“We have a prince and the son of a rich man among the Russian prisoners—­yes, quite in the Four Hundred,” the guide went on.  “They were such good boys we put them to work in the cookhouse.  Star boarders, eh?  They like it.  They get more to eat.”

These two men were called out for exhibition.  Youngsters of the first line they were and even in their privates’ uniform they bore the unmistakable signs of belonging to the Russian upper class.  Each saluted and made his bow, as if he had come on to do a turn before the footlights.  It was not the first time they had been paraded before visitors.  In the prince’s eye I noted a twinkle, which as much as said:  “Well, why not?  We don’t mind.”

When we were taken through the cookhouse I asked about a little Frenchman who was sitting with his nose in a soup bowl He seemed too near-sighted ever to get into any army.  His face was distinctly that of a man of culture; one would have guessed that he was an artist.

“Shrapnel injury,” explained the guide.  “He will never be able to see much again.  We let him come in here to eat.”

I wanted to talk with him, but these exhibits are supposed to be all in pantomime; a question and you are urged along to the next exhibit.  He was young and all his life he was to be like that—­like some poor, blind kitten!

The last among a number of Russians returning to the enclosure from some fatigue duty was given a blow in the seat of his baggy trousers with a stick which one of the guards carried.  The Russian quickened his steps and seemed to think nothing of the incident.  But to me it was the worst thing that I saw at Doeberitz, this act of physical violence against a man by one who has power over him.  The personal equation was inevitable to the observer.  Struck in that way, could one fail to strike back?  Would not he strike in red anger, without stopping to think of consequences?  There is something bred into the Anglo-Saxon which resents a physical blow.  We court-martial an officer for laying hands on a private, though that private may get ten years in prison on his trial.  Yet the Russian thought nothing of it, or the guard, either.  An officer in the German or the Russian army may strike a man.

“Would the guard hit a Frenchman in that way?” I asked.  Our guide said not; the French were good boys.  Or an Englishman?  He had not seen it done.  The Englishman would swear and curse, he was sure, and might fight, they were such undisciplined boys.  But the Russians—­“they are like kids.  It was only a slap.  Didn’t hurt him any.”

New barracks for the prisoners were being built which would be comfortable, if crowded, even in winter.  The worst thing, I repeat, was the deadly monotony of the confinement for a period which would end only when the war ended.  Any labour should be welcome to a healthy-minded man.  It was a mercy that the Germans set prisoners to grading roads, to hoeing and harvesting, retrieving thus a little of the wastage of war.  Or was it only the bland insistence that conditions were luxurious that one objected to?—­not that they were really bad.  The Germans had a horde of prisoners to care for; vast armies to maintain; and a new volunteer force of a million or more—­two millions was the official report—­to train.