August 1916

“Dear Barbara,

It has been some time since I have been able to write to you, although I trust Paul has been filling you in on the situation. My bad cold turned worse. One morning I awoke with what must have been very high fever. I was too dazed to realize what was happening as I was carried out of the hut on a stretcher, but when I did realize my surroundings I discovered myself in the Camp Hospital, of which I had heard awful tales.

I suppose I had influenza. I was given aspirin, and on the second day I felt fully conscious again and well enough to get interested in my new surroundings. Being in hospital was truly much worse than being in my usual hut.


It is a hut like all the others, only it has a w.c. at one end. It contains two parallel rows of beds and nothing else. It lays on a road outside the compound though inside the camp, and its inmates are allowed no intercourse with anyone outside the hospital.

There is one solitary doctor or medical officer to look after the health of all the thousands of prisoners. Needless to say, he is terribly overworked and has no time to attend to individual cases that are not extremely urgent.

The nursing of the patients and the care of the ward is left to a number of men chosen from such prisoners as have or pretend to some experience of nursing. Their control and power over the sick is as good as unlimited, for when the doctor pays one of his rapid visits one of these men accompanies him on his round, serves as an interpreter and prevents direct communication.

That, at least, was what the sick man in the bed next to mine told me when the nurse had left the room. The poor fellow, a sailor, is terribly ill with some disease of the bones which necessitated operations impossible to perform here. He has lain there for weeks waiting to be moved to an operating hospital and he has lost all hope. Maybe his is really a hopeless case and that there would be no object in moving him and operating on him, but that was what he had been told and what he believed, and so he lay there cursing all: the people who made the war, the English who are letting him rot and die; but worst of all he hates the nurses.

“What is the matter with you?” he asked me.

“Nothing much,” I said, “I shall go back to the camp in a day or two.”

He stared at me and started a loud and prolonged laugh. “You go back to-morrow?” he cried. “You will be here a good long time, believe me.”

“But why?” I asked in surprise.

“Because you have money,” he explained as if he were talking to a child. “One's life here,” he said, “is unbearable if one has no money, they just take no notice of you at all. Every little service has to be paid for. But the moneyed are very precious to the nurses, and their one idea is to keep them here as long as ever possible.

“As to the doctor, it is no use counting on him, even if one could talk to him there is no chance of doing so; he just hears the report of the nurse, telling him what to do.
“You can believe me,” he said, “you will live here while the war lasts and I shall die here long before it is over.”

Imaginings of a diseased brain? Possibly. I tried the nurse in the evening.

“I am quite well enough to go back to my compound again,” I said, “I would like to go to-morrow.”

“That is quite out of the question, you are much too ill,” he said curtly and went away. I thought the matter over during a restless night, and the next morning I got up and dressed - which did not worry the nurse at all.

Then I went and stood outside the hospital - which one was allowed to do to get fresh air, and leant against the wall. I had decided to wait for the doctor, and after I had waited five hours or more I saw him approaching and walked up to him. “I am quite well, again,” I said, “and would like to return to my compound. I had a little fever, but it has quite gone now.”

“In that case you may go back,” he said indifferently.

“Would you be kind enough to give me a written order?” I asked, “It is apparently not easy to leave this place without one.”

He gave me a quick look, but he asked no questions poor fellow, he had enough to worry him, no doubt, without going out of his way for more trouble. He scribbled something on a piece of paper and gave it me.

I thanked him and went back to lie on my bed. When the nurse came round in the afternoon I casually remarked, “I am going back to my camp to-night.”

He grinned sarcastically: “You don’t say so! Quite a mistake, I think.”

“Hardly,” I replied, showing him the precious scrap of paper. He was furious but impotent.

“Well,” he said gruffly, “what are you waiting for?”

“Only for the pleasure of your company, because you have to accompany me to the gate, you know.” I said farewell to the poor sailor and promised to do my best for him.

I don't know whether it was due to my agitation, but apparently he was sent off to be operated on a few days later - though I haven’t heard the result. I left my most unwilling companion at the gates of my compound.

I felt, absurdly, that I was once more free and I pray but for one thing: never to be ill again in camp! I met all my camp-acquaintances as if they were most intimate friends from whom I had been separated for years; I am overjoyed to be back amongst them. I am grateful for what seems freedom, security, and human fellowship by comparison.

But you can rest assured that I am feeling well now, and will do my best to stay that way.

Love
Peter”

“Dear Barbara,

As I have told you before I have become quite happy at Knockaloe and was almost wishing I had not asked for a transfer, but now it has come. A list was published yesterday, giving the names of the prisoners whose desire to go to Wakefield had been granted, and my name is on that list. There are sixty in all, but Peter’s name is not amongst them, and fifty-nine of them are overjoyed at their good luck. But I feel curiously depressed.

We chosen ones instantly became objects of envy and hatred to most others, and I am almost inclined to share their point of view. I feel I am leaving them in the lurch, that there should not be ‘gentlemen’s camps’. I feel a great regret at tearing myself away from Knockaloe and particularly at leaving Peter. All of which is no doubt illogical and sentimental, but the fact remains all the same.

I don’t know if I shall be writing to you again from Wakefield, but know that you will always have a special place in my heart.

Love
Paul”

I wrote back to Paul immediately and hoped that it would reach him before his transfer. I hoped that would not be the end of our acquaintance with him. I am feeling most bereft even though I have never met the man.

In the meantime another arrived letter from John.

“My darling girls,

Here it is averaging 105 º-110 º daily and about 75 º-80 º at night, which is too hot for comfort. The sea temperature is over the 80º mark as well – you just lie in the water and sweat.

I have had another turn in managing the catering department. Nothing happens when you need it to. No matter how big a fuss I make, nobody pays any attention.
I made 8 telephone calls today trying to hurry it up and everyone I rang up passed it on to someone higher up. Eventually I got a Colonel who I told exactly what I thought of the whole set up before he said who he was. I don’t think he was very pleased but I think he has my point. Anyway, I don’t expect it will make any difference. Probably the right forms haven’t been submitted in triplicate of something.

I had quite a busy day today as I was invigilating an army exam again. I got them started and then collared a Sgt who was strolling past on his way to the Sgts mess for a pint and told him to invigilate while I was away. I was away for over an hour – I don’t think he was very pleased either.

Tomorrow I am paying officer for the Squadron and the day after I am on a stores condemnation boards. All is this in addition to running a line troop and the unit messing. It will be quite fun. I have at last prevailed on those in authority to let me teach my troop to shoot. They made a mistake over the number of rounds of ammunition I requested. I asked for 1000 rounds for 20 people. They apparently thought it was 1,000 rounds each which seemed so important that they let me have it. Amongst 20 people this works out at 500 each. They should be able to shoot straight after that I think. I shall have go get anything the next time now – just multiply the request by 10.

Cheerio for now. Don’t be too worried about what you see in the papers. I shan’t be getting shot, and I am perhaps less likely to be killed in a traffic accident. When I hear of the deaths and devastation elsewhere, I feel guilty that I have such a cushy job.

Love
John”

“Dear Barbara,

I feel so lost now that my best friend has been transferred. I have no one to help me write letters, so they will now be boring and ordinary, and much poorer in English. I wonder if we will ever meet again. I will do my best to write, but just now I can’t think of the right words.

Love
Peter”

Rebecca has just received from the school her certificate to all who wrote essay about “Alcohol and the Body”. She is so pleased she has put it up on her wall. I must write to John and tell him all about it.