While most of them frankly said that they thought themselves fairly well off as to food and quarters, in view of the fact that they were prisoners of war, still when one was asked:

"Would you rather be here or in the trenches?" the answer came with a snap:

"In the trenches, sir. I'd like to get a crack at them, sir!"

And another, this time a sailor, one of fewer than a dozen Englishmen actually seen at voluntary work, answering the same question, said, sharply:

"In the trenches with my comrades, sir. Anything is better than this."

In general, the hostility of the English prisoners to their German captors was plainly apparent and, indeed, unconcealed. One could not help admiring the openness and boldness of it. Conversely, the dislike of the German officers and guards for their stubborn wards was no less manifest. You could not but like the frankness displayed by both. The only difference in their mutual dislike seemed to be that the Germans gave reasons, such as: "The English won't work." Or: "The English are quarrelsome." Or: "The English fight the French with their fists." Or: "The English are always complaining."

On the other hand, with the English antipathy for the Germans, it was a case of

"I do not like you, Doctor Fell!

The reason why I can not tell.

But this one thing I know full well:
I do not like you, Doctor Fell!"

Yet it seems that both German and English respect each other highly as first-class fighting men. For example, take this comment of a German officer at Lille, France, noted for his gallantry, which was agreed to by his fellow officers:

"The English whom we have met are good soldiers. The officers are fine."

Reciprocally: "Oh, yes, the Germans fight well enough; like devils, sir," was the comment of an English prisoner, who had just expressed his animosity for the Germans, and, like his comrade already quoted, snapped out his earnest wish to “get at them" again. "Do you get enough to eat?" you ask a bearded English sailor.

"I suppose so, seeing that we are prisoners of war; but not as much as we should like, sir." He said he got money from home and could buy what he liked in the canteen. "But," said he, "we can't get jam, sir.” "Jam!" you exclaim in surprise.

"Yes, sir. Jam, sir, and chocolate and such other like dainties, sir."

The camp post-office is the liveliest place of all. Always these stations of intelligence seem to be crowded. Also, they are disbursement centers. In one camp thirty-three thousand marks had been paid to French prisoners by the end of the year 1914. This money was sent from France by the friends or relatives of the captured prisoners. It is not given out in bulk or cash by the German officials. Ten marks a week is the maximum allowed to a private soldier. At the canteen are sold only food and clothing. The sale of intoxicants of any kind is not permitted.

You are surprised at the rosy cheeks and well-nourished condition of most of the prisoners. The open air and exercise have much to do with their physical fitness. As far as is possible those who will not work voluntarily, making articles which are sold and paid for, are required to do labor of some kind.

Hundreds are compelled to draw and push wagons laden with camp provisions. Other hundreds keep clean the streets of German cities and the approaching roads. Nurenburg is an example of this. But with every possible employment only a fraction of Germany's seven hundred thousand prisoners can be given useful occupations during the winter.

When spring and summer come, however, there will be more work to do. It is planned, at least in parts of Germany, as in Bavaria, for example, to employ the prisoners in tilling the soil, sowing the seed and gathering the harvest. For this work the French are willing and the Russians more than eager. No woman, child or old man need work in the fields of Germany during the present year unless they insist upon doing so; for there are enough prisoners anxious to perform that labor in preference to the confinement of the camps.

The Wounded

But what of the wounded and disabled? Of these, by semi-official estimate up to January 15, 1915, there were 543,000, of whom 322,000 were only slightly wounded, and at that time nearly ready to go to the front again; and 221,000 more seriously wounded, of which thirty-five per cent. would soon be ready for

duty once more. A more generous computation gave 650,000 wounded, of which sixty per cent., or 390,000 men, could return to the front within a short time.

The care of these injured ones is infinitesimal in scientific detail and very tender on its human side. The best hospital trains are marvels of comfort, convenience, efficiency. In each regulation hospital train there are twenty cars. In each car there are beds for ten patients. Each bed is suspended on powerful springs fixed at the ends so as to absorb the shock.

Above each bed are two looped straps, in which the wounded one may rest his weary arms and hands. In a case at the side are glass, water and tooth-brush; in short, no mechanical convenience has been neglected. Heartsome pictures are fixed over the mid-doorway, so that the eyes of the wounded rest upon soothing objects. An abundance of pictorial magazines supply reading matter.

Then, of course, there are operating cars, surgeons' cars, with enameled operating tables dazzlingly clean and electric lights making the interior brighter than day. Above all, on these hospital trains there are women nurses, carefully chosen not only for their knowledge, nerve and skill, but also for their gift of human sympathy.

These maimed men are promptly cared for before reaching hospital trains, in the field hospital, very near the scene of the casualty, and next in a division base hospital within sound of the firing-line. Go into one of these latter establishments of succor. Here a soldier is recovering and is very happy, almost joyful. His only thought, he tells you, is to get back to the

fighting. There another is too badly hurt to talk or even think.

Yonder a man lies dying, and he expires in your presence; but it does not astonish, for you have seen the same thing in the Philippines, down to the smallest detail of sunken cheek, stertorious breathing, rattling throat and final silence. Also, you have witnessed death in New York hospitals, but in more sordid guise and without the least tinge of glory or romance.

But what is this? The general commanding that corps comes in. He does not stride. He walks softly. He goes to the bedside of a common soldier, sore wounded, on whose breast he pins the iron cross with words of praise for gallantry. Three times this happens. Once the prostrate figure answers with articulate words of thanks. The other two are too sick to speak, but appreciation shines from their eyes.

Finally comes the transfer of the wounded to the great permanent hospitals located at central points in every large German city. You witness the unloading of the maimed from a newly arrived hospital train.

It is early morning. A chill rain is falling. Two or three score men with Red Cross bands on their coat sleeves carry the disabled soldiers on stretchers to waiting vehicles, which haul them to hospital buildings. There are Red Cross ambulances, luxurious limousines, great furniture vans, with reclining places for the wounded, much like the beds on the trains. A few women, who have relatives in those cars, stand patiently about.

A well-dressed gray-haired man is looking for his son, whom he soon finds, desperately hurt, and walks