The Memoirs of a Swine in the Land of Kultur; or, How it Felt to be a Prisoner of War

I was bandaging poor Sergeant Sharpy’s wounds.

“It’s all up with us, Muse,” he said.

I feared that it was all up with him, at any rate, as I clumsily tried to stop the torrent of blood which was flowing from his head and shoulders.

It was after an hour of one of those hells such as only soldiers of the line can understand, when death and suffering were everywhere and survival seemed the rare and lucky exception. The machine gun corporal on my left had died at his gun, and the contorted body of my good old mate, “Wally,” blocked the view farther down the trench. On my right the three survivors of my section were still firing furiously over the parapet.

Personally I had not suffered from the barrage beyond the interruption of my preparation for breakfast. The biscuits and jam and chocolate lay spread on the edge of my “hole,” and the canteen of tea-water over my boot-dubbin fire steadily refused to boil. I left the wounded sergeant to look over the top. The mass of running grey uniforms was now very near us. I could see the flags which they carried and hear the roar of “Hurrahs” between the bursting of shells.

But who were those brown, unarmed figures running over on our left? My God! They were our own chaps—already captured! I glanced quickly around. The Germans were at our rear! The little hill behind us was dotted with the grey figures, and those flags could be seen in every direction.

“They’re all around——,” but ere I could finish they were on us. A shower of hand grenades and then “Fritz” himself.

“Hurra! Hurra! ’Raus! ’Raus!” and shaking with excitement they shoved their bayonets in my face.

I laid down my rifle and began undoing my equipment.

I helped the sergeant over the top, snatched up a bag of biscuits, took a last fond look at my tea-water—now beginning to boil!—and scrambled over after him.