CHAPTER XX
MACLINKS AND KIRKPATRICK
The names of two prisoners, Maclinks and Kirkpatrick, recall to my mind one of the most tragic events of my prison life. Maclinks was already in the Berlin jail when I arrived in June, 1915. The door of his cell bore an indication that he was a British subject. He spoke English fluently, and if one may believe what he said of himself he was for several years the correspondent of the London Times at Vienna, where he lived. According to all initial appearances, Maclinks was a loyal British subject. He associated with the British prisoners, who in turn would visit him in his cell. He had great talent and intelligence.
Some months later there arrived at the prison a young Englishman named Russell. He had been arrested at his place of residence in Brussels. A friendship immediately sprung up between Russell and Maclinks and they spent much of their time together. One fine day, or rather one bad day, Russell was peremptorily ordered to leave the prison for a destination which was not known to him. He was not allowed to take with him any of his books or papers.
“Put on your overcoat and hat, and follow me,” was the abrupt order given him by the officer at the door of his cell. A minute later and Russell had departed.
The incident aroused an intense feeling among us. What had happened? Why had Russell been ordered away without a minute’s notice? What added to our apprehension was the fact that at the bottom of the stairs on the ground floor we saw two armed sentries, and they accompanied Russell from the prison.
On this same day one of the Kommandantur’s officers, Captain Wolfe, had visited the jail, and it was known that while here he had an interview with Maclinks. We were getting very suspicious of Maclinks. Why? Well, for an infinity of reasons, which I have not space here to enumerate. The British prisoners would have no more relations with him. Only one man continued to speak to him from time to time. He was a Mr. Kirkpatrick.
Confident, perhaps, that Kirkpatrick would continue to be his friend in any event, Maclinks several days afterwards made a confession. He showed Kirkpatrick the copy of a letter purporting to be the one he had sent to the military authorities, and in this letter Kirkpatrick read that Russell had been denounced by Maclinks as having been a spy in the employ of the British Government in Belgium. Kirkpatrick was more than amazed, but before he could make any observation, Maclinks explained that he was an officer in the reserve of the Austrian army, and that his conscience had prompted him to do what he considered to be his duty and denounce Russell. Kirkpatrick could no longer contain himself. He stood up and threatened that if Maclinks did not leave his cell immediately he would throw him out.
The news quickly circulated through the prison, creating an atmosphere which is difficult to describe. The evening was very dismal. We all felt uneasy and depressed as though our every action was being spied upon. Who knew what might happen to anyone of us? It might be the fate of oblivion or it might be condemnation to execution. Life had become intolerable in the presence of this emissary of the enemy–Maclinks. On his side, existence was made so miserable for him that he finally requested to be removed, and a few weeks later he left the jail, never to return.
One noteworthy feature of this spying business in Germany is that the authorities can never trust, but are constantly suspicious of the spies they employ. Maclinks, it is true, was allowed to leave the Stadtvogtei, but he was not allowed his full liberty. Authentic information we were able to obtain subsequently was to the effect that he was moved from one prison to another.
Kirkpatrick, who was the oldest prisoner amongst us, was much liked and highly respected–he was in fact, as we often told him, our “guide, philosopher and friend.” And his Scottish humor was of the best quality.
For example, he would see two or three of us sitting together at table partaking of canned beef and bread, and very seriously he would say: “Really, boys, I cannot understand how you can be so unfeeling as to enjoy such luxuries when the poor German people are on the verge of starvation. Don’t you know, gentlemen, that you are here to purge a sentence a thousand times merited?”
It was the same Kirkpatrick who, on December 31st, when we asked him how he hoped to cross the threshold of the New Year, answered, “You will hear of me before to-morrow morning.” We all wondered what he meant. None of us had the slightest idea, but the answer came punctually, as he had predicted. At midnight, while the bells of the churches in the neighborhood marked the passing of the old year, a window was heard to open in the darkness near us, and, as the last note of the bells died away, the first silence of the new year was broken by a stentorian voice singing “Rule Britannia!”
The patriotic hymn had scarcely ended when another window opened. It was that of the non-commissioned officer in charge of the prisoners, and he thundered forth an order for silence. I afterwards made inquiries amongst my prison companions to ascertain who it was that entertained and cheered us on the first of the New Year with the singing of this grand song, but I could not then obtain the information I sought. Then, at about nine o’clock, Kirkpatrick came into my cell, looking cheerful as usual. We wished each other a Happy New Year and I asked him, “Were you the brave man who broke the stillness of the morning with the echoes of ‘Rule Britannia’?”
He shook his head, but his significant smile was eloquent of the truth.
We had changed the subject when a non-commissioned officer appeared and demanded to know the name of the nocturnal singer. We were each of us asked in turn, with the exception of Kirkpatrick. He had never been heard before even to attempt to sing a note, so the question was not put direct to him. Hence everybody who was asked, truthfully denied being the singer the jail authorities were seeking. The joke was a good one in the circumstances, and we enjoyed it immensely.
CHAPTER XXI
A SWISS AND A BELGIAN
One of the interned cases which is likely to be heard of is that of Mr. Hintermann, a subject of Switzerland. In referring to the case in the course of a narrative of this kind it is obviously necessary to maintain a certain amount of reserve and not to make public details which might inopportunely throw too much light on the actions of certain officials who were then in the employ of the Department of Foreign Affairs for Switzerland. Mr. Hintermann was a Swiss by birth, and although he had been much abroad he maintained his nationality; that is to say, he never became a naturalized subject of any other country. He resided in London with his family and was connected with a very important firm in England’s metropolis. He went to Switzerland during the summer of 1915, and while in that country projected a trip to Berlin. Before he could go there he had to obtain a passport signed by the German Minister at Berne. This was done without the least difficulty, though his departure was delayed for a few days by someone in the German Minister’s office.
Mr. Hintermann finally left Switzerland, but he was arrested by two soldiers at the first station he reached after crossing the frontier on his way to Berlin. On being taken into the stationmaster’s office Mr. Hintermann saw on the agent’s desk a despatch from Switzerland containing a direct reference to himself. He was then taken under escort to Berlin and lodged in the jail where I was a prisoner. On the door of his cell was written these words: “H. Hintermann, Englander.” It did not take long for Mr. Hintermann to delete the word “Englander” and substitute for it the word “Swiss.” Someone immediately changed the word back again. This went on for some time. A few hours after Mr. Hintermann would write “Swiss” on the card, the word would be mysteriously erased, and “Englander” written again in its place.
I knew Mr. Hintermann intimately. I knew that he had never been naturalized while in England, but I think the Swiss Government and the German Government were too easily persuaded that he had become a naturalized British subject. I am not at liberty to say at this moment by what process the two Governments were placed under this false impression, but I can affirm that during the three years I knew Mr. Hintermann he never once ceased to urge his right to liberty as the subject of a neutral country. Over and over again the two Governments were called upon by him to prove that he was a British subject, but the only reply he received was a categorical statement from the Swiss Legation in Berlin that the Department of Foreign Affairs at Berlin was well informed on this subject and had documentary proof that Mr. Hintermann had been naturalized in England. Mr. Hintermann, on his side, insisted with vehemence that these documents, if they existed, were forgeries.
I am not allowed to tell more, but it is certain that the unwarranted internment of one of the best and most honorable men I ever met ended only with the armistice. It caused him incalculable damages in his affairs and great injury to his health. I am convinced that the victim of this denial to justice will seek redress somehow, and that the trials and tribulations he had to undergo will reverberate now that the war is practically ended.
Mr. Hintermann was a man of very high character. He was greatly esteemed by all the prisoners. Towards the more needy he showed great charity and alleviated numberless cases of suffering. Speaking German, French, and English with equal fluency, he was able to communicate with the prisoners of these nationalities, and in this way he came to realize their distress and sufferings and was thus the better able to apply what remedies were within his reach. All who knew him during his imprisonment will ever have a pleasant remembrance of the man, and a deep appreciation of his invariable generosity and kindness of heart.
The subject of the deportation of Belgians was the main topic of discussion in the newspapers for some time and I cannot add anything new on the subject. It was with manifest reluctance that the German press finally admitted that Belgians had been deported, and were then in Germany. The accomplishment, however, was so palpable that denial was at last rendered impossible.
We received at one time and another a great number of these unfortunate people into our jail. They were, for the most part, Belgian subjects who had refused to work for the Germans. There were some who, after accepting the burden of hard labor forced upon them in the hope that in this way they might find some relief from the terrible situation that otherwise threatened them at Guben camp, at last rebelled against their task and the insufficiency of food. It was then that they were brought to the Stadtvogtei. On one occasion there were no fewer than twenty-four of these prisoners amongst us, and towards them the British prisoners always showed a practical sympathy.
I cannot leave this subject without mentioning one notable case. It was that of a Belgian named Edouard Werner. He was a man twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, and of remarkable physique–tall, well proportioned, and very strong. He lived in Antwerp before war was declared, and was engaged in that city in the offices of the Canadian Pacific Railway Company. His parents were Germans, but himself born in Antwerp, he decided, when he attained the age of eighteen years, to become a naturalized Belgian subject. He submitted to the requirements of the military laws of the country, but was exempted from service in the army and had in his possession papers to this effect.
Antwerp, it will be recalled, was occupied by the enemy on October 10, 1914, and a few months afterwards Werner received notice to report to the German authorities in the military district of Westphalia. He refused to obey this order in spite of the insistence of his aged mother, who, a German herself, wished to see her son join the ranks of the German army. Two months afterwards a second notice was served on the young man reiterating the command to report for duty. Werner persisted in his refusal to obey, again in spite of his mother’s entreaties. Then a final notification was received that unless he complied vigorous measures would be taken against him. More in obedience to the wishes of his mother than in fear of the execution of the German threats Werner duly reported himself as commanded. He took with him his papers of identification and other documents showing that he was a Belgian subject, and that he had complied with the requirements of the military laws of Belgium. He was subjected to a severe examination in Westphalia.
“Why did you not report sooner?” he was asked.
“Because I am a Belgian subject,” he answered.
“It is false; it is false. You are a German–your parents both are Germans,” he was told.
“I do not deny that my father and mother are Germans,” Werner said, “but for myself I have chosen to become naturalized as a Belgian and I have in my possession documentary proof of this assertion.”
The examining officer asked to be allowed to see the documents. When they were produced the officer rejected the proof and refused to consider the young man a Belgian subject. Werner was told that from that moment he must consider himself enrolled in the German army and hold himself in readiness to leave immediately for Berlin. Accordingly he was sent to the German capital, where he was lodged in the barracks of the famous Alexander Regiment, in which no soldier is accepted unless he is at least six feet tall. Werner’s height was six feet two inches. He was put in uniform and started to undergo training. As he spoke French, German and Flemish fluently, he was a little later given employment in the office of the sergeant-major, who assigned him to the work of correspondence and translating. He became more or less popular among the officers and non-commissioned officers who believed that he had become quite converted to German ideas. One day Werner applied for leave of absence in order that he might visit his mother at Antwerp; the major replied that it would be quite impossible to grant him leave of absence to go into Belgium, but if he had relatives in Germany he would readily be granted leave to visit them. Werner said he had an aunt residing at Hamburg, and he was granted three days’ leave to go and visit her.
It was a fête-day and Werner was to leave Berlin in the evening. In the afternoon, attired in gala uniform and wearing the plume-helmet, he accompanied one of his comrades on a tour through the city. He exhibited his holiday permit to his companion, at the same time expressing regret that it was not valid for Antwerp. His comrade took the permit from his hands, walked away with it from the table at which they were drinking beer, and returned a few minutes later with the permit now reading that it was to allow the bearer to go to Antwerp instead of to Hamburg.
Delighted by his good fortune, Werner resolved to leave by the first train for Antwerp. At Cologne, and more particularly at Aix-la-Chapelle, the soldiers had to have their travelling permits checked. Now, it was against the military rules of the day to travel in gala uniform, such as young Werner was wearing, except under special circumstances. At Cologne and again at Aix-la-Chapelle astonishment was expressed by the officials when they saw Werner in full dress. He was asked for an explanation.
“Well,” he replied, “I am going to visit my mother and I wish to give her a pleasurable surprise, as she has never seen me in military uniform.” He was allowed to continue his journey, and at Antwerp his mother told him with pride that he looked more handsome than she had ever seen him look before.
Werner then conceived the project–perhaps he had carried the idea in his mind from the outset–to change his uniform for a suit of mufti and escape into Holland. In order to do this he had to obtain the co-operation of one of his cousins. The plan was completed; civilian clothing was obtained; he made a parcel of his grenadier’s uniform and directed it to the barracks of the Alexander Regiment in Berlin. Then in the evening he and his cousin walked in the direction of Capellen, from which point they hoped to be able to cross the frontier during the night.
Here, however, they fell into a trap. A man, who afterwards turned out to be a spy in the service of the Germans, directed them to a certain coffee-house, where he said they would find a reliable man who would guide them safely across the border. At the coffee-house the two cousins were advised to spend the night at the mayor’s residence and hold themselves in readiness to cross the frontier early the next morning. This was the trap which caught them. The mayor’s house was occupied by German officers–a fact of which Werner and his companion were equally ignorant. Escape now was hopeless. They were held as prisoners until next day, when they were searched and questioned. When it was ascertained that they wished to cross into Holland they were taken back to Antwerp and arraigned before the Kommandantur. Werner’s cousin passed through the ordeal easily enough and he was liberated. Werner hoped that his fate would be equally happy. His hopes, however, were speedily dashed to the ground. When he gave his name the officer pondered a minute, then he spoke to someone over the telephone and, turning to Werner, asked abruptly:
“Are you not Edouard Werner?”
“Yes.”
“Are you not a deserter?”
“No.”
“But did you not belong to a regiment in Berlin?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you explain your presence here, and in civilian clothes?”
Without waiting for a reply, the officer, fuming with rage, and in a voice which made the attendants tremble, ordered Werner to prison. Thence he was arraigned before the German Police Commissioner, who, threatening the most dire punishment, said to the prisoner in an aside: “You will now know what it is to be dealt with by the Prussian military authority. I would not give much for your skin, young man.”
Werner was taken back to prison and a few days later transferred to Berlin. Here he was thrown into a dungeon, and the next morning appeared before the regiment major–the officer who had in the first instance given him a permit to go to Hamburg. This man nearly choked with rage when he saw the prisoner.
“Take him from my sight; take him from my sight,” he repeated.
Werner was taken away, was put back into uniform, and only then would the major consent to see him again. On this occasion he once more gave way to a fit of passion. He banged the table with his fist and menaced Werner with all kinds of torture, going so far as to threaten to have him executed. Once he paused in his wrath to ask what had become of the uniform Werner wore when he went away.
“I sent it back to barracks here,” replied Werner.
“It’s a lie–a lie,” roared the major.
“Well,” insisted the prisoner, “it is easy to prove if my statement is a lie. Will you be kind enough to inquire if a parcel in which I wrapped the uniform at Antwerp and directed here has been received?”
Inquiry promptly revealed the fact that the package in question was received at barracks a few weeks previously. The prisoner was kept in jail pending trial by court martial. He refused the offer which was made of counsel to defend him, and when duly brought before his military judges he was asked what he had to say before sentence was passed upon him. He replied, in effect, as follows:
“I am a Belgian, and it was impossible for me conscientiously to take up arms against my country. When the first opportunity presented itself I returned to my country. I did not desert the German army, but merely went back to my country from which I had been taken by force and contrary to international law. In my opinion, to carry arms and fight for Germany against my own countrymen would be an act of treason. I have done nothing but act in accordance with the promptings of my conscience. That is my plea. Do with me as you wish.”
In a consultation between the officers one of them was overheard to say, “We ought not to give him more than fifteen years’ imprisonment.” Werner was taken back to his dungeon where he awaited sentence, but no sentence was announced to him–whatever judgment was passed he was never told what it was. But after a few weeks waiting he was taken from the dungeon and lodged in the Stadtvogtei without an explanation being given to him in any way. It was here that we became acquainted. It was here that he related to me his story, which appears to me to be sufficiently interesting to be related.
Werner remained in this jail for five or six months. At the end of that time he was urged to enter the German army. He peremptorily refused, and finally received an official document from the highest military tribunal exonerating him from the charge of being a deserter. We deliberated together on the chances of the recovery of his liberty, and a few days afterwards he was transferred to Holzminden. A Frenchman who was subsequently brought from this place to our prison informed us, in answer to our inquiries, that Werner had evaded the vigilance of the sentries and escaped into Holland, whence he had crossed to England, and a postal card recently received announced that he had joined the Belgian army and was looking forward to “settling some of his accounts with the Hun!”