they had received.

But there was no sleep for the poor victims--until the long, black
sleep of unconsciousness rolled over them and in mercy blotted out
their misery--for the N.C.O.'s came for them and dragged them away
from us, and the sickening spectacle began again.

There were just eleven of us, British and Canadians, in the camp
at this time, twelve of the British having been sent away; and it
happened that this was the day, July 4th, that we wrote our cards. We
remembered that when the men had written cards about the lice it had
brought results: we had no other way of communication with the world,
and although this was a very poor one, still it was all we had. We
knew our cards would never get out of Germany; indeed, we were afraid
they would never leave the camp, but we would try.

We went to the place where the cards were kept, which was in charge
of a Polish Jew, who also acted as interpreter. He had been in the
Russian Army, and had been taken prisoner in the early days of the
war. There was a young Russian with him who did clerical work in the
camp. They were both in tears. The Jew walked up and down, wringing
his hands and calling upon the God of Abraham and of Isaac and of
Jacob! Sometimes he put his hands over his ears... for the cries of
his countrymen came through the window.

When we got our cards, we wrote about what had happened. Some of the
cards were written to John Bull; some to the British War-Office; some
to the newspapers; some to friends in England, imploring them to
appeal to the United States Government at Washington, to interfere
for humanity's sake. We eased our minds by saying, as far as we could
say it on a card, what we thought of the Germans. Every card was full
of it, but the subject was hardly touched. I never knew before the
full meaning of that phrase, "Words are inadequate."

Words were no relief!--we wanted to kill--kill--kill.

* * *

The running of the Russians went on for days. Every one of them who
came in from the farm got it--without mercy.... Different N.C.O.'s
performed the gruesome rites...

* * *

We had only one hope of quick results. The Commandant of the camp at
Celle--that is the main Cellelager--had an English wife, and had,
perhaps for that reason, been deprived of his command as an Admiral
of the fleet. We hoped he would hear of our cards--or, better still,
that his wife might hear.

The first indication we had