A young medical man came out of the hospital, and seeing my wan and haggard face, came up to me.  He was certainly sympathetic.

“Heavens, man!  You look downright ill!” was his comment.

“I reckon I don’t look worse than I feel!” I replied caustically.  “I’ve just been turned out of the hospital.  What is going to happen?”

“Oh!  You’ve got to go to Paderborn.  You’ll go into hospital there.  The van will be up in three hours’ time!”

At this intelligence I sank on a wooden seat.  I felt, and indeed could no longer ward off, the belief that everything for me was rapidly approaching the end.  As I sat there a prey to my worst thoughts, a soldier came out of the hospital and sat beside me.  I looked up.

“Hullo! old man!  From Mons?” I asked.

“Yes!  Going to Paderborn.  Says I’m sick,” nodding towards the hospital.  The Tommy certainly looked as if the doctor had diagnosed a case correctly for once in his life.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t know for sure.  But I heard the doctor whisper to an assistant that it was typhus!”

Despite my efforts to control myself I could not suppress a low whistle.  I looked at the soldier, and although my first inclination was to move away, I felt that, owing to my condition, it really didn’t matter, so I spared the Tommy’s feelings.  In a few minutes another soldier came out.  He sat on the other side of me.

“Hullo!  You from Mons too?  You going to Paderborn?” was my query.

“Sure!  Doctor says I’ve got typhus!”

This was alarming news, and I could not resist a feeling of extreme apprehension.  While I was turning things over in my mind a third soldier came out whom I questioned, but he did not reply.

“He was blinded by a shell at Mons,” commented one of the soldiers.  “Guess he’s got it too.  ’Strewth, isn’t this a hell of a hole?  I’d sooner have fifty Mons’s for a month than this hell for a day!”

I certainly shared the opinion.  But as I sat there I reflected upon the limited carrying capacity of the Paderborn hospital van, and the circumstance that I was likely to be crushed in with a host of typhus cases.  I did not like the prospect a little bit.  I made up my mind.  I would not go to Paderborn at any cost.

Proffering a palpable excuse I sauntered away, finally entering the office in which the files of the registration of the British military prisoners were being prepared.  A young German who in pre-war days had been a baker in Battersea, was in charge.  I told him I was sick, but enquired, if receiving the requisite permission from the doctor, he would allow me to help him in the office.  He agreed.  I sought out Dr. Ascher, explained that I had been consigned to Paderborn, but refused to go, and explained that I had the offer to go into the office if he would certify me for such work.  After a little deliberation he acquiesced, and I took up the appointment with the result I have explained in a previous chapter.  After a good night’s rest I felt decidedly better.  I returned to the field, only to find that my companions had experienced no improvement in their conditions, and that food was just as scarce as it had been since we were turned out of our barracks.  I was successful in getting a little food to them, while another prisoner, now in England, sent up a little.