During my period of incarceration at Sennelager the number of civil prisoners brought in to swell our party was somewhat slender.  They came in small batches of ten or twelve, but were often fewer in number.  They invariably arrived about two o’clock in the morning.  Then the sentry would come thumping into the barrack, his heavy boots resounding like horse’s hoofs and his rifle clanging madly.  Reaching the room he would yell out with all the power of his lungs, thus awaking every one, “Dolmetscher!  Dolmetscher!” (Interpreter!  Interpreter!) “Get up!” That luckless individual had to bestir himself, tumble into his clothes and hurry to the office to assist the authorities in the official interrogation of the latest arrivals.  This was one of the little worries which were sent to try us, but we soon became inured to the rude disturbance of our rest, in which the average sentry took a fiendish delight.

By the time the first Sunday came round, and having nothing to do—­all labour was suspended, although no religious service was held—­I decided to wash my solitary shirt.  I purchased a small cake of cheap rough soap from the canteen, got a wooden tub, and stripping myself to the waist, washed out the article in question outside the barrack door to the amusement of my colleagues.  While I was busily engaged in this necessary occupation I was attracted by tittering and chattering.  Looking up I found I was the object of curiosity among a crowd of civilians dressed in their Sunday best.  Together with my fellow-prisoners I hurriedly retired to the sanctuary of our barracks.

Later we learned that on Sundays the residents of Paderborn and the countryside around were free to enter the camp to have a look at the British prisoners.  Indeed they were invited.  They stalked and wandered about the camp in much the same manner as they would have strolled through the Zoological Gardens in Berlin, looking at us as if we were strange exotic animals, chattering, laughing, and joking among themselves at our expense.  We considered this an unwarrantable humiliation, and we countered it by the only means within our power.  We resolutely stayed indoors until the gaping crowds had gone.  This diversion of the German public, if such it may be called, speedily fell into desuetude, not because the novelty wore off, but because the “Englaender” were never to be seen, so that the six-mile tramp from Paderborn to Sennelager and back was merely wasted.  It was a bitter disappointment to the curiosity-provoked crowds, but we scored a distinct success.

The first Sunday I had to wander about shirtless, the only garment of this character which I possessed hanging upon the line to dry.  But the sight of a crowd of us, on Sunday mornings, stripped bare to our waists, washing and scrubbing the only shirts to our backs, became quite a common sight later, and I must confess that we made merry over this weekly duty for a time.