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previous: Chapter 1 This webpage reproduces a chapter of Captured by Bessy Myers published by D. Appleton Century Company, New York and London, 1942 the text of which is in the public domain. This text has been carefully proofread and I believe it to be free of errors. If you find a mistake though, please let me know! next: Chapter 3

 p18  2
Prisoners of War

Do not blame Darby for obeying the command, for we are two yards in front of their first line of guns and have our wounded with us. But can't help wondering, as the German soldiers indicate to Darby to drive the ambulance off the road, and wave us to park in front of the guns, what would have happened if she had continued. Don't honestly think it makes much odds — don't think the Germans would have opened fire; but don't think we had a chance in that slow ambulance anyway.

Several soldiers rush up to us and tell us to get out at once. As we do so several officers dash down the road and simply gape at us.

Notice they are wearing Iron Crosses with their tunics fairly plastered with ribbon decorations. Madame la P–––––, with Joli, comes tearing down the road in her little car, followed by several ambulances; they are all halted — hurriedly.

Ambulances told to go on to the side of the road, and an officer tells us in fluent French that there may be a skirmish — we must lie down behind the guns or in the ditch alongside the road. Choose the ditch; have absolutely no urge to lie behind a gun while a German is firing it at a Frenchman.

Nothing is happening yet; look round and survey the situation. It suddenly dawns on me that our ambulance is in the field  p19 only two yards away from the German guns and between the two lines of fire. Our wounded don't know where they are; they can't get out. Tell a passing officer in French that our ambulance must be moved at once, as there are three wounded inside. He obviously doesn't understand a word of what I am saying.

Run down the road to the ambulance and have just started up the engine when two soldiers make a dive for me. One, who has a wound in the face which is bleeding, knocks me on the chin, the other takes the ignition key; they pull me out of the ambulance, and I grab my knapsack, gas‑mask, and tin helmet. Presumably they think I was trying to fout' le camp, for the one who has got the ignition key pulls me toward the road. I pull myself away, run to the back of the ambulance, open the door, and tell the wounded to get out.

The German soldiers come after me, and when they see the semi-blessés trying to get down they help them out. The semi-blessés can't possibly take out the stretcher case by themselves — it takes four men.

We are now fairly surrounded by soldiers, feel it's no use arguing further. We are led back to the road. An officer asks me in good English to realize I am now under German Army orders and to follow him. Do so down the road. He points to a spot in the ditch and tells me to sit there.

Still nothing happens. After three or four minutes several puffs go off from the guns, down the far ends of the fields. They are small puffs, and after the tremendous noises of last night one could almost say they were too quiet to be heard. Just a little smoke twirling about, that's all. There is no answering fire. Presumably at some sign which I didn't see the skirmish is considered over. All the soldiers get up from their  p20 guns, and officers walk up and down the road. Get up and stretch my legs too. Find Darby.

We are simply amazed at the way in which the soldiers now pop up from their guns, like rabbits out of their holes, and in relays of about twenty come on to the road and snap us with their cameras. Apparently every German soldier carries a camera on him as part of his equipment.

An officer comes up wearing an Iron Cross, and says very sarcastically, "You can see for yourselves we are not barbarians, but when you return to England you will no doubt confirm all the atrocity stories which England accuses us of." Tell him I've only just been made a prisoner of war, but I've already been hit on the jaw. He starts arguing, and, as he is an odious type anyway, I get out of the range of his tongue, and walk up and down the road. Various officers come up and chat with us, either in English or in French. The soldiers and several officers continue to snap us. There must be at least three or four hundred soldiers in the fields, and by now each one seems to have snapped Darby and me three or four times.

Madame la P––––– continues to argue about her legal status as a member of the Croix Rouge; she also seems to think she ought to be allowed to keep her car, which is her own personal property. Darby and I are told to get into our ambulance. Tell them it's no good without the ignition key. Soldiers are sent off to find out who has got it; one, not the original one, ultimately gives it back to me.

As I don't think I shall need my gas‑mask behind the German lines or, for that matter, that my tin helmet will be of much use to me, give them to soldiers as souvenirs. They are tremendously pleased; I hate carrying them around with me anyway.

 p21  Several motor-cyclists recently roared down the road toward Provins. Wonder if they have caught Kruger and Co., and whether the Germans now occupy Provins. Should think they must — all the civilians have gone, and we never saw any soldiers in the town.

Mademoiselle gets into the ambulance. She seems to be taking it all pretty placidly, and it must be worse for her than us; after all, it's her country which is being overrun by Germans.

Tell Darby I'll drive — no longer feel tired, and she was driving all last night. Follow the motor-cyclist back to the crossroads and on to the German Divisional H. Q. not four kilometers away. It's a very small village seething with soldiers; no French civilians about.

Several officers come and talk to us, some of obvious high rank. Most of them speak English or French. They ask us if we would like some food, and produce some bread — with a hunk of bully beef laid thickly on top. A tall, dark, rather nice-looking boy, who speaks excellent English, says he is sorry, but that it's all they have to give us — it's all they have got for themselves. He asks me if I consider the French will be depressed when Paris falls — to‑day. Tell him I don't think the fall of Paris will depress the French; they have a marvelous faculty for shrugging their shoulders and saying, "Tant pis." The Tall Boy says the war with France is over, and that she will capitulate within a few days. Do not feel like arguing.

Darby gets on to the subject of propaganda with several officers. She says theirs is all wrong; they say ours is worse. Am told by Tall Boy that the war with England will be over shortly. Tell him I don't think so, but in the circumstances I think it's hopeless for us to discuss the subjects of war or propaganda. I have nibbled all the bully beef off the bread;  p22 never liked bread much, but don't like to throw it away with all these Germans watching me. Tell the Tall Boy I'll give it to one of my wounded, and could they have some food — they have been with us since last night? I've one grand blessé in a pitiful state — can he have his wounds dressed? Tall Boy says he'll see about some food for them, and he will take me to the doctor.

We walk to a small cottage near‑by. The doctor is a most charming man; he says it is simply no good his even looking at the grand blessé, as he has no medical equipment whatever. The German wounded are not brought here, but taken to a château fifteen kilometers away which they have made their base hospital. He will ask the officer-in‑charge to give orders for me to drive the ambulance there as soon as possible.

He asks me if there is anything I should like; he thinks being taken prisoner in their front lines must have been a shock for a woman. I say it was nowhere near such a shock as I should have expected it to be. The whole thing seems fantastic and has no reality for me — as yet; it's rather like a film. But if he has got I should love some tea, or coffee, and some cigarettes. He orders one of the strangers to heat up some coffee (it now nearly ten o'clock) and gives me a full pack of twenty Gold Flake. I look at them in astonishment; he tells me he got them in Belgium. Most annoying being given English cigarettes by a German. However, can't look a gift-horse in the mouth.

The water in this village too has been cut off. There is one very old woman, who seems to be the only civilian left in the place. This is her own cottage, and she draws the water from a well in the orchard for the use of the officers billeted in her  p23 home. I ask her if I can wash, and she points to a small basin with a little water.

The Tall Boy is still in the road outside the cottage. He tells me they have several R. A. F. prisoners in a cottage near‑by, and that I can go over and talk to them for a second. We walk over to the cottage.

It's pathetic to see a young lad in R. A. F. uniform gazing wistfully out of the window. Tall Boy says I won't be treated as an ordinary prisoner of war and thinks I'll be sent home shortly. He tells me I can take the names and addresses of my fellow-countrymen. The lad leaning out of the window says his name is Breeze, and makes out a list of all the English in the room; and adds to the list the name of one of his pals who was killed. There are a French colonel and some other French officers in the room too, and they give me their names and regiments; it's horribly pathetic.

We return to the village green, and a never‑ending stream of men come up to snap me. The ones who want to be included in the photo click their heels, bow, and get one of their friends to take the snap. Am getting tired of all this snapping. Since it seems unavoidable, ask some of the men to send me some prints when the war is over. They take my name and address and say they will. Must have been snapped now hundreds and hundreds of times, front view, back view, side view, sitting, standing, eating, talking.

Ask the Tall Boy why it is that photography seems to be the main hobby of the German Army. He says they have never taken women prisoners in their front line before and it's a great novelty for them. Actually there is nothing but grins on all the men's faces. Can quite realize that they probably expected a fight here to‑day, and all that the divisional H. Q. gets is a  p24 couple of English ambulance drivers and two French nurses. They seem to think Darby and I are a colossal joke.

Tall Boy reappears with a fair, fat officer, and tells me he is the officer who told us to halt in their lines, and who would like to be introduced to his "captive." Unfortunately, the Tall One says, the Fair Fat One does not speak English or French, so he will interpret.

Ask the Fair Fat One what he would have done if we hadn't stopped. He says he would have jumped on the running-board. Tell him we have no running-board on the ambulance. (Huffer wouldn't have them for that very reason; he hated people jumping on.) The Fair Fat One says then he would have sent despatch riders after us. Ask him why he let the first ambulances through. He says he was very surprised to see them dashing along the road. He thought they must be their own, but when he saw us chugging along he was amazed to see my hair blowing out of the window, and then he knew the ambulance couldn't be their own, or possible captured ones, as German women do not drive them.

Ask him if we can't possibly walk over to the French lines — they can't be far away. They obviously will take the wounded prisoners and keep the ambulances, but I can't see the point of their keeping us.

The Fair Fat One says we are no good to them at all, and we shall be much more trouble to them than we are worth, mixed up in their army, but he says they can't let us go over to the French lines for our own safety; we should probably get shot by the French — or by them.

The Fair Fat One asks us if we have any arms. He looks at  p25 my greatcoat pockets very suspiciously. We assure him that we are not armed.

Darby tells me Madame la P––––– is still arguing with the doctor about her rights re Croix Rouge — and her car. We sit in the ambulance, and the never-ending stream of clicking cameras continues. We seem to be quite a couple of glamour girls.

At last Madame la P––––– and Mademoiselle appear, and we are off once more, this time to the German base hospital, our usual escort of motor-cyclists fore and aft, even for our tiny convoy of one ambulance and one small car.

It's the most ghastly drive I've ever had, on extremely bad sideroads packed with German cars, tanks, and guns, all coming in the opposite direction to us. The tanks are all right; they seem to be able to turn at right-angles and get off the road if necessary. The large guns versus our ambulance are the chief trouble — the road won't take both. Several times we crawl past each other — with •a quarter of an inch to spare between them and the ditch. The traffic is coming down the road in double file when possible; our cyclist goes ahead and tries to get everything into single file to let us pass. Much shouting and shifting about of the German mechanized army.

The road is full of bumps — our grand blessé starts groaning, and perpetually calls out, "Oh, la, la . . . oh, la, la !" The poor devil is in an awful state; both his shoulders are crushed and broken, and the bone of one of his elbows is sticking out of the bandage. Each bump on the road must be agony for him — each groan sends shivers down my spine; Darby and I wish to goodness he would faint.

We come to a complete blockage of guns; our motor- p26 cyclist doubles back and tells me the only thing to do is to take the ambulance down and up the other side of the ditch and drive it through the field by the side of the road. Tell him I can not take the ditch with our grand blessé inside the ambulance; it would about finish him. Great discussions go on in German. I can't think why they don't take the grand blessé out while I take the ditch. What they do is to their to fill the ditch up with stones and pieces of wood. Grind my teeth and take the ditch.

The grand blessé does not pass out, but groans and groans as I drive along the fields of corn,º though these are not as bumpy as the road was. We come to a crossroads, and the cyclist leads the way down one which, glory be, has no traffic on it at all. After a few kilometers he turns into a gateway. Voilà ! The German base hospital.

It is similar to the Château Minimes — even to the woods. Drive up to the main doorway, and, thank goodness, discharge our wounded. Darby and I are told to take all our personal belongings out of the ambulance, as it will be now be taken over. Besides our own things, we take a couple of blankets — we may as well have them as the Germans. Our ambulance is driven away.

We regret we haven't our suitcases with us, but we thank our lucky stars we took some clean things out of them at Rebais. Our worldly possessions are: our uniforms, my greatcoat, Darby's mackintosh, two shirts, two pairs of camiknickers, two pairs of stockings, one pair of shoes, gloves, one pair of pajamas, a towel each — and our washing things. Darby has a few hundred francs, I have the three thousand five hundred I drew on Saturday. We have our passports and our certificates as ambulance drivers from the French Government — Voilà tout !

 p27  We see some of the ambulances from last night's convoy, French, Swedish, Dutch, etc., parked along one side of the hospital. The Dutchman comes up and asks us to join them for lunch. There is an enormous field-cum‑garden in front of the hospital; they have foregathered in a corner by some woods. Madame la P––––– and Joli turn up; we are a very international gathering.

The Dutchman is sweet; they had a lot of tinned food, etc., in their ambulances, and he offers us some awfully nice tinned meat and wine. He gets all our oddments together in a little pile and gives us each two warm woolly shawls.

Joli has been told to stay at this hospital to look after the French wounded, and Madame la P––––– is to stay too. Mademoiselle is to come with us, wherever that may be.

A soldier parks our ambulance near us, I go over to take a last look at it. A lieutenant comes up and starts chatting to me — he is good-looking, in a hard way. Although I hate seeing all these German uniforms, think they look quite smart. Tell the lieutenant I'm saying good‑by to our ambulance. It's sad to think I've driven her for the last time. He says if I like I can drive her to Château-Thierry, where we are going to be taken in a few minutes; he will be in charge of us. All the rest of the ambulance drivers, with Mademoiselle, are to go inside our ambulance.

Every one collects their belongings, and we are off once more. I drive, and the lieutenant sits in front between Darby and me; he speaks very good English. Ask him why a large, bright yellow piece of cloth has been tied across the bonnet and wings. He says so that their planes should know it is one of their own ambulances. He does not reply when I say, "Does  p28 it matter to which side the ambulance belongs? Surely the red crosses painted on it should be sufficient?"⁠a

For the first five or six kilometers we drive along empty sideroads, then get on to a road crammed with the mechanized German army. In a way it is a wonderful sight: mile after mile of tanks, guns, lorries, packed tightly together, streaming down the road toward us. Ask the lieutenant why, if they are taking Paris to‑day, the army is coming away from Paris. He says these troops are coming from north of Paris; they are doing an encircling movement. Poor Paris — poor, poor Paris.

Some of the men, with just their tin helmets and heads sticking out of the tanks, look like modern pictures of robots — very grim. Think the German tin helmets, fitting close to the head, with pieces coming down each side of the neck, look more practical than the English or French ones. Like the look of the bareheaded men best — they are very sunburnt, cheerful, and smiling. Suppose if they take Paris to‑day they will be very pleased with themselves.

Our lieutenant remarks that the war with France is finished and over, and that within a month it will be all over with England too. Ask him if he thinks Germany can sink our Fleet, or does he think our Fleet will just scuttle itself? He says he does not think our Fleet matters much one way or another, for this is a war of planes and tanks. He says they have enough submarines to interfere very seriously with our shipping, and their planes will bomb all our ports until it is impossible for us to unload the few ships which their submarines have not sunk. I try to imagine this picture, but can not do so. Tell our lieutenant that I do not believe that they can bomb all our ports to pieces or sink so much of our shipping. What does he think our Navy will be doing meanwhile? And the ports which are damaged — why  p29 can't the ships unload in the harbor and the food be brought ashore in small boats? He says we shall never be able to get enough food into England, and that we shall be bombed to pieces and starved out within a month.

Tell him that, curiously enough, we think that in time we shall starve Germany into submission. He smiles and says few people have any idea how well stocked Germany is. They have enormous supplies of food stocked all over the country which will last them for years and years.

Ask him if he has ever heard of our Old Contemptibles. Apparently he was too young to fight in the last war, but he says he has heard of them. Tell him that although Germany may have the finest army in the world, and the biggest air force, just as our Old Contemptibles did marvels in the last war, I expect our Air Force will soon be doing the same, and although he entirely ignores our Navy, it does happen to be the finest in the world. He repeats that this is a war of airplanes and tanks — backed up by their army. Says he does not wish to depress me, but assures me that the war with England will be won and over within a month. Realize the hopelessness of arguing further.

Our lieutenant has to get out every ten minutes or so to try to arrange the traffic. Once again we are going against the stream, which, when it can, comes along in double file, involving frightful rearrangements for us to pass. Sometimes when it is in single file, and there is a large gun which can not move forward or backward, it's almost impossible for me to pass. The last time this happened I had two wheels in the ditch and the ambulance tilted at a most peculiar angle. Darby shouted "Myers, we're going over!" However, our lieutenant, who was then standing in front, beckoned me on. I accelerated as  p30 hard as I could, we seemed to waver in the air, several soldiers in a stationary lorry jumped out and pushed us a little farther on to the road, the wheels gripped, and at last the four of them were on terra firma. Do not envy all the people in the back, and thank goodness we have deposited our grand blessé.

The lieutenant gets in, and we start again. Find this type of driving on a hot day most heat-making, and while we pull up again to let some small guns pass resort to my flapjack.⁠b Our lieutenant is most intrigued by the red initials "A. F. S." on that white enamel. Explain to him that from the outbreak of the war till May I was in the London Auxiliary Fire Service, and this was a birthday gift. He wants to know why I left the A. F. S. in May. Say there was so little work to do that I got bored hanging around waiting for their Blitzkrieg. Our lieutenant tells me that the Blitzkrieg over London and England will start with all its force within a few days — and that I am lucky to be here.

He is also rather intrigued by the leather purse attached to my belt, and asks if I carry a revolver in it. Laugh, and tell him nothing more frightening than a flapjack, lipstick, comb, etc., and that we don't carry arms, and that I don't think the French doctors do either. He says all German doctors do. He seems most intrigued of all when I fish out my lipstick and put some on. He tells me his wife never makes up, and that he doesn't care for it.

There is now a terrific congestion on the road. A drove of soldiers come up with their cameras; they have been snapping us from their guns and tanks and lorries ever since we left the base hospital. I have traveled nearly all over the world and I am over thirty, yet it takes the German Army to glamourize me. Infuriating.

 p31  Our lieutenant seems amused by all this photographing, and says the men have been in Poland, Holland, Belgium, and it's a long time since most of them have seen any pretty girls. Darby and I have no illusions about our looks; Mademoiselle and Madame la P–––––, who looks very attractive in her nurse's uniform, were practically not snapped at all. Think it's Darby's and my uniforms which intrigue them so.

Our lieutenant tells us we shall not be treated as ordinary prisoners of war, but will shortly be sent to a neutral country. Cheering news.

The German lorries are most remarkable. They are huge, holding about thirty men, with all their equipment, and the seats upholstered in leather are pneumatic. They look extremely comfortable, and mostly have double pneumatic tires. Because we have "ambulance américaine" and an American flag painted on the outside of the ambulance, the soldiers, who all look amazed to see us mixed up with them, call out as they pass us, "Women and Blitzkrieg!" and "Ah, les Américaines !" Make myself hoarse shouting "Nein — English!" Do wish that I knew more than five words of German.

Had an altercation with our lieutenant. One side of the road was clear, and he told me to drive along it for twenty‑one yards. He said I stopped two yards short of this distance, and that I did not know the difference between twenty‑one yards and nineteen. Told him that that judging twenty‑one yards exactly without any markings as a guide was extremely difficult, and that he really was being fussy. He said no one should consider himself a driver at all unless he could judge distances accurately. We glared at each other and for some time now he has become very trying — always making me stop  p32 at varying distances of yards, and fairly yelling at me if he doesn't think I've stopped at the exact one.

Actually this traffic is very well organized. Soldiers acting as traffic police have special bands on their arms and direct the traffic with a stick — rather like a gendarme's baton — with a large flat disc at the end of it. But the signals they use are quite new to me.

We twist in and out of the next, guns, lorries, again — until we come to another complete block. So difficult having to go against all this, instead of following it. Our lieutenant says there is nothing for it now but to take the ditch and go along the side of the fields. Do so. The fields are not nearly as bumpy as one would imagine, and we go on quite happily till there is a pretty good bang above our heads. The lieutenant glares at me again, and I notice that the top of the windscreen is cracked. The windscreen has hit the bottom of a tin advertisement, which is dangling from a high pole. France, like so many other countries, often has the beauty of her country defaced by these ghastly advertisements stuck along the roadside in the fields. Tell the lieutenant that I can not look on the ground for bumps aloft for advertisements at the same time. He sees the point.

A most appalling smell wafts toward us. The lieutenant points to some woods and says there are a lot of dead Frenchmen in them, and that they haven't had the time to bury them. Farther on I notice some graves with small crosses on them, which the lieutenant tells us are German soldiers' graves.

We get back on to the road and go through a village; the lieutenant points out a tank which is burned out and ditched, and tells us that one of his best friends was recently killed in it.

We pass a soldier with a box, who seems to be tapping the  p33 ground. The lieutenant explains that he is connecting up the French telegraph wires to theirs. None of the wires along the roads have been cut. Tell the lieutenant that I simply can't understand why the French did not even cut their telegraph lines, and I wonder if the French realize that they are all being connected up to the German ones. He shrugs his shoulders.

We come to a crossroads and are told to halt. A signpost says, "Paris, 32 kilometers." The road at right angles to us has no heavy Army traffic on it at all, but a continuous stream of high-speed cars tearing along with German officials inside. They are pouring into Paris!

Paris is obviously not being defended. There are not even shell holes in the road to slacken the speed of the cars. They must know there is no danger ahead because they are streaming along without any protection, and the guns are being held up to let them pass.

The Germans are ra­cing to Paris! By their uniforms and cigars they seem to be high officials. I keep my eyes glued on them as they dash by, and I think Hitler may pass any minute and I should love to spit at him. Half an hour has gone, Hitler has not yet passed, and I am sick to death of this scene.

Paris — you certainly have fallen.

The cars are momentarily stopped to let some of our lot of traffic through; the afternoon is drawing to a close.

The lieutenant tells me he thinks I smoke too much; he has offered me several of his cigarettes, and says I shan't be able to get any in Château-Thierry. He says his wife smokes only five cigarettes a day, and if he had anything to do with me he wouldn't let me smoke more. Tell him that because he is German and I am English, and there happens to be a war on between our respective countries, we meet. But under normal  p34 conditions I don't think the occasion would ever arise when he could interfere with my smoking; and I shouldn't be surprised if his wife smoked much more than he thinks, but doesn't bother to let him know.

The lieutenant tells us Château-Thierry is not far away. After a few kilometers we come to it. I have never seen a more desolate sight. It has been badly shelled. The streets are entirely deserted. All the civilians have left. Everywhere is rubble and gaping walls, except for a few German soldiers and starving dogs. I ask the lieutenant if he enjoys looking at the ruins of war. He thinks this is a sorry sight, but says, "This war is necessary. Democracies have made it so."

The bridge over the Marne has been blown up, and for light traffic they are using planks thrown over and tied to small boats with soldiers sitting in them — a most sketchy-looking affair. To get to it at all one has to drive down a steep bank and do an incredibly sharp turn. The planks are fairly narrow, the ambulance fairly wide; it is a question of inches. By turning the wheels an inch too much to left or right in getting on to the planks, and accelerating a little, nothing would be easier than to plunge the ambulance into the river. A fascinating thought, but a stupid one. It's not worth while drowning Mademoiselle and all the men in the back, as well as Darby and myself, in an attempt to drown one German lieutenant.

Take the turn and drive on to the planks, and out of the corner of one eye notice that the lieutenant is measuring the distance his side of the ambulance between the wheels and the edge of the planks. We climb up the bank on the other side of the river. The lieutenant has made no comment whatever.

 p35  More gaping walls, more desolation. So this is Château-Thierry. I am directed to the hospital, where we all get out of the ambulance. Our lieutenant tells us we shall spend the night here; he does not know where we shall be sent to‑morrow. He surprises me by breaking into a smile, shaking my hand, and saying, "Auf Wiedersehen." He surprises me more when he adds, "You drove well." Either he did not hear my reply, or he has no sense of humor, for his face went back into its abrupt hardness when I said, "Despite the fact that I didn't know the difference between nineteen and twenty‑one yards?"

But our lieutenant has his points — and, considering the circumstances has been rather pleasant. I ask him for his name and address, as after the war — which, I add, England will win — I should like to send him a postcard. He tells me his name, and that he has a flat in Berlin; he drives away in our ambulance. Tell Darby I'm sure there isn't enough petrol for him to get back to the base hospital. She says that won't keep her awake to‑night, and she's sure all the tanks and lorries will have plenty of spare petrol, worse luck.

The Dutchman carries Darby's and my things into the courtyard of the hospital. It's now nearly dark, and we are told that it's too late for us to have any food. It gets pitch dark by the time Darby, Mademoiselle, and I are taken to a room on the ground floor. It has beds with mattresses, sheets, blankets, and obviously has been recently used for wounded. However, the sheets look fairly clean.

We nickname the Dutchman the "Flying Dutchman," as is he always flying about, helping every one he can. He is one of those lucky people who can speak five or six languages fluently. Flop into bed; dead tired.

 p36  Saturday, June 15th

Darby and I don't wake till ten o'clock; no one has called us; Mademoiselle has vanished. When dressed we gaze out of the window on to the main courtyard of the hospital; there are many wounded sitting about and a lot of soldiers hurrying to and fro.

Our bedroom door has not been locked, so we sit on a bench in the courtyard and enjoy the sunshine; it's another beautiful day, and we think all this gorgeous weather is quite wasted with a war on. We thank our lucky stars, though, that all this is happening to us in the summer; and think how we should shiver in these unheated châteaux and living this out‑of-door life in the winter.

Those poor refugees! What will they do in the winter?

Tell Darby that whatever we can scrounge in the way of warm clothing we'll scrounge, for goodness knows where we shall fetch up.

The Flying Dutchman passes by; we ask him where there is a toilet. He takes us to another courtyard and points to one of those "Hommes" things. The smell from it prevents our going very near. The French haven't cut the telegraph wires, but they have cut off all the water and electricity before evacuating the towns.

There is an open, unguarded door leading from this courtyard from this courtyard on to the road; beyond it are fields and woods glimmering in their summer beauty.

As Darby and I cross the roadway we see several soldiers mending a damaged tank. With surprised faces they watch us take a path leading toward the woods, but they say nothing to us. We remain in the woods for some time; it's very lovely  p37 there. It seems crazy to me that we can't fout' le camp; there is no one to bother about us.

The trouble is that all the fields, villages, and towns are probably full of Germans; we should always be questioned about our khaki uniform. Suggest to Darby that we do a little pillaging, get some civilian clothes, and try to work our way back to the French lines. If the Germans spot us we can pass ourselves off as left-behind refugees.

Darby dubious of my suggestions, and would like to know what the Flying Dutchman thinks of it.

We return to the hospital. The Flying Dutchman tells us to "stay put." He thinks we are bound to be released by the International Red Cross shortly. If caught trying to fout' le camp we should be either shot or imprisoned.

Lunch is being served from a field kitchen in the main courtyard; all the soldiers are queuing up with basins in their hands, waiting for them to be filled with soup. The Flying Dutchman tells us where we can find some.

We find the basins — they are very dirty, but why worry? We go up to the soldier ladling out the soup. He tells us in French that he will serve us only after the soldiers. The Flying Dutchman wants to know why we are sitting on a bench with our empty basins. We explain. The Flying Dutchman races about talking to officers; we are told to go and have our basins filled. The soup isn't bad at all.

Mademoiselle appears and tells us she was helping with the wounded all the morning; we think she might have told us, as we should have liked to have something to do.

The Flying Dutchman says there is one R. A. F. man here; he gets permission for us to see him, and leads the way. The pilot, a boy, is covered with bandages — he has been badly  p38 burned. All the others are German wounded lying on the straw mattresses in the room, which is very rough and ready; it's only a base hospital.

We interpret for the lad, who can speak only English; he wants to know how long it will be before he can get up. The doctor says — in French — three or four weeks, and, pointing to a bed at the far end of the room, says that the man lying there shot him down. The two airmen grin at each other.

I tell the doctor that war is about the stupidest thing I can conceive of; I am about to add, "Why do dictator­ships want so much breathing space — in which to dictate?" when I realize the futility of mentioning the subject, so add instead, "I'm glad to see he gets as much attention as your own wounded do here, and I do hope he will be well looked after when he gets to a proper hospital." The doctor assures me that he will.

The Flying Dutchman takes us to his room. All the ambulance drivers have been put in one large room, with a lot of straw on the floor to sleep on. They give us some more of their delicious tinned meat and some Schnapps to drink; it's delicious, but very potent. Go to sleep in the straw.

The Flying Dutchman wakes me — we have all to go to the Hôtel de Ville. Darby and I collect our belongings, and are infuriated to find our bars of chocolate and my packets of cigarettes have been stolen from our room. We foregather in the courtyard, and two soldiers lead the way to the Hôtel de Ville.

Down one of the streets I see a chemist's shop. The front is gaping open, and, my scrounging instincts uppermost, I leave the others on the road and dash in to try to find some powder, which Darby and I badly need. There are three German officers in the shop, obviously on a scrounging mission too.

 p39  They gasp at me. Had I been a giraffe coming in they could not look more surprised. When I spoke to them (in French), and ask for some powder, they look simply dazed. However, one of our guards dashes into the shop, and before I have time to grab any powder I am shooed back into the road with the others. The three German officers are left fairly spluttering.

On arrival at the Hôtel de Ville we are told to wait in a large room and are given some tea. The Flying Dutchman has given me a packet of cigarettes, so I smoke, drink the tea, and discuss the future of the war with Darby.

The door suddenly opens, a German officer with an Iron Cross and slashed with ribbons says in perfect English, "Well, it's a great life if you don't weaken." I think he is referring to our conversation about the war and say, "Of course we won't." He looks us up and down and says, "Yes, I can see that," and shuts the door. Quite inadvertently we seem to have gone down well.

The door is often opened by soldiers, coming and going. A small dog runs into the room; every bone in his body is sticking out in bumps, yet he still seems to have faith in human beings, and he runs here and there asking for sympathy. He jumps on to my lap and licks my face in anxious hope.

I can laugh at many things, but not at starving dogs. There is nothing to be done; there is nothing to give him to eat. Darby and I have an attack of the willies, and can't think why they don't shoot these dogs. A soldier tells us to follow him to the Kommandant. We pull ourselves together and hope to goodness he isn't the man who said, "It's a great life if you don't weaken."

He is the last person on earth we want to see at the moment.

The Kommandant turns out to be a different man; he tells  p40 us we can either stay here, at the base hospital, until they know what to do with us, or we can go on with the men ambulance drivers to a camp at Mont Saint-Pierre. Without hesitation we choose to go on with the others. With Mademoiselle we are bundled into a small car, and the men pile such things as they can take from their ambulances on top of us. Mont Saint-Pierre is not very far away; the men have to walk there.

I have always imagined a "camp" as a lot of huts or tents in fields. The camp at Mont Saint-Pierre turns out to be only fields, surrounded by barbed wire and soldiers. Hundreds of French soldiers lie listlessly the other side of the wire. We arrive in the late afternoon; a mist is falling. It is one of those sad, dreary pictures which remain photographed for ever on one's mind.

An officer points to a gate in the barbed wire and tells us to go through. The three of us start arguing; various officers collect round us; it is decided to put us three women in one of the empty villas in the village.

They find us a very pretty one, which has obviously been a week‑end place for some Parisians. The house has been left in a hurry; a half-cooked meal is in the kitchen, every drawer is open, most of their contents scattered on the floor.

We ask for something to eat and are told we can have nothing. They say they have practically nothing for themselves.

Darby and I collect towels, soap, scrubbing-brush, and some shoe polish (most useful) which with a tin‑opener and some cutlery we pack into a straw basket we found lying upstairs. That's about all the scrounging we can do, so we arrange the two bedrooms. The owners of the villa — like most refugees — have taken all their bedding with them, but fortunately their beds have box mattresses, and we find a spare mattress, which  p41 we put in the corridor for a French ambulance driver with a game leg who has been allowed to come to the villa with us. Just before it gets dark an officer comes in with two tins of canned fish. The ambulance driver finds some wine in the cellar, so we have quite a dinner-party in the dining-room.

Darby and I are rather worried lest we may lose the Flying Dutchman. He must be sleeping in the fields with all those hundreds of other men, and we may not be able to find him in the morning. Another officers bangs on the front door and tells us he will send a soldier to call us at 3:30 A.M. — we are to be off at four o'clock.

We sit on the terrace for a while; it has a magnificent view over the Marne. All the German officers seem to be quartered in the villas round about; they are sitting on various terraces too, and gaze at us with astonishment. Darby discovers that they have not cut off the water in the village. We all have baths in the rather sweet little bathroom the villa boasts, and go to bed.

Frightful bangings on the front door which we presume is the soldier calling us. We grope for our belongings in the pitch dark, and are led to a lorry — the most enormous lorry I have ever seen. It has no roof of any kind, and could easily hold fifty people, but there are only eight soldiers inside, and a gun, which is trained on the men coming out the fields and being lined up on the road. The soldiers pull us up into the lorry, and from our elevated position we look for the Flying Dutchman. It's impossible to see much; it's still dark, the mist has not risen, and it's bitterly cold. At last we are off. The lorry crawls forward inch by inch, and all the men follow behind on foot. The dawn breaks, and we are thankful when it gets a little warmer.

 p42  The soldiers in our lorry have three large baskets piled with eggs, loaves of bread, and innumerable thermos flasks; they guzzle away and don't offer us a thing. Have seldom hated people more. Darby and I are still shivering with cold and frightfully hungry.

At noon the lorry drives into a large field and a general halt is called. We have halted about every two hours to allow the men a few minutes' rest. Poor devils, they are all starving hungry, and must have walked at least •eighteen miles. During one of the rests the Flying Dutchman ran up to the lorry to find out how we fared last night; as we ate only one of the tins of fish, we gave him the other. He looked quite drawn with hunger.

This field is similar to the one last night — barbed wire guarded by soldiers. The men pour in — I am told there are over eighteen hundred prisoners, including officers.

The Flying Dutchman talks to the German officers. He tells me the only food there to be distributed is French Army bread and cheese; each man will have five grams of cheese, and six men will have to share one loaf of bread. A long trestle table is put up in the field; the Flying Dutchman weighs out the cheese on scales, and the men file past the table in groups of six. It is fantastic to watch six hungry men being given so little cheese and one loaf of bread among them. The Army bread, I should imagine, was baked several months ago — it is hard as wood, and although its original color must have been brown it is now chiefly green.

We are told we can all write postcards to say we are prisoners of war. A German officer who speaks French tells me that a postcard will get to England. As I haven't one, he gives me one of his, and writes across it "Feldpost über die Schweiz."  p43 He says I can only write the date and that I'm a prisoner of war and in good health. I do so, and give him the postcard, and ask him to be sure to see that it goes. He assures me it will, and asks me to tell all the prisoners to put their cards in a hay cart at the end of the field, and to be sure to tell them not to write too much, for then their cards will not be sent in. So for the next half-hour I am busy as a bee.

There is one poor French officer who obviously has concussion. His tin helmet has a large dent in it, and he has a bump on his forehead the size of a cricket ball. He follows me about in a dazed way and hasn't even realized that he can have some bread and cheese.

Darby, Mademoiselle, and I, with the French ambulance driver with the game leg, are told to get into another lorry which has just arrived, and the men file out off the field into the road. Suddenly the French officer with concussion comes to life, brushes the German officer aside, and starts shouting orders to what he imagines are his troops. The Flying Dutchman rushes up and saves the situation. The French officer is put in the lorry with us. I tell him to take off his tin helmet — he has crammed it on his head over the bump on his forehead — but he doesn't seem to understand and looks utterly dazed. So I take the helmet off and throw it out of the lorry, as I feel sure he would only put it on again.

The lorry goes ahead, leaving the men on the road behind, and after a little while we are told to get out. We are before an imposing building from which the swastika is flying. We are told we are outside the Hochkommandantur of Soissons.

---

Thayer's Notes:

a Quite the contrary. "Toward the end of May, the French ordered that the red crosses on the ambulances be painted over, because the Germans appeared to find them especially fine targets." [George Rock, France 1940, History of the American Field Service 1920-1955, New York, 1956, p41.] We notice that Myers' unit had either not received the order or not obeyed it.

b British English: a vanity case for face-powder.

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