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.Nulli Secundus -
'Second to None'
by Terence Cardwell
Chapter
Thirty Eight - Sennerlager
Jack felt someone push him and turned to see a German
soldier urging him to move. Although he did not know the
language he understood what was meant and followed the
other men to the waiting truck.
They were loaded into the back of an old army truck and
Jack sat towards the back, watching Bridget and two
other nurses waving. They fell further and further away
and were lost to sight as the truck rounded a bend in
the road.
Jack’s thoughts during the trip were a mixture of his
time with his mates, Elizabeth and the days with
Bridget, and he wondered what Bridget looked like
underneath that stiff nurse’s uniform. He fell asleep
thinking of her.
After nearly six hours of travelling over rough roads
they arrived at the internment camp. It was in the late
afternoon when he saw for the first time the place that
was to be his home.
The truck waited as two guards opened one of the large
barbed wire gates. Above the gates was a steel sign, ‘Sennelager,’
the name of the camp. The camp consisted of rows of long
timber huts with corrugated iron roofs that held over
two hundred men each. Most prisoners were not kept
together according to their regiments or country but
simply filled each hut as the prisoners arrived. There
were French, Belgian and British troops in the camp
living together. The ablution blocks were two open sheds
with long steel troughs for washing. The toilets were
rows of steel seats and no doors. Around the perimeter
were two rows of barbed wire fence, eight feet high.
Square timber guard posts stood at each corner and in
the middle of each row of fencing. They were higher than
the wire fence and had wooden stairs leading up to them.
On the far side, away from the huts, was a large open
field with posts at each end. Even in the late
afternoon, men were running around shouting to each
other as they played football. Scattered along the sides
of the field were other men watching, some in grey
French uniforms and others clearly British.
‘They look like they’re having a gay old time,’ observed
one of the prisoners.
‘It might not be too bad after all,’ added another.
‘I wouldn’t put any money on it,’ replied a Yorkshire
Light Infantry soldier nursing his bandaged arm as he
jumped from the truck.
Jack dismounted and looked around, noticing that the
British troops were wearing the uniforms they were
captured in and looked rather dishevelled. Some had a
week’s growth of beard, not looking at all like the
smart soldiers he had marched with in France.
‘How long am I going to be here? Six months, a year? It
.won’t be any longer, surely. We should have beaten them
by then. A whole year— such a long time,’ he thought. ‘I
suppose I should be thankful I’m alive. I’m not going to
bloody die here, that’s for sure. I’ll just bide my
time.’
‘fortziehen,’ shouted the German guard, pushing one of
the men and pointing to a spot in front of the huts. The
prisoners understood and walked to the hut. The guard
indicated a single line by pointing along, as in a row.
The men formed a line as a well-dressed German officer
marched towards them with three soldiers and a sergeant
following him.
He stopped in front of the prisoners and inspected them
one by one. When he came to Jack he looked at him
closely. He noticed his arm in bandages and his midriff
wrapped up tightly with more bandages.
Jack stood to attention and looked straight into the
officer’s eyes, unflinching in his stare, clearly
showing he was in no way intimidated by the officer’s
presence.
‘You ver badly wounded, yes?’ he snapped.
‘Yes sir,’ Jack replied, showing respect for the
officer’s rank. ‘I was shelled and bayoneted twice.’
‘Aah, with good German steel. You are very lucky man.
Not many men survive the bayonet or our powerful shells,
but to survive both you must be a very fortunate man.’
‘Yes sir,’ Jack replied, choosing not to continue the
conversation.
The officer walked away a few paces and took a sheaf of
paper from the sergeant.
‘You are all prisoners of war and will do as you are
told. Obey orders of my soldiers or you will all be
severely punished. Any man attempting to escape will be
shot. Anyone caught stealing will be severely dealt
with.’
He turned and walked away briskly, leaving the sergeant
and the guards behind.
‘This way,’ grunted the sergeant, who was approximately
thirty years old with a thin, cruel-looking face. He
looked sadistic, and the ice-blue, piercing eyes showed
that this man had seen a lot of death and pain and was
to be wary of.
‘fortziehen,’ he said, pointing to the last building
behind them. They walked up the wooden steps.
Inside on either side were wooden bunk beds with timber
lath bottoms and a brown sack filled with horsehair and
other fibres to make a mattress. The beds were covered
with coarse grey blankets.
‘Du hier,’ the guard said to the soldier in front of
Jack, pushing him towards the bunk when they were
halfway down the room.
‘Du hier.’ He pointed to a top bunk whilst looking at
Jack.
Everyone preferred a bottom bunk but they were late
arrivals and had no choice. Jack didn’t mind as it gave
him a little more privacy and he could isolate himself
from any disagreements or stoushes.
He climbed up on the bunk, lying down to enjoy a rest
from the long bumpy ride they had just endured. He was
nearly asleep when he heard a general rumble of voices
and looked up to see some of the men who had been
standing around the football oval coming inside. He
climbed down again to meet his fellow prisoners.
‘Oh aye, looks like we’ve got a new lot here,’ a rather
short soldier with untidy ginger hair, wearing a khaki
uniform and Scots kilt said. His uniform was wrinkled
and untidy, dirty from weeks of wearing without washing.
Behind him stood a collection of soldiers from various
British regiments; Jack noticed a couple of grenadiers,
a few Yorkshire light infantry, some Scots Guards and
Irish Guards.
‘Oh, look. We have one of the cream of the British Army
with us. A Coldstreamer,’ the Scotsman sneered.
‘I thought the Grenadiers were the cream of the British
Army?’ Jack smiled, winking at the two fellow Guardsmen.
‘Oh, bit of a smart arse, are ya,’ the Scotsman replied.
‘What’s ya bleeding name?’
Jack moved a step closer to him and said quietly, ‘Joe
Cardwell, but my friends call me Jack. What’s your
name?’ he stared at him.
The cocky Scotsman straightened up and snarled. ‘None of
your bleeding business.’
‘Suit yourself, I’m not really that interested,’ Jack
replied, at which the Scotsman bristled at being unable
to faze Jack.
Behind him the two Grenadiers were in earnest
conversation with each other, and one said to Jack, ‘Are
you Jack Cardwell from the Second Battalion Coldstream
Guards?’
‘Yes— do I know you?’
The Guardsman smiled. ‘My name’s Tom, Tom Oldfield, and
my mate here is Henry Lightfoot. It’s a real pleasure to
meet you.’
Jack held out his hand and shook both of theirs in turn.
‘Nice to find friends.’
‘What the bleedin’ hell’s going on here? I’ll ask the
questions,’ the Scotsman said.
‘I don’t think so, Mac,’ Tom answered. ‘I think you
should tell Jack your name and apologise.’
‘Ach, aye? I’ll no apologise to anyone, why should I?’
‘Because,’ Henry said, pausing and enjoying the moment,
‘Jack is the heavyweight boxing champion of the British
Army.’
There was a general mutter of admiration from the other
soldiers. Mac turned pale and looked at Jack, seeing the
cool blue eyes staring at him and realised what he
misread as fear was quiet aggression. He looked around
for support and found the others had backed away from
him. It was clear he was alone in this conflict.
‘Th… th… th… they call me Mac, ’cause I’m a Macdonald,’
he stuttered. ‘Sorry about the misunderstanding.’ He
held out a grimy hand.
Jack shook it and introduced the prisoners who had
arrived with him, as if there was never a problem. He
shook hands with the other soldiers in the group,
noticing how dishevelled and unorganised they had
become. The air of pride had disappeared, replaced by
disunity and lack of respect for themselves and others.
The only ones retaining any form of self-respect and
tidiness were the Grenadier Guardsmen, who like himself
had those qualities ingrained into them. Jack could see
that they would become good friends and share their
tribulations, helping each other where necessary.
‘Where are the officers to straighten up this untidy
lot?’ Jack asked, disappointed at seeing how much some
of the men had neglected themselves.
‘I heard they’re in separate prison camps and treated
with much more respect than us,’ Henry replied. ‘I heard
they’ve got it real cushy. Some of the German officers
even eat with them sometimes.’
The soldiers, including Jack, could not think of a
suitable answer and just shook their heads in disbelief.
Jack settled into his surroundings and met the occupier
of the lower bunk, Clive Rogers, a fiery man from the
Cheshire Light Infantry Regiment. He had a severe grudge
against the army after being allowed to be surrounded
and captured within days of his arrival at the front.
They had both been with the British Expeditionary Forces
and discussed at length what had happened at Mons.
Jack told him of the retreat from Mons and the
requirement to act as rearguard, protecting the
retreating British Army from the advancing Germans.
Clive’s response amazed Jack. ‘What bleeding retreat? No
one told us about a retreat. We were told to hold our
position, and that’s what we did.’
‘What happened?’ Jack asked, noticing the man’s
frustration.
‘I’ll tell you the whole miserable story. A damn retreat
and no one told us! No wonder they bleeding well kicked
our arses!’
He paused for a short while to collect his thoughts.
‘We marched up to Audregnies and dug in. On our left was
‘L’ Battery of the Royal Field Artillery and over from
them was the Norfolk light Infantry at Elouges.
He paused as he saw the vision in his mind.
‘The L Battery was firin’ for a while on the advancing
Germans and they were blowin’ the hell out of them until
they run out of shells. So they had little choice but to
withdraw to avoid being over run, leavin’ us on our own
to face the Huns.
‘There was a lot of noise and gunfire comin’ from the
direction of the Norfolks, and shrapnel bullets flyin’
everywhere. What happened to ’em after that I don’t know
but a few of ’em ended up with us.
‘Our C.O., Colonel Boger, knew we were on our own. He
tried to get in touch with general command but couldn’t
get through, so he told us to dig in an’ hold the
Germans back.
‘We were doing a good job of it too, until the bleedin’
Germans moved around us on both flanks.
‘Part of our reserve company was ordered to fall back to
join the firin’ line whilst they had a chance. But they
couldn’t get to it and escaped to Athis, a town nearby
instead. A lot of ’em were killed or wounded on the way.
‘We were still stuck there and the Germans were getting
closer, so we gave ’em all we had, shooting them down
like corn stalks, but there were too many of ’em. They
came in droves, so we fell back to the Audregnies road—
that was behind us. Then we found the Krauts had set up
two machine guns in a dip in the ground— to stop us,
they bloody thought. But me and a mate carried a machine
gun behind them and blew one lot of ’em to hell. Another
bunch of the lads got the other one. Then some of the
lads charged the Germans with bayonets and they
high-tailed it like rabbits.’
Clive paused to light his pipe, taking a slow draught on
it, then inspected the bowl. By this time a number of
prisoners had gathered round to hear Clive’s story, one
not too different to some of their own. They leaned or
sat on the bunks, nodding in agreement at some of his
words. Jack sat at the end of the bunk, drawing on his
pipe and listening . A steady stream of smoke drifted
away through the draughty room.
Clive continued as he stared at the roof.
‘The Germans had backed off a bit, so our colonel sent
some of our lads scarpering for the Audregnie woods. The
bullets followed them an’ some were hit, but a few got
away through to the woods, lucky buggers.
‘The colonel had by this time been wounded twice and
still kept urging us on. He was a bonzer soldier that
bloke, an’ a brave man.
‘The Germans attacked us again an’ we had to fight tooth
and nail to keep ’em back. A lot of the lads had been
shot and there was only a few of us left but we wouldn’t
give into the buggers, I can tell you. But by night-time
they had us totally surrounded and we had no means of
escape.
‘Then the colonel was wounded for a third time. He was
lucky to still be alive. There was blood on his sleeve,
blood on his jacket and he could hardly walk, but the
bugger wouldn’t give up. He should get a medal.
‘The Germans were pickin’ us off one at a time, and it
was obvious we couldn’t escape so our officer-in-charge
told us to surrender and lay down our arms.
‘We did, reluctantly, because we didn’t know what the
krauts would do to us. There weren’t many of us left,
maybe forty or fifty blokes.’
There was a painful silence when Clive finished. Those
listening had their own memories of the war come
flashing back to haunt them.
‘What happened then?’ Jack asked. ‘Did the Germans
attack you?’
‘Nah, once they saw we had stopped fightin’ they pushed
us out of our gun pits an’ surrounded us with rifles.
Then they marched us off behind the lines to some
God-awful bombed-out building and kept us in there for
two days. It was hell. It was hot, stinkin’ of sweat and
dirty toilets. We had to shit in a bucket in the corner
and we had no food for twenty-four hours and then all we
got was only a bit of old stale black bread.
‘When we finally got out of there the fresh air never
felt so good. We had to carry some of our wounded to a
field hospital a mile away.’
‘Clive, you’re a bloody lucky man to be here,’ Henry
Lightfoot said.
‘Yea, that’s for sure,’ Jack agreed.
‘What about you Jack, what happened to you— how did you
get all those injuries?’ Tom Oldfield urged.
‘Much the same as you fellas. Just doing what we had to
do,’ Jack replied, avoiding talking about his nightmare.
Most of the men were aware that the Fourth Brigade had
covered the retreat from Mons and guessed there was a
lot more to Jack’s story than he was saying.
‘Well, I reckon you were bloody lucky to survive as
well,’ Tom said.
Jack drew on his pipe. ‘We’re all bloody lucky to be
alive and should be thankful that we’re not with some of
our mates who didn’t make it.’
Most muttered in agreement and wandered away, caught up
in their own thoughts, and considering their luck.
Jack climbed on to his bunk, lying back, drawing on his
pipe and thinking of the terrible days prior to his
capture. Again he thought of Bob and George and his
other friends in the Coldstream Guards, wondering if
they had survived. A cold knot of fear formed in his
stomach as his concern for their survival grew; he
feared the worst.
Around the camp people were organised into groups, some
to print a basic magazine for the prisoners, others in
charge of the ablutions. The lucky ones worked in the
kitchens.
The food was mainly stale black bread, cabbages of
strange shapes, potatoes, and the occasional horsemeat.
Beef was almost unheard of and was almost rotten.
Whatever they got had already been rejected by the
Germans. Some vegetables were grown in garden beds
around the camp but most of these were stolen by hungry
prisoners who sought only to look after themselves.
The men were allowed to write home on cards purchased
from their captors, but were not allowed to write
anything derogatory of the Germans or their conditions.
If the card carried anything objectionable it was thrown
away. Jack sent a few notes home and was always careful
to keep the messages neutral:
My Dear
Wife,
Many thanks
for the letter.
Will you
please acknowledge the parcels I am receiving every week
from Mrs Wergall, also cigarettes.
Fondest
love to my dear wife and baby, Goodbye. xxxx
Each morning the internees were lined up in the parade
ground to be checked and counted. At this time they were
told by the commandant and his underlings of the
wonderful successes the Germans had made, winning
battles and driving the allies back hundreds of miles.
‘I reckon they would be in bloody Spain by now if it
were true,’ Tom muttered as they stood in line.
‘Yea, and the war would have been over three months
ago,’ Jack agreed.
‘Do they really think we believe all their crap?’ Clive
snarled. ‘They are flat out feeding themselves.’
The day came when they were all going to die.
It started like all the others as the prisoners waited
quietly in line for the ‘serving of the bullshit’, as
they called it. They watched the commandant storm to the
stand. It was obvious that he was angry, and they knew
they would find out why soon enough.
The commandant glared at the prisoners, both hands
gripping his cane, his face red with rage. He struck the
stand with his cane and shouted.
‘You are a pack of ungrateful pigs! We feed you. We
clothe you. We treat you well. We do not beat you, and
what do your countrymen do? They— are— animals!’ his
eyes bulged.
‘I have received reports that your people have been very
cruel to our fellow German soldiers in your prison
camps. They have beaten them, starved them, left them to
die of sickness, worked them till they drop, and left
them to freeze to death. If they think they can do that
to our brave soldiers and get away with it they are very
wrong.’
The commandant paused to collect himself, and then
bellowed at them.
‘Tomorrow you will all be shot in retribution for the
cruelty your soldiers have shown our brave German
soldiers in England. You— will— all— die,’ he screamed,
and pounded down the steps of the stand and away,
followed by a stunned group of officers and soldiers.
‘What the bloody hell?’ Tom said, staring after the
commandant.
‘He’s stark raving mad,’ Henry added shaking his head.
‘Worse than that, he’s serious, and he’s just liable to
do it,’ Jack replied.
‘Worse still, he’s never gone back on his word. Whatever
he said he was going to do, he’s done,’ Henry added.
‘Looks like we’re well and truly in the you-know-what.
What a bastard, surviving the war only to be shot in a
prison camp,’ Jack said. Everyone nodded in agreement.
It was a long, restless night in the camp. Few could
sleep knowing they were to be shot in the morning. They
lay on their bunks smoking or thinking, knowing the
commandant was not to be taken lightly.
After a very long night, daylight finally came. Most
jumped out of bed to do their ablutions and wait for the
dreaded call to assembly. The raucous sound was finally
heard and the soldiers reluctantly formed up at their
last parade. Instead of the commandant appearing, a
captain took charge and proceeded to count off the
prisoners. When the tally was completed he looked
around.
‘You will all die tomorrow,’ he sneered, and walked
away.
‘Dismissed!’ the sergeant shouted.
The prisoners stood bemused, trying to understand that
nothing had happened. It was as if the words of the
commandant had never been spoken and yesterday was just
a nightmare.
For days they waited for something to happen, but
nothing did. Finally one of the British sergeants
managed to talk to a guard, who told him that the
commandant had been told lies by a spy who had passed on
the information in an effort to impress his superiors.
It had been found to be untrue and left the commandant
embarrassed, with ‘egg all over his face,’ as Henry put
it.
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