soldiers boasted in front of detainees of their ‘souvenirs’. One German named Manntz, nineteen years a resident in Britain, wrote to bemoan the fact that his group had been robbed and he had lost a leather suitcase.

After investigations the British responded, ‘emphatically denying’ that theft had taken place. It was entirely possible, they said, that the thefts had taken place in Holland as bags were being unloaded. The prisoners and detainees had unfettered access to the property; in other words, they stole from each other. Counter-accusations flew back and forth: those being repatriated had hidden gold coins in soap, hence its confiscation; the agreed limit of 100lb of baggage per person had been wilfully exceeded, therefore property had had to be left behind, though always, it was claimed, ‘any prisoner is given the option of removing what he wishes’. These articles were forwarded to the Prisoner of War Information Bureau for ‘safe custody’. Certain items such as photographs, new woollens and leather were banned from export and these had been legally confiscated. In a direct reply to Manntz, the Prisoner of War Department wrote: ‘It is understood that the bag in question was undoubtedly new but that Manntz had smeared it over with mud shortly before the inspection of luggage in order to make it appear that the bag had been long in use.’

Rarely in diplomatic exchanges did one side concede a point to the other. Through third parties, both Britain and Germany complained vociferously about scores of different issues, not in the expectation that the other would admit fault and cave in, for both were equally belligerent, but in the hope that behind the scenes action would perhaps be taken to ameliorate an individual’s plight.

The repatriation of prisoners took place against a backdrop of severe Allied anxiety on the Western Front. Germany was preparing for an all-out offensive to break the deadlock of trench warfare and force a decision in France and Belgium before the Americans arrived in enough numbers to tip the balance irretrievably against the Central Powers.

After the Russian Revolution of October 1917, and Russia’s effective exit from the war in December, Germany had been able to transfer one million battle-hardened men from the Eastern to the Western Front. These men would be used to spearhead an assault against the British, using the modern combat tactics of a carefully targeted and short bombardment and the fast infiltration of front and support lines. Storm troopers, tough and motivated soldiers, would lead the assault, bypassing pockets of resistance to penetrate as far as possible, sowing chaos and confusion as they went. The German army had concentrated its artillery and stockpiled supplies, as the Allies, well aware of their preparations, worked on their own plan of defence. All indications were that the offensive would begin during the second half of March. By the third week of the month, German prisoners were indicating that an assault was imminent.

In Berlin, Princess Evelyn Blücher was torn by emotional ties both to the country of her birth and to the German society of which she was such a notable part. On the evening of 21 March, the Princess was due to hold a large reception at her home but, as the afternoon passed, several of the army officers invited made their apologies: they would not be attending. That evening other officers left early and hurried back to their regiments. At 1 a.m., after the last guests had departed, the Princess sadly contemplated how many of these young men she might never see again.

‘The great offensive has begun, and the newspaper headlines all speak of a great German victory. The whole town is being flagged and the bells are ringing.’

The Princess stood at a window and looked sorrowfully out on to the city’s most famous public park, the Tiergarten. In the morning sunshine, she noted the first green shoots of spring:

This morning I feel fascinated by the seemingly cheery life going on out there, and stand rooted to the window, trying to escape my own sad thoughts. There are the freshly equipped troops marching away staidly and soberly enough, with the small pathetic following of white-faced women trying to keep pace with their swift march. How many of them will ever see the Brandenburger Tor again?

There is a newspaper-man shouting out the news in a voice that almost makes one believe that the Germans have crossed the Channel. There is the flower-girl offering her small first bunches of violets and snowdrops to women who have no thoughts of flowers, but hurry by with anxious pale faces all in one direction, and I know where, to the Kriegsministerium where the fresh lists of casualties appear daily . . .

My husband enters the room full of the latest news just received straight from the General Staff. They have informed him that a success is certain, but that it seems to be of a local nature, and not so great as the papers make it out to be, and by no means important enough to make those in authority confident of a great ultimate victory.

A thick fog that cut visibility to a few yards aided the opening hours of the offensive. The German army’s forward units quickly crossed no-man’s-land with few casualties, crashing into the British trenches almost before anyone knew they were coming. Only as the morning progressed did visibility improve, but for many British battalions in the line that was all too late: they were already surrounded.

Private Jack Rogers, serving with the 1/7th Sherwood Foresters, had been due to go on leave on 20 March but because of the emergency his pass had been cancelled. Instead, he found himself in a slit trench from which he and a few other chosen men would try to hold out and inflict as many casualties on the enemy as possible. The German dawn barrage had plastered the ground to the left and right, leaving ‘lanes’ through which the enemy poured. The plan had worked perfectly and, six hours later, the Germans were sending out mopping-up parties to deal with pockets of resistance.

As they closed on Jack’s short section of trench, they began shouting and throwing stick grenades. Then into the trench they came and up went the hands of those still unwounded men defending their position, including Jack, who watched horrified as a German came straight for him, bayonet fixed.

At that moment I said ‘goodbye’ – there was to be no more of me. I expected the bayonet. Strangely enough, when he got right up to where I was, and I swear the point of his bayonet was nearly touching me, he stopped, stood down his gun, looked at me and said ‘Cigaretten Kamerad?’ I nearly dropped to the ground in surprise. Of all the things anybody could ask for. I wondered if I’d heard him correctly but I felt in my jacket pocket where I carried a little tin of cigarettes I used to roll each morning and said ‘Yes’ and he took some and put them in his pocket, then pointed to my equipment and said ‘los’.