Here at Soldier of Fortune, we uncovered a long-ago story of an atrocity during World War I, when eight prisoners met a horrific fate while captive in Germany. Here is the tale, as told by a fellow prisoner, “Pedro.” ~SKK
Pedro’s Tale
I was sailing on an English ship. She was British owned, had an English captain, and traded between Barcelona and British ports. She was manned almost entirely by us Spaniards. On February 7th, 1917, she was hit and sunk by a German submarine in the Mediterranean. She was struck in the bow on a rainy evening, when the blue-black sea was almost the only thing visible. The crippled hulk settled down into the waters almost at once.
Two or three comrades and myself clung to a spar from the vessel, struggling in the waves, which were running fairly high, for what seemed an eternity. In a short while the German submarine which had done the mischief came up.
A number of men came on to the little conning turret, and examined the sea around them. When they saw us they began jeering. That was a bitter moment. We thought they would leave us to drown. At last, the Germans seemed to change their minds, and we were picked up out of the water and taken on board their submarine.
After 12 days’ confinement in the submarine, we landed on the coast near Trieste. We were taken by train, packed like cattle and always under strict guard, to Germany. The journey lasted four days.
At last we reached the camp where we were interned. We found ourselves among Russians. We knew from hearsay that Russian prisoners were being treated better than the French, and especially than the English; so we thought their lot might be bearable. But we were very soon undeceived.
We were all put together, herded with some 20 or more Russians. We could exchange only a half-a-dozen words, either in French or German. Near to our hut there was another – a dungeon rather than a hut – where they kept prisoners who had been rebellious.
Two or three nights after our arrival we were awakened in the middle of the night by awful screamings and shouts. We found that fire had broken out in this punishment hut. The prisoners were shrieking to be let out, but nobody could let them out, and their jailers would not. There were six Russians in the dungeon, an Englishman, and a Frenchman.
Our Russian fellow-prisoners were greatly excited, naturally, as it was friends of theirs who were being burned or suffocated to death. We went out with the others straight from our straw mattresses, and found the fire was gaining inside the doomed hut, from which shouts, deep-throated curses, and shrieks were issuing like the shrieks of the damned.
Some soldiers were trying to put out the fire with a small hose. They were not succeeding very well, and all the time those poor devils inside were being roasted alive.
Two shots were fired by the Germans, and one of the Russians fell. My fellow sailor Julio, who stumbled, received a blow on the head. I shall never forget that awful sight.
The Englishman, a great brawny fellow, had thrust his fist through a small window, and was trying to escape. The opening seemed too small to allow his body to pass. A German sentry, seeing him push his shoulders through the window frame, gave him a prod with his bayonet. This hurled the poor fellow back into the blazing hut.
The Germans had not been instructed to let the men out. And so, while some continued to water the flames, though utterly in vain, others kept watch to make sure that the prisoners did not escape.
It was a horrible, gruesome scene.
Cries of shame and rage burst from all those who were watching, but what could we do? We were more numerous than our guards, but there was not a single weapon among us. The few Germans could hold us all at bay. Still we tried to rescue the men from the fire.
We made a rush at the burning building to pull it down with our hands. This was how we tried to release those poor wretches inside.
Two shots were fired by the Germans. One of the Russians fell, while Julio, who stumbled, received a blow on the head. He was carried off senseless by some of his comrades.
The sentinel by the little window saw one after another of the imprisoned men rush in agony to the opening with the idea of trying to get out. Each time this inhuman brute dug his bayonet into the man, who fell back, until the fellow’s bayonet was streaming with blood.
Howls of swearing and cursing came from the gathering crowd as we saw that the fire was gaining ground and the men were doomed.
At the height of it more soldiers came into the compound and surrounded us. For a moment we thought these reinforcements had come to put out the fire or to rescue the unfortunates in the dungeon. But it was not so; they were sent to quell the disturbance that was certainly breaking out; for, unarmed though we were, we were about to make a rush, a frantic rush, at the guards.
The Germans pushed us back with kicks and curses and blows with butt-ends. Just as this diversion occurred, we saw that the roof of the building had fallen in.
All was quiet in the blazing hut except for the crackling of the sparks. The eight prisoners had been burned to death.
Gradually we were forced back like cattle to our huts.
We were like raging beasts for the rest of that night. We groaned in agony as we reflected that we had in reality done nothing to free those poor creatures. And yet we felt how powerless we were, for at every movement we made, one of the brutal jailers had his rifle to his shoulder or raised his weapon with the bayonet ready to strike, as strike they often did.
And what do you think happened the next day?
The commander of the camp had a notice issued and posted up expressing regret for what had occurred through orders being misunderstood. The following day, the notice added, the funeral of the eight victims would take place with honours. When it did take place, the funeral was such a demonstration of hatred against those fiends in human shape the like of which I have never seen in my life.
After about three months’ imprisonment, Pedro and his countrymen were sent back to their homes, reaching Spain after a long, roundabout journey through Switzerland.
