§ 1

In only one province did Colonel Westcott, our genial factotum, place a voluntary check upon his own activities. His sphere, he decided, was confined within the elastic boundaries of education, moral conduct and Pan-Saxon philosophy. And he accepted these limitations with the quiet resignation of one who owns three-quarters of the globe, and deems the remainder to be a land of frost and snow. In other hands he laid the responsibilities of the sports and entertainments committees. And for this reason, perhaps, they were the two most productive bodies.

For the average Gefangener, however, games were hard to get. Germany is not athletic in the sense that we are. Militarism has{194} made muscular development the supreme good of all outdoor exercises, and in consequence the authorities thought they had sufficiently catered for our physical propensities by the erection of a horizontal bar, and the largess of some iron weights. Well, that is hardly our idea of sport; and as a nation I do not think we shall ever show much enthusiasm for Swedish drill, P.T., trapezes, and the various devices of a gymnasium, that leave so little room for individuality. The allegiance to a green field and a leather ball, small or big as the season demands, will not be shaken. And at Mainz there were neither green fields nor leather balls.

The gravel square was the only open space we had, and it was uncommonly hard to fall on. There was one football in the camp, belonging to an orderly, that was from time to time the centre of an exhilarating display. But it was a dangerous pastime; every game resulted in at least three injuries, and a scraped elbow was no joke in a country

Image unavailable: OUR PRISON SQUARE. [To face page 194.
OUR PRISON SQUARE.
[To face page 194.

{195}

devoid of medicine. Only the very daring played, and soon most of them were “crocked.”

For a month hockey enjoyed an ephemeral popularity, and a league was arranged, in which nearly every room entered a side. While they lasted those games were great fun, and they were capital exercise. But before very long all the sticks had been smashed, and all efforts to replace them were unavailing, and though a few individuals who had had sticks sent out from England were able to get an occasional game, for the great mass of us hockey ceased almost as soon as it had begun.

The only other game was tennis. As there is no rubber in Germany, this had to be delayed till the late summer, by which time balls and racquets had arrived from England. But what is one court among six hundred? Only a very limited section of the camp could play, and those whose abilities were slight did not feel themselves justified in engaging the court to the exclusion of their more able brethren. And the{196} whole business really amounted to this: that although a newcomer to the camp would see the square at nearly all moments of the day occupied by some game or other, for the average Gefangener the athletic world did not exist. His sole form of exercise was the grey constitutional round the square; and just before the closing of the gates at night, it was as if a living tube was being moved round within the wire. Five hundred odd officers were walking in couples round a square, with a circumference of four hundred yards; words cannot give an impression which can only be caught in terms of paint. For the populace billiards was the one athletic outlet.

And as the two chief resources of the average subaltern are athletics and the theatre, this suppression of one channel, diverted to the stage the entire enthusiasm of the camp. Of course each of us thinks his own little part of the world the best: our school, our company, our battalion, they seem to each individual one of us perfect
Image unavailable: “FIVE HUNDRED ODD OFFICERS WALKING ROUND THE SQUARE.” [To face page 196.
“FIVE HUNDRED ODD OFFICERS WALKING ROUND THE SQUARE.”
[To face page 196.

{197}

and unique. It is only natural that we should think the P.O.W. Theatre, Mainz, the absolute Alhambra of the Gefangenenlagers. However bad our shows had been we should have thought them supreme. But really, considering that every costume had to be improvised, every piece of scenery painted on flimsy paper, and that female attire was unpurchasable, I do not think that its shows could have been better staged. Certainly the scenic effects towards the end of our captivity were better than anything one would have seen at a provincial pantomime, though that is in itself hardly a recommendation.

Programmes began modestly enough in the days of soup and sauerkraut. We were hungry then and had little spare vitality. But a concert party was formed that called itself the “Pows,” and which gave performances every Saturday. There were many difficulties, the chief one being an entire lack of revue music. In order to get a song the aid of many had to be invoked. A{198} committee of six would sit round a table trying to remember the words of “We’ve got a little Cottage” or “When Paderewski plays.” Each person remembered a stray line or phrase, and gradually like a jigsaw puzzle the fabric was completed. And then the music had to be written, and luckily the “Pows” possessed in Aubrey Dowdon a musical director who could write music as fast as he could write a letter. He scored the parts, and the musician strummed them out. The result was a most amusing vaudeville performance. There were some excellent voices, romantic and humorous; Aubrey Dowdon was himself no mean vocalist, and there was Milton Hayes.

Indeed it is hard not to make the account of those early performances a mere chronicle of Milton Hayes. He was the supreme humorist. All he had to do was to stand on the stage and smile, and the audience was happy. It was a wonderful smile, that unconscious innocent affair that only childhood is supposed to know. And to watch{199} Hayes perform was like watching a child play with bricks. It was as if he were making his jokes simply for his own pleasure, building up his toy palace of fun, and then turning to his audience to ask them how they liked it. A small stage and a small room give scope for a far deeper intimacy than is possible in the large proscenium of a London hall, where the artist can see before him only a dull blur of faces through the dusk. At Mainz Milton Hayes could see and, as it were, speak to each individual present, and before he had been on the stage five minutes one felt as if he were an old friend that one had known all one’s life. He caught the true spirit of intimacy, the kindredship with his audience, that is the whole secret of the music-hall profession.

 

During the first two months the programme did not change much. There would be always some slight variety in a new stunt by Hayes, a new tune by Dowdon, or a topical sketch. But the old numbers con{200}tinually cropped up. “The Money Moon” and “When you’re a long way from Home”—these never left us. Still, they received a hearty welcome. The audience in an Offiziergefangenenlager is not too captious. It goes not to criticise but to be amused. And so for the first two months the “Pows” continued to entertain us every Saturday. After a while the stress of private composition caused Milton Hayes to drop out more or less, but the company went on with an undiminished vigour. And then suddenly a rumour went round the camp that a rival company was being formed, and that in a fortnight’s time the “Shivers” would start their continental tour.

The general good being the one standard by which to judge any collective innovation, the enterprise of the “Shivers” must be considered the greatest benefit the camp received. Competition roused the ambition of the “Pows.” Each party swore to outdo the other. There ensued a race of progressive excellence. Each performance was produced{201} with a more lavish outlay of the public funds; each time the curtain rose a deeper gasp paid homage to scenic artists; and the composers ceased to rely for their material on the work of other men. They began to write their own songs and their own music; the old ragtime and coon melodies disappeared, and instead we had original airs and topical numbers. And here the “Pows” had a great advantage, for their musical director, who in these pages shelters himself beneath the pseudonym of Aubrey Dowdon, had a gift for libretto that we soon expect to see on the playbills of the Alhambra, and his company finally beat all records with a musical operetta entitled The Girl on the Stairs. All the songs were original, and it was marvellously staged. There were eastern grottos, and the gleam of white shoulders through the dusk. There was a long serenade to the Jehlum River girl, in which brown tanned slaves prostrated themselves before the half-naked form of a sylph arrayed in veils. There were humour{202} and naughtiness, horseplay and burlesque. It was a triumph of impromptu and ingenuity, after which the activities of the “Shivers” fell woefully flat.

From the psychological standpoint the professional jealousy of those weeks of hectic rivalry provided food for much deliberation. The rivalry once definitely acknowledged, the camp did its best to foment contention. The manager of the “Shivers” would be told that, unless he was careful, he would be absolutely washed out by the “Pows,” and the same story was carried to Dowdon. There were few things more amusing than to sit behind either party during a rival performance. They would simulate great enthusiasm, but all the time they would be exchanging shy and nervous glances. There would be whispers of—

“Do you think it’s good?”

“Rather cheap that, isn’t it?”

“What a chestnut!”

And if the piece did make a hit, what colossal “wind-up,” what profound trepidation!{203} And with what eager haste was the next show rehearsed. From the point of view of the public, this was entirely excellent. We got excellent shows, for there is no goad like jealousy.

But competition is a dangerous tool, and I often used to wonder where all this frenzy would end, and to what point it was leading. It had got beyond the well-defined limits of a good-humoured race. If it had been a case of nations, it is quite plain what the result would have been. Competition would have become contention, jealousy would have bred hatred, and there would have been a war, of which the real issue would have been, shall we say, the prop-box. But of course the companies themselves would not have fought; they had started the war, that would have been enough for them. And the ordinary Gefangener, who had quite unconsciously fanned this flame, by scratching at the sore place and aggravating the little itch, would find himself enrolled under one standard or the other, and involved{204} in a war of which he was the unwitting cause.

And he would be told—well, what would he be told? That he was fighting for a prop-box? That would never do. There might come a time when he would not consider a prop-box worth the surrender of his liberty. No, the manager would have to find some striking and impersonal cause, “not for passion, or for power.” A theme must be found fitting for high oratory, a framework constructed that would bear the weight of many sounding phrases. Let the poor Gefangener believe that he is fighting for the freedom of the English stage; let the old catchwords rip, “Art against Vulgarity,” “The Drama against the Vaudeville,” “Shakespeare against A Little Bit of Fluff.” And then....

But fortunately we were not nations armed with a pulpit and a Press, we were simply prisoners of war, and this competition produced some very delightful entertainment. But all the same, I still wonder{205} where things would have ended, if we had stayed there much longer. We were riding for a smash. We had exhausted our limited resources; for one man cannot compose, stage and produce a new musical comedy every fortnight, and the rivalry of the two parties had developed at such an alarming pace that we were faced with the prospect of a return to “The Money Moon,” when Milton Hayes returned to the stage, and, in his own phrase, “let loose the light that set the vault of heaven on fire.”
§ 2

For some weeks Milton Hayes had been living the retired life of an author, architect or other student. For he had found the effort of repeated performances in an unnatural atmosphere a very real strain on his nerves.

“No Sanatogen,” he said, “that’s what does it. I can’t act without Sanatogen. I used to try champagne once, but it left me like a rag afterwards. Sanatogen’s the stuff.”{206}

As a traveller in this commodity he would have made quite a hit. He never wearied of singing its praises, and we used to ask him why he did not forward to the firm one of those credentials that begin, “Since using your admirable tonic....”

“Why don’t you try it, Milton?” we used to say. “It would be a jolly good advertisement. ‘Milton Hayes, the author of the Green Eye, says....’ You’d have your name placarded all over the kingdom.”

But he would none of it.

“No,” he said, “that’s far too obvious. Any beginner tries that stunt, or men that are ‘has beens.’ I might invent a mixture. But no, not the other thing. It’s not the sort of publicity one wants.”

But whatever commercial advantage Sanatogen may have lacked as an advertising agent, its absence in Hayes’s life certainly affected his nerves. It is a compound that he found palatable only in milk, and even condensed milk was a rare commodity. The result was that Milton Hayes joined the band{207} of Wordsmiths in the Alcove, and spent his time working on his lyrics and on a musical comedy.

This programme satisfied him well enough for a couple of months. In France he had spent much of his time organising concert parties, and in his heart of hearts he was not sorry to be quit for a time of grease paints and the greenroom. But it could not last; and within a short time he was longing for fresh worlds to conquer. And, at the suggestion of a friend, he altered and abbreviated his musical comedy into a farcical libretto calculated to run for about a hundred minutes. This comp............