Lt Burnard, Royal Flying Corps WW1 diary
OTD 1918. Airman on Western Front with 35 Squadron, then prisoner of war. Ex-army #Somme #Passchendaele.
Saturday July 13th Great excitement has us all in thrall. It seems fairly official that negotiations are in hand at the Hague for the immediate exchange of prisoners, whether direct repatriation, conditional or unconditional; or internment in Holland. I confess myself sceptical. Beaten at chess. 2½ hours.
Friday, July 12th. Felt considerably better. Quite a large list of parcels for the camp. I was unlucky however.
We live here on about an eighth of a loaf, and two soups a day. Yet after our sumptuous repast we drink wine (at least some do: I personally don’t) at 13/- the bottle; and smoke cigars varying in price from 1/6 to 2/3 each. So we live the life, and have all the indolence of one of the ‘idle rich’.
Thursday July 11th. Went sick again. Opium three times a day. Was standing in the porch awaiting the German Medical Officer when someone passed whom, at the last moment, I recognised as a English Colonel and stood to attention accordingly. It was O.C. Block I a comic self opinionated clown named Hodgekin, who addressed me in this wise ‹Why don’t you stand to attention, Sir? Do you realise that I’m the Commanding Officer of a Regiment!!! (Capital and italics) I’ll teach you to know who I am, my lad!!›
To which I, boiling with indignation ‹I did stand to attention, Sir, so soon as I noticed your rank›
To which he ‹Take that man’s name, so and so; I’ll carry this matter further; I’ll get you a dose of cells, my lad›
Words fail me! Apart from the fact that we are both prisoners of war, and that he has no power over me, am I a private that I should be spoken to like that? I rejoiced to hear later from an officer in his battalion that he was a most painful turd even in France.
Wednesday July 10th. Felt rather better. Still have no appetite. Beat another man at chess.
Tuesday July 9th. Felt slightly better. Went sick. Was given opium.
Monday July 8th. Feel jolly bad, and totally disinclined to eat, especially this black bread. Afraid I’m going to be ill. Beat some fellow at chess. He must have been rotten.
Sunday. July 7th. Feel jolly rotten and weak today. Diarrhoea. Fancy I must have been slightly poisoned by some comic tinned fish paste I ate Friday. Got an issue of 2½ big biscuits each. Ate them with much relish and a little butter. Glorious! Wrote home giving advice about my balance at Cox’s. Took a calomel lozenge at night.
Friday. July 5. News of issue of grub turns out to be entirely unfounded. Wish I could find and kill the man who started the rumour!
Saw dentist today. Can’t say I enjoyed the visit. Had two stopped; and the nerve of little ’erbert is in process of being destroyed – not a painful process.
Thursday. July. 4. Feeling rather better. News of a issue of grub tomorrow. Also revisiting the dentist; still it’s no good getting grub if you can’t eat it, is it? Joined Chess Club today. Class A.
Wednesday. July. 3. Feeling very weak and consequently fed up. No sign of parcels yet. People in our room insist on talking about food, meals they have eaten, or intend to eat. Every book I pick up insists on describing meals at length. Oh hell!