If that man had taken charge of us in the beginning we might not have been suspicious of him, for he seemed gentle and his words were fair; but now his kindness came too late to have effect.  Animals can sometimes be rendered tame by starvation and brutality followed by plenty and kindness, but not men, and particularly not Sikhs—­it being no part of our Guru’s teaching that either full belly or tutored intellect can compensate for lack of goodness.  Neither is it his teaching, on the other hand, that a man must wear thoughts on his face; so we did not reject this man’s advances.

“There have been mistakes made,” said he, “by ignorant common soldiers who knew no better.  You shall recuperate on good food, and then we shall see what we shall see.”

I asked him where Ranjoor Singh was, but he did not answer me.

We were not compelled to walk.  Few of us could have walked.  We were stiff from confinement and sick from neglect.  Carts drawn by oxen stood near the station, and into those we were crowded and driven to a camp on the outskirts of the town.  There comfortable wooden huts were ready, well warmed and clean—­and a hot meal—­and much hot water in which we were allowed to bathe.

Then, when we had eaten, doctors came and examined us.  New clothes were given us—­German uniforms of khaki, and khaki cotton cloth from which to bind new turbans.  Nothing was left undone to make us feel well received, except that a barbed-wire fence was all about the camp and armed guards marched up and down outside.

Being senior surviving non-commissioned officer, I was put in charge of the camp in a certain manner, with many restrictions to my authority, and for about a week we did nothing but rest and eat and keep the camp tidy.  All day long Germans, mostly women and children but some men, came to stare at us through the barbed-wire fence as if we were caged animals, but no insults were offered us.  Rather, the women showed us kindness and passed us sweetmeats and strange food through the fence until an officer came and stopped them with overbearing words.  Then, presently, there was a new change.

A week had gone and we were feeling better, standing about and looking at the freshly fallen snow, marking the straight tracks made by the sentries outside the fence, and thinking of home maybe, when new developments commenced.

Telegrams translated into Punjabi were nailed to the door of a hut, telling of India in rebellion and of men, women and children butchered by the British in cold blood.  Other telegrams stated that the Sikhs of India in particular had risen, and that Pertab Singh, our prince, had been hanged in public.  Many other lies they posted up.  It would be waste of time to tell them all.  They were foolishness—­such foolishness as might deceive the German public, but not us who had lived in India all our lives and who had received our mail from home within a day or two of our surrender.