WAITING TO BE SHOT

I shall never forget the night of Wednesday, August 5th.  After the excitement of my trial which had left me well nigh exhausted, I threw myself upon my wooden plank bed to recuperate with a well-earned rest.  But I had just made myself comfortable when a terrible uproar broke out.  The prison trembled and I half feared that it would tumble about our ears.  The emergency bells commenced to clang madly, while the building was torn with the most terrifying shrieks and howls.

Then the deafening sounds of explosions burst on our ears.  At the time I wondered what was the cause for this din, but the next morning I was told that during the night the French had made an aerial raid upon Wesel.  From within it sounded as if the whole Allied Army were pounding the building.  On top of the prison anti-aircraft guns were mounted and when they were discharged, which was continuously and rapidly, they shook the building violently.  Indeed an earthquake could scarcely have set up a more agitated oscillation of the fabric.

Although the bells rang madly they were not answered.  Every gaoler had left his post; gone no one knew whither.  The prisoners thought they had been deserted.  They were haunted by the terror of the prison being set in flames by the bombardment.  The shrieks, cries, howls and wails born of fright made my blood chill.  Outside one could hear the muffled shouts of officers giving orders, curses, and rapid firing by small arms.  The whole place appeared to have been afflicted with panic, as acute among the soldiers without as among the prisoners within.  For about an hour pandemonium reigned.  Even to me, shut up as I was in a narrow cell, it was easy to appreciate the terrible and far-reaching undermining effect which an aerial raid has upon the Teuton mind.

Within the prison next morning it was possible to see the dire effects which the French aviators had caused.  A few cells below me was a prisoner.  When I saw him on the Thursday morning I scarcely recognised him.  As a result of that hour of terror his hair had gone completely white! Other prisoners were sadly bruised and scarred from frantically beating their hands and heads against the doors of their cells in the desperate endeavour to get out.  One poor wretch went raving mad.

Notwithstanding the ordeal of the trial, which had deprived me of my normal span of rest, I was woke up at 5.30 to sweep out my cell.  The strain of the prolonged inquisition of the previous evening upon an enfeebled physique and brain now commenced to assert itself in an emphatic manner.  I had eaten nothing, not even a crust of the black bread, for fifty-four hours.  Little wonder that I could scarcely keep my feet.  My gaoler observed my condition, but said nothing, although he modified his customary boorish attitude towards myself.

When I had to make my daily visit to the yard to clean my utensils and to re-charge my water-jug I staggered down the steps.  I stepped out of the line in my turn and grasped the pump-handle.  But I was too weak to move it.  A fellow-prisoner, recognising my plight, dashed forward to work the pump.  As he did one of the guard raised his rifle to club the man across the head, but thinking better of his action, dropped his weapon, and permitted him to assist me.