# Diary of a Prisoner in World War I/French Captivity—1916

​French Captivity—1916
Copied from notes in July 1940—twenty-four years later.
July 7
At 4 o'clock the anchor's lifted and we are leaving...
Goodbye, Asinara, Goodbye, Italy. You gave us much—good and bad—but didn't give us the freedom we longed for! Thank God you cleansed us of lice and diseases—the worst things we could encounter.
I thank you, my God, for protecting me here for 6 months from all diseases. Now I am looking toward the future with new hope.
We sail slowly, the last contours of Asinara and Sardinia disappearing slowly. The sea is calm, and we on the upper deck suffer from heat, but those down below are much worse off. They are crammed in much worse. My old friends Roubík and Ferdinandi from Veltrusy are with me.
At 6 o'clock we got a command: no smoking, no speaking aloud. The Italians must be afraid.
The night is real bad—rather cold at times, and no space. We sleep sitting, cringed, and twisted one over another.
​July 8
I woke up in the morning with a strong headache and stomachache. I ran to a latrine, seasick for the second time. It lasted about 2 hours. Half a cup of good coffee put my stomach in order.
At about 7 we approached a forested coast and arrived in the port of Toulon. It offered a little more certainty—when you are on the sea and see nothing but water all around, it seems that the ship is not moving and you can never get out of those waters. There were festungs and lighthouses on both sides. There was a large Red Cross hospital ship in the port, a warship, 5 monitors, and some submarines. Right at the pier there were 5 huge steamers, high as 6-story houses and as long as a street. The people on them looked like ants on a railway car. We got bread.
At half past seven we got off and went through a cordon of French soldiers, all youngsters aged about 17. Their uniforms were dark blue; their officers' were colored the same as our field uniforms, and higher ranks had white cloth uniforms.
We got on 2nd class railway coaches elegantly outfitted with plush seats. It's always 9 prisoners and 1 soldier. Well, being a soldier, I hadn't traveled in such a luxury so far! What a difference—2nd class or cattle van! The soldiers are smart—they bring water to our ​field flasks. We haven't drank such cool water in a very long time.
A hydroplane flew quickly over us, landing every now and then. We saw huge factories and storage facilities, huge pyramids of briquettes. A huge military transport passed by with horses. We left Toulon at night.
July 9
The signs in the coaches are in French, German, and English. Passing through the Toulon suburbs, we saw civilians again after 8 months and the forest green we'd missed so much on Asinara. But, most important, we watched women. Each of us was just gazing at those lush daughters of the French south, and our thoughts were so strange! Small wonder—none of us had even approached a woman in 23 months. None of us had tried the pleasures of love. I must admit that French girls are really pretty!
Just to be free at home—now we feel the full weight of our fate. A soldier with a bayonet is placed five steps from another one. Every move and step are commented upon.
The train passed through beautiful gardens and well-kept vineyards. Figs, olives, and fine spruces swished by our windows. Some mountains approached slowly and a longer tunnel. Tired from the ship, I fell asleep. I was awakened by the command to get off at a small village named Cassis. It was 12:15.
​From there we walked on a great but dusty road, and after an hour we could see a bay. The road went along the shore, climbing so it reminded us of wild Albania. A milestone at the crossroads said "18 km to Marseille." It was very hot; we were fatigued. We branched off at the 6th kilometer and arrived at a prisoner camp in an hour. It was in a valley surrounded by bare hills. The old building was a forsaken monastery. Beautiful park and buildings. Cells for 14 people sat in a huge square. Some 500 steps farther there were 15 houses with German prisoners.
The Italians handed us over, lined us up, and brought us to cells. I fell asleep immediately. The camp was surrounded by guards with bayonets. We felt like we were in an animal farm. They don't take a single step without bayonets here. They go for water, to the canteen, for meals or bread—always lined up perfectly and with bayonets. The Germans look real good in their brown uniforms and wide straw hats. Their shirts and hats bear large, printed letters—"P.G."—plus a number. You can tell a prissonier de guerre—a war prisoner—from afar.
There are 3 big canteens where you can buy bread, anchovies, cheese, or lemonade—all adequately expensive. ¾ liter of lemonade is 60 cts., i.e. 1 lire. They deduct 25% from the Italian currency. It's a strange charge. What's worse, they give us Italian coins as change, thus stealing from us twice.
​Incredible stuff: Every now and then, they do Verkaterny or Sur Eptenut, as they call it. They line us up for hours, then count us and line us up again. They keep counting us and never seem to be done.
July 10
We wake up at half past six and get a cup of canned coffee (not worth saying much about). At 9 we get approximately 600 grams of bread; at 11 we get a great soup made of potatoes with peas or lentils, and a piece of meat as big as a finger. We like it; it's well-spiced and tasty, and there's a lot of vegetables. They serve it in dishes for ten men.
600 to 800 people leave every day. Our turn is tomorrow. [Those who leave are given provisions] for 2 days—bread, a piece of bacon, and one can of fish is a one-day portion. We are divided by trades but then we are sent out mixed again.
July 11
French soldiers are a strange mixture—65-year-olds with 18-year-old recruits. The uniforms vary—black, blue, brown, white, and green. It pleases the eye to look at all the colors within one unit.
Officers are mostly pensioners or disabled. But they're intelligent and much more polite than the Italians. I must admit they treat us well; it's a pity we don't understand them—everything would be much easier. As it is everywhere, the Serbs are the worst crew here.
​They want to get everywhere just like cattle. They pulled out their Serb chaykashes, which we generally hate. It's hot here as it was on Asinara—it's a pity we cannot hide under the trees that are around the camp.
We miss our homes so much. Our memories have always given us comfort, but where do I get a chance? We play cards every day.
Camp de Carpiagne
July 13
Verkaterung—we got food for 3 days—a loaf and a half, 4 bits of bacon approximately as big as those on Asinara for 1 Lira, and 3 cans of sardines. At 10 we got our last tasty meal and marsch to the Cassis station. From afar we saw a new transport from Asinara that had just arrived. The people on it went a different way so we wouldn't meet. There was a large transport of blacks who showed us their white teeth.
They wore uniforms—and would escort us. Their fingers were full of rings, and they showed off.
​We were in tens in 2nd and 3rd class coaches, going to Marseille. We departed at 2. We passed 2 big tunnels, and at 4 we were leaving Marseille station over the P-L-M route (Paris-Lyon-Marseille). There were two tracks, built expensively with long tunnels and lofty bridges. Wayside signs showed its length is 834 kilometers.
We passed along the sea for a moment, then hillside, rocks, meadows, grazing flocks, fields, vineyards. The train went very fast. Brick and ceramic factories passed by our windows. A large city at kilometer 802 (Miramar?) and an unending flat behind it. We had our supper, and I fell asleep sitting up. We reached Station Orange at night.
July 14
Morning, half past seven, and we were at kilometer 582—Roues—so we had traveled more than 200 kilometers overnight. Then there was kilometer 778—Arles, where we passed through vineyards. At night our black guards were replaced by the 320th battalion—all old geezers. We felt broken, having slept sitting up.
Station Wienne. Ceramic factories.
At kilometer 509—Lyon, a huge city. Lovely, wide streets, great palaces, many factories.
​Leaving at half past 8, each of us got a trinkbecher of coffee. So far we are satisfied with the French. They treat us decently and pass us water in the coaches, and girls wave and even blow kisses. Maybe they mistake us for Italians, as we still wear Italian uniforms.
We admire the French women. They are jolly and dress tastefully. They care about fashion. As it is everywhere, anyone with straight legs was drafted from age 16 to 60. Women have replaced men on the railroads and trams, and everywhere.
Kilometer 482—Lozane. All meadows around the track with grazing cattle. It was noticeable that we were moving northward. The harvest hadn't even begun there whereas down south, it was over. Cold, cloudy day. The guard was replaced again by Battalion 85.
Kilometer 380—Taras-le-Mars. We got coffee from the Red Cross.
Kilometer 349—Moulins. A large station at quarter to four. Hundreds of cars with corn, huge storage halls.
Kilometer 314—St. Pierre. We meet a Red Cross train carrying the injured. Half past six—Sangaze. Guards replaced again—Battalion 123. Black coffee. It's comic how at each stop we jump off the coaches and sturm the toilets.
​The tracks branched off at kilometer 275. One went to Paris and the other to Bordeaux. We passed a large city at night after St. Pierre. We didn't learn its name.
July 15
5 o'clock in the morning: Tours. The guards were replaced by the 3rd Regiment of the French cavalry with helmets and long, horsehair tails. Our transport was divided there. I parted with Roubík and Ferdinandi, and we left. Guards changed again at nine. We passed through a town where the women really gazed at us. It's humiliating to be looked at as wild animals. Oh, when will our ill fate turn good? When will we be free again?
At 3 p.m. we arrived in a large town—Les Sables de Otone, near the Atlantic. That is from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic! This town is our destination. A huge industrial town with a forest of factory chimneys and ships.
We arrived at a briquette factory where the smoky faces of the Reichsdeutscher prisoners welcomed us. They work here, and reportedly they're quite satisfied. They welcomed us in a friendly manner and started to collect mattresses. We slept in a huge storage facility, and they were kind to us. They have their own canteen, a library, and a band here; the band performed "Radetzky Marsch" ​to greet us. The Germans gave us a good meal and coffee. I lay down happy to stretch my aching and twisted limbs. We will never forget how friendly they were to us. They divided all they had for us like real brothers. We talked long into the night.
July 16
Today is rasttag for us. The Germans are still very kind to us—they gave us 3 meals today although they received nothing for us. They give us bread and treat us like brothers. A French corporal asked them, "Didn't you fight Austriaci?" The fool! The French counted us three times a day.
There was a big concert in the evening. We sang the Austrian anthem, "Deutschland Über Alles," etc. Their meals are very good and the bread is great.
July 17
The guards divided us into groups of 20 and took us to the station after lunch. We got on the train. It passed through the city more like a tramway. Everybody frowned at us as they would at cruel monsters; they clenched their fists and swore: "Bosch! Kraut!". We do not know what they mean, but they certainly aren't nice.
​My team has 2 Czechs, 6 Germans, 1 Russian, 3 Dalmatians, and 8 Croats—20 citizens in all, an illustration of our beloved Oesterreich! At 4 we got off and walked 8 kilometers to a village with a nice castle and a church. We were taken to a house with 3 rooms—2 for us and 1 for the guard. There were 5 guards for 20 prisoners. Planks and straw were ready, but no blankets—they hadn't arrived yet.
While we were making our beds, 4 civilians came to choose workers from among us. It was a hard deal—none of us could speak French, and they could only speak French. German didn't help; nobody understands it. This is typical of French education. Every one of us could speak 2 languages besides our mother tongue. We spoke one by one, trying to communicate—in Czech, German, Hungarian, Croatian, Romanian, Italian, and even a little English. All in vain, as my father would say. Five of us were chosen, and it was done.
July 18
The five of us got up at 4 and went to work in the castle. First we cleared a shed—our future dining room—and then we got our first breakfast: a cup of sweet coffee and lovely white bread. Then we got pitchforks and got to work the hay in the meadow.
We had lunch in the field at noon: beans that were really nice, and then some mixture that looked awful but was edible, especially when we were so hungry. A nice view—5 men sitting ​and eating around the dish. Great white wheat bread, huge loaves, and one liter of white wine. There should have been more of that. 2 hours of rest. Supper was that mixture again—boiled bread, carrots, beets, beans, potatoes, and cabbage all together.
That white wheat bread, the fact that we always got enough of it, and the good wine reconciled us with the French village. These things healed us. We worked out under the hot, southern sun, slept tight (though sometimes there was very little sleep as we got up at 4, started work at 5, worked till 7, and slept for 2 hours at noon when the heat was peaking. The meals of the southern French villagers—beans, pork, poultry, eggs, butter, vegetables, and the good wine, gave us strength. I don't know how the comrades in the factory camps were doing, but we wanted to finish the war working in the country. We got used to farm work, and the inhabitants got used to us; some even liked us. Every time they got on better with us than with the Germans. They gradually understood who we were and learned to differentiate between an Autrichien and a Bosch. And, later still, when we learned to understand them and communicate with them, they really liked us and tried to make our fate easier as much as they could.
And our boys, handsome and strong, got into good shape: They shaved, went around clean ​and neat with their beards under bands. They even started intimate relationships with girls and soldier wives. That was forbidden and punished severely; this was why the guards were always with us, going to work and home, locking us up at night: Certainly not for fear that we might run but to prevent us from contacting the civilians.
Gradually the discipline loosened. The guards also started to pursue their own interests, and as our boys were together with the workers all day—in the fields, barns, sheds, and stables—it was difficult to prevent contact. Many friendships and love affairs were started, and when the matter became too widely public, the prisoners were just relocated to another village in a different district, and gone were the affairs. The persistent ones, though, found their ways even so. They found good-hearted Frenchmen who delivered letters secretly. We had trouble writing these letters, but finally we made it. I wrote so many love letters for my friends, always following a single formula: "Ma cherie Viktorine, Germaine, Lussete, etc. Je pense—je ne—oublie jamais…" My friends, Valdeman and Novacek: what's left of these promises?
But never mind. It improved our miserable lives, that daily contact with the village people who were kind and sympathetic. They often kept our minds busy with their "pauvre ​enfants" and their kind inquiries as to where we were from, what it was like in our homes, and how we lived. Communicating with them was hard; we spoke using our hands. Anyway, those good villagers were completely ignorant of where our homeland is. And when we made the mistake of telling them we were neither Bosch nor Autrichiens, but that we were de la Boheme, it was all over. La Boheme is a Gypsy—so they kept wondering why we were not black but blond. Sometime a Gypsy with a bear came to the village.
We had hard work explaining to the French who we were. When we learned French and explained that we were Czechs—le Tcheque—it was good. But then we had to move to a completely new environment. They asked us about our families; we showed them the photographs and explained what life was like at home. Our boys boasted that everything was better, smarter, and more perfect.
But then again we could boast justly. We were ahead of the French in everything: land cultivation, household matters, cuisine, education. There were very many people here who could not read, who had open fireplaces in their houses with kettles on chains, burning shrubs, and dried cow waste they collected, dried, and stacked in the summer. ​They didn't know about dumplings or cakes; their soups were only of bread or vegetables; they ate pork boiled, never roasted; they had boiled poultry and beans for breakfast, lunch, and supper. And they ate a lot of bread for every meal. They didn't eat much potatoes, and if they did they were only baked.
But all cooking is done with good butter, and no beer—just wine morning, noon, and evening. And what wine! When we got home years later, we never liked any wine because it could never be equal to the homegrown south French natural wine. And it was cheap! One chop—approximately .4/10 liter—was for 15 cts., but you didn't even need those 15 cts. They offered you a taste and kept pouring again and again.
There was one more specialty in the coastal areas where we worked for farmers: fish, oysters, and snails. When they first gave us a dish full of snails, none of us would even touch them—we loathed them. It made us sick to see the people eat them and to suck their oysters. It took us a very long time to learn how to open them with knives and suck them out. The snails were boiled in garlic sauce or roasted on tin pans, and then there were things like prawns and other sea beasts that we didn't know. But we got used to it, as we did to the clogs that replaced our leather shoes.
The menu was all the same—very tasty cabbage, beans, pork, eggs, and bread—and ​we always had an appetite. At first we ate separately as directed—and we ate all that was brought to us. If a farmer's wife was careless and left a whole butter lump on the table, she would not find it again. We cut it with spoons or hid it in empty cans. Later they were more careful and separated portions for everyone.
This went on the whole week. On Sundays we had a day off and cooked for ourselves. The mayor brought us bread, meat, grease, beans, and salt, and we took turns being Sunday cooks. Everyone tried hard to earn praise for their lunches. We often greased the lunches with what we kept for the whole week—a bit of grease here, some beans there, or a piece of meat there. Sometimes the farmer's wife would give the cook something secretly so our Sunday lunches could be even more substantial.
One cooked, and others washed clothes. We wet them on Saturdays in the nearby pond, using stones as weights so the clothes would not float away. Sunday was the washing day—with brush and soap we ground our miserable shirts and underwear, then rinsed them in the pond and dried them on the fence.
The first 4 who were done with washing sat down to play cards. The others shaved, twisted their mustaches under bands, and wrote home.
​After lunch we would sit in the garden, talk about memories, and sometimes sing. That was when the village beauties walked by our house and peeped over the fence.
After about 3 weeks, we received an order to stamp all our underwear and clothes. A guard brought tin forms. Jára, who was sick, got the forms and paint and started printing "P.G." and a six-digit number. Jára was very skilful. He could do anything in the world—repair watches and ploughs, shoes and stoves—but could not read or write. We only learned that much later. He concealed it well, as he was ashamed of it. He would get no letters and wrote to no one, so we never learned anything.
So Jára printed and printed. But alas, when the guard came back from his stroll in the evening he found that Jára had also painted the underwear that was being dried in the garden. It could not be erased nor washed off.
July 19
Waking up at 4, then coffee and haymaking. We work as if we were paid 5 crowns a day. Lunch at noon, as yesterday, that mixture for supper, then potato goulash and finally milk pap. It was dark when we got home. Our work is a bit too much for 20 cts. daily. Guards watch us. We cannot leave them for a single step. They are with us in the fields all day.
They don't fuss around with us at night. To avoid having to watch, they lock us in, give us ​a nachttopf—a big tub into which we do it—and, as the door and windows are sealed, there is a wonderful aroma all night.
July 20
We yielded our Italian money and got various instructions. We can write cards home one Sunday and letters the next. A doctor came today and inspected our two sick men. At night I feel like I've been beaten. I'm not used to such hard work.
July 21
Still haymaking. Meals are getting better day by day. Coffee, bread, and butter in the morning, bread soup, beans, bread and butter, and a glass of wine at noon. Bread soup, potato goulash, milk pap, salad, and bread in the evening. We must hand in all money; we can't keep even a penny, maybe so we can't buy a car and flee.
July 22
We got straw hats with "P.G." painted on them. Great sausages for supper today.
July 23
Sunday. We sleep longer, make coffee. I write a card home, and we wash. What a difference—a Sunday two years ago and now. I long for freedom so much. A barber came and shaved us all.
​July 27-30
Days pass in work. Digging vegetables such as beets, harvesting wheat, etc. Lots of work. I am always glad when the evening comes.
Food is good and abundant. Bread is great and there is plenty of it. Meals are various, such as I have never seen. Boiled green beans with butter, beans, green peas, and a salad twice a day. Sometimes even meat. We can't buy anything; the guards took our money. And then we cannot communicate—if we could, we would be much better off.
The French are not bad to us. In farming they are backward. Their kitchens look like Albanian ones—no ceilings, smoky beams, Serb fireplaces, chained kettles with fire underneath.
July 30
Sunday again. We look forward to these few moments of rest so much. I wash, stitch, and write home, including 4 cards to Ústí—to F.T., A.S., A.M., and Kohn & Kornfeld.
I long for home, for you, my dear parents! I am losing my hope ever to return. How happy I was two years ago, and now? A sad anniversary in recent days—2 years of war! When will that poor, damned war end? It is extraordinarily hot today.
August 8
Sunday again. Service in the local church. We are a beautiful sight: Lined up in pairs, a ​soldier in front and one in back, bajonet auf. The locals look at us as at wild animals.
The church is nice. The farmers' wives are in black, with white caps and clogs. I pray for my parents and for my happy return home.
A strange habit—during sacrifice, a boy walks around with a basket, and everyone takes a bit of white bread and eats.
We got lohnung for 12 days. We had Fr2.40 in vouchers that we used to pay.
A barber comes and shaves us every Sunday.
After working hard all week, it's finally harvest. Harvesting wheat with obsolete sickles and tying it without wisps. We sweat a lot.
We worked at the neighboring farm for 3 days. The food was better there. We threshed on Saturday and got a great supper.
This country reminds of us Albania and the Arnauts again and again. The rooms, fireplaces, carts, ox yokes, and hip bands.
The people are not bad, and we would certainly have good times if we could communicate.
I weighed myself yesterday—63 kilograms.
​I bought a knife for 50 cts.—2 1/2 days of plodding in the fields.
August 13
Another 6 days of plodding are over. I'm real glad when Sunday comes. I'm tired up to here for the whole week. This week we harvested and tied corn and had pretty bad meals. Only on Saturday we got back to work for our old lord.
What I regret most is being with the Croats—they're worse than animals. The French tell us about big defeats of the Austrians; in Galicia; they say General Bothner gave up with an entire corps.
We got paid for 9 days—Fr.1.80.
August 15
The Day of Our Lady. No work; going to a service. The way local people look at us really annoys me. They're not bad. They want to talk to us and offer us snuff and cigarettes. A strange habit in progressive France—boys from about 14 or 15 all have their own snuff boxes, and they use snuff. Girls from 7 years up wear laced corselets and wooden shoes.
August 20
Sunday. We love to rest. Worked with thresher for 2 days. Much work and much food, much wine, and that counts.
​Our team goes around to all the houses, stack to stack, with the thresher. They have no barns here—the straw stays stacked in the fields. Passing crops up to the machine in heat and dust is real hard work.
Threshing here is a feast when the patron tries to out-feast the neighbor. Soup, 2-3 kinds of roast meat (mostly mutton), vegetables, salads, eggs, butter, and, on top of it all, snails, oysters, and fish. When they first gave us snails, we did not know what to do with them, and one exceptionally clever Croat wanted to crush them with his fist on the table like walnuts.
I can't stand the Croats, and they know it. They repay me when they can. How on earth did I get among these bastards?
Thresher menu: white coffee and bread and butter in the morning; pauper's snack is bread soup, duck with carrots, potatoes with butter, mixed salad, and pap.
Lunch and supper: pap (milk and semolina; the pap is very sweet). Snails in great sauce—we have learned how to eat them, and we enjoy them. The French have started to treat us differently—they eat in the kitchen, and we sit in an extra room. There are huge beds made up high. One lies right next to the ceiling. I wouldn't like falling down at night. The bed has a huge canopy in Louis XV Style. There are great lacquered chests, clocks, and floors of stomped clay.
​32 people are at the feast, including all our guards and corporals. They go with us and with the thresher from house to house and eat with us. The local workers are boys and girls aged 7-12.
We drink much wine every day.
I exchanged my lire for francs at a ratio of 35:29.80, i.e. a charge of 15%.
Today we were divided; 10 men, the worse hell-raisers, left for the next village, thank God.
The day after tomorrow it will be 2 years that I have been on duty for the emperor—here with the thresher in the field.
I bought butter, bread, and anchovies. I will make coffee and have a nice Sunday. I will write letters to F. and A.M., and cards to F.T. and K. and K.
I received light pants, a shirt, and shoes with wooden soles. The tops are from old, leather military boots. The local people have a nasty habit—chewing tobacco and spitting it out.
August 26
Saturday. Surprise for us: we're not going to work. A doctor came to vaccinate us. This week we worked 3 days with the thresher and ate well; now we are at the castle, sawing timber.
​The women in the castle keep looking at us. We don't know who they are. They change clothes 7 times a day, looking sharp with much make-up. But we can't fall in love with any of them. Our desires are elsewhere; we are not interested in anything here. Today there was one who spoke German. She asked me just about everything. The coquettes!
A servant brought me a bottle of excellent wine in his pocket. He said his son was a prisoner in Germany. He feels very sorry for us. Well, common suffering bringss people closer to one another.
News—Romania declared war on Austria. My lohn from August 10 to 20 was Fr1.40.
Today we saw the countess, the owner of the manor—a slim brunette. Her daughter, the comtesse, is blonde, and she is dressed beautifully.
My address: Josef Sramek, en equippe agricolete, Porroux par Avrile, Vendee-France.
* ↑ fortifications
* ↑ No idea what it means
* ↑ Catering
* ↑ Marched.
* ↑ Unclear whether this refers to the blacks from previous paragraph
* ↑ Cup.
* ↑ storm
* ↑ German.
* ↑ Czech/Austrian military march tune
* ↑ A day of rest.
* ↑ „Germany above all"—nowadays the German anthem
* ↑ Connotations for Germans
* ↑ Austria.
* ↑ Austrian.
* ↑ German
* ↑ My darling… I am remembering, I will never forget
* ↑ "Poor children."
* ↑ In French like in English „Bohemia" is the geographic territory inhabited by the Czech nation, currently the Czech republic while „Bohemes" stands for Gypsy ethnicity
* ↑ Night pot.
* ↑ Bayonets deployed
* ↑ salary
* ↑ Agricultural team.