HTML Transcription © F.Coakley , 2018
F.L. Dunbar, interned at Alexandra Palace north of London with its extensive views over London towards the south, has refused to join a new regiment, the 'London Scottish', which is just forming up. In consequence of this he has been placed on the 'Exiles' List'. His Scottish name had probably alerted the Camp authorities to the possibility he might wish to join this new Regiment. He didn't.
The party would appear to be that of 600 transferred from Alexandra Palace to Camp IV noted in the daily register under 11th October as arriving at 11.30am on 10th October 1915 comprising 272 Germans, 324 Austrians and 4 of other nationalities. The transfer of some 600 by train to Peel must have strained railway facilities - most other groups transiting via Douglas were around 200. The named travelling companions cannot be found in the surviving Knockaloe registers - possibly the names were mis-remembered as it seems a strange combination of individuals to have invented.
Although unnamed the description is of Liverpool Riverside station which lay adjacent to the Princes Floating dock joined by a bridge - the boat was the IoMSPCo Tynwald one of the three passenger ferries left after the Admiralty had requisitioned its larger vessels. He has the vessel landing at the 'mole' which is a somewhat disparaging description of Victoria pier the usual arrival and departure mooring unless he means they moored alongside the much smaller Battery pier usually used for freight and well away from any other passengers which would allow a march down the less frequented South quay to the station.
[page 156] Now it was time for us to bid farewell once more, to be transported
off into unknown remoteness. Here, London lay at my feet, its towers greeted
me from lovely pre-war days, there lay St. Paul's Cathedral, which I visited
with my mother, behind it the Crystal Palace, and even in the Camp we had settled
in and made friends. Yes, even the Zeppelin attacks represented another splendid
greeting from our far-away homes.
At 7 o'clock the signals sounded out, we formed up in three columns in front
of the building, several hundred exiles with their pitiful luggage. The rigmarole
of being ticked off and being counted in again, as though we were all precious
jewels, lasted several hours. The German camp-captain, a dutiful servant of
the English, paced up and down in front of us, with many a hate-filled or contemptuous
look following him. The ones staying behind grinned or waved out of their barred
monkey-cage windows. Then the old Commandant came and walked down the rows.
We moved another 3 metres forward and were allowed to sit on our luggage, while
those needing to go for a break were escorted by soldiers to the latrines. Finally
we were joined by Sadi Pasha, the director of the Ottoman Bank in London, in
a steel-blue overcoat, a small suitcase in his hand. We marched to the railway
station, where a special train was waiting. Gradually, despite over-crowded
compartments, acquaintances did meet up again. In this way I sat together in
the same compartment with Sadi Pasha; with the previously-mentioned musician
Bohltsmann, who carried his violin as carefully as he would a child in swaddling-clothes;
with Schilch, a fat farmer from Canada; with a barber, [page 157] who had once
put a parting in the hair of the King of England; and, last but not least, with
'Frida', the female impersonator, and his associate, Mandari. The mood was one
of enforced merriment.
The train rolled out of London, women waved at it from their windows, with the
idea it was a troop train. The corridors were patrolled by tommies with fixed
bayonets. The Pasha, with kismet in mind, was smoking long cigarettes, one of
which 'Frida', smiling at him, asked to be given. 'No harem on the Isle of Men',
she said, rather tactlessly. But the Pasha understood no German. I opened my
drum of biscuits, and everybody helped himself. Mandarini, the acrobat, who
in reality was a man called Gottlieb Rindfleisch, performed card tricks. At
the general request, Bohltsmann then unveiled his violin and provided accompaniment
to the folksong Muss ich denn, muss ich denn.1 Only the face
of the 'Caraway-Seed Turk', as the barber cheekily called the Pasha, remained
motionless.
'Why have they jugged you up?' the farmer, in his threatening bass voice, asked
the barber, 'was it because you were going to give His Majesty's hair a parting
with an axe?' 'You bet-ya!' the hair artist replied, and everybody laughed.
'Frida' was treated like a lady, she had put on a cloche hat and gave the Pasha
a saucy tickle with its ostrich feather. Every time 'she' had to leave the compartment,
Rindfleisch shouted out 'Oh dear!', and the fat farmer tried to grab her tight.
'You poofter!' she shouted then, and even the soldier grinned, when she went
past him, and coyly threw him a kiss.
The atmosphere was quite reasonable, when at five o'clock we stopped for the
first time, at Crewe. The railway platform was sealed off from the public, just
as it would have been for the transit of a royal special train. As we crossed
through the industrial zone and finally reached Liverpool, it had begun to grow
dusk. Set free from the long journey, we got out of the train, but a [page 158]
cordon of troops left only a narrow passage free to reach the quay, where our
steamer was lay in wait. How refreshing sea-air was, and what a beautiful sight
this international port offered, with its massive brightly-lit steamers and
all the many little ones flitting back and forth on the water, like fireflies.
In contrast to London, the city shone out bright in the electric light, without
a care for the Zepps. We had to wait on the pier for the sick and cripples to
be embarked, and after them the luggage. The deck was reserved for us. Then
the Tynewald hove out into the Irish Sea, always along the coast, lighthouse
to lighthouse.
Wind blowing from the north-west. Propelled by it, the long ridges of the waves
danced along, threw somersaults, and foamed roaring into their own valley troughs.
The sea shimmered into the far distance in fantastically improbable shades,
as the evening gradually descended. Dark and full of deep secrets, the lonely
prisoner-ship laboured its way by night into remote regions. Soon the fog enshrouded
us. After an hour and a half, we cut engines. Signals from a lightship were
warning us: 'Drift-mines and U-Boats', but the captain was going to take the
risk. All lights were extinguished. An icy wind blew across the deck, then a
persistent cheerless rain set in, and slowly our limbs stiffened up in the cold
and wet. One man leaned sleeping against the other, hunger and weariness gaining
the upper hand. The metal body of the ship vibrated from the rhythmic piston-thrusts
of the engine. At 5 a.m., we were still at full speed. For breakfast there were
only cups of tea at 4 pence each. In the wild scramble, many people had already
brought a cup up from below, but they got terrible stomach pains, and many of
them were now attempting to storm the few 'W.C.s' and offering 5 shillings for
the privilege. As well as that, there was sea-sickness from the rolling of the
ship, while at the same time the continuing cold drizzle and the foam off the
waves turned us into wretched scarecrow figures. [page 159] The female impersonator
was the only one tough enough to stay cheerful, and he good-naturedly caressed
the Pasha's face, which had grown green.
Finally, at about 7 o'clock, the rugged rocky coast of the Man-Island rose from
the waters, we saw the castle of
the dukes of Atholl, the former feudal kings. The steamer suddenly began
unexpectedly to sound its horn appallingly, which nearly finished others and
myself off, making us bang hard into the breast rails of the ship and leaving
us gasping hard for breath, to stave off unconsciousness. Swarms of seagulls
in close array flew screeching over our heads. Finally we landed at the mole.
Volunteers to the fore, to manhandle to luggage out. For two hours we were not
permitted to leave the ship. Checking and counting off in the pouring rain.
Then soldiers, very old ones, took us into custody, surrounded us and led us
through Douglas, the capital of the Isle of Man, and into the railway station.
The Isle of Man had ceased to be a seaside resort, it had turned into a prisoner-island.
Once more there was a train journey, once more each compartment had an armed
guard, then we travelled down through the island, out to the west. After an
hour, we could already see the gigantic camp in the distance, the happy end
to happy travelling! In the fishing port of Peel the command was 'Get out',
and the well-known old rite of counting us in once more made its appearance.
The skies wept. A whistling, raging downpour crashed down. Wet, grey, sadness
all around. Only Frida remained unconquered. He once again had the cloche hat
on his head and shouted out, 'God, oh God, what are they leading me into?' But
a tommy knocked his hat off with his bayonet and kicked it into the mud. 'God,
oh God', Frida cried out in comic shock, 'No, no! these ogres on this disgusting
island-thing!' Everybody gave a melancholy laugh, but the farmer from Canada
placed himself in protection next to the Impersonator, as the march now began.
Every half-hour 2, the whistle would blow for 'Halt', at which point
[page 160] between 40 and 70 men would flank the roadside ditch and imitate
the fountain artistry of the Villa d'Este 3. Frida always kept her
eyes shut at these times.
Gerald Newton translator, 6 October 2018.
1 A Swabian folksong, muss i denn, 'Have I got to leave home and leave
you behind?' (Elvis Prestley's 'Wooden Heart', 1960.)
2 The distance is only just over 2km and can be walked in less than 30mins
3 Villa d'Este: 16th-century villa in Tivoli, near Rome. Famous for its
profusion of fountains.
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| Any comments, errors or omissions gratefully received The
Editor HTML Transcription © F.Coakley , 2018 |
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