The army, for such it seemed, advanced amidst clouds of dust.  As they drew nearer we identified those at the head as Belgian soldiers.  They swung by without faltering.  Behind them came a small army of French prisoners.  We could not help noticing the comparatively small number of wounded among both the Belgians and the French, and although they were undoubtedly dejected at their unfortunate capture they were apparently in fine fettle.

But it was the men who formed the rear of this depressing cavalcade, and who also numbered several hundreds, which aroused our keenest interest and pity.  From their khaki uniforms it was easy to determine their nationality.  They were British military prisoners.

It was a sad and pitiful procession, and it was with the greatest difficulty we could suppress our emotion.  The tears welled to our eyes as we looked on in silent sympathy.  We would have given those hardened warriors a rousing cheer but we dared not.  The guards would have resented such an outburst, which would have rendered the lot of the British, both civilian and military, a hundred times worse.

The soldiers, battle-stained, blood-stained, weary of foot, body and mind walked more like mechanical toys than men in the prime of life.  Their clothes were stained almost beyond recognition; their faces were ragged with hair and smeared with dirt.  But though oppressed, tired, hungry and thirsty they were far from being cast down, although many could scarcely move one foot before the other.

The most touching sight was the tenderness with which the unwounded and less injured assisted their weaker comrades.  Some of the worst cases must have been suffering excruciating agony, but they bore their pain with the stoicism of a Red Indian.  The proportion of wounded was terrifying:  every man appeared to be carrying one scar or another.  As they swung by us they gave us a silent greeting which we returned, but there was far more significance in that mute conversation with eyes and slight movements of the hands than in volumes of words and frantic cheering.

The brutal reception they had received from their captors was only too apparent.  Those who were so terribly wounded as to be beyond helping themselves received neither stretcher nor ambulance.  They had to hobble, limp and drag themselves along as best they could, profiting from the helping hand extended by a comrade.  Those who were absolutely unable to walk had to be carried by their chums, and it was pathetic to observe the tender care, solicitude and effort which were displayed so as to spare the luckless ones the slightest jolt or pain while being carried in uncomfortable positions and attitudes over the thickly dust-strewn and uneven road.  The fortitude of the badly battered was wonderful.  They forgot their sufferings, and were even bandying jest and joke.  Their cheeriness under the most terrible conditions was soul-moving.  No one can testify more truthfully to the Tapley cheeriness of the British soldier under the most adverse conditions than the little knot of civilian prisoners at Sennelager when brought face to face for the first time with the fearful toll of war.