From the News

Dated: June 9, 1919

Homer “Pat” Patterson , Calgary Boy, who Was Prisoner for Almost Two Years, Tells Story of Humorous Character in Camp - Hun N.C.O. Had Funny Face, But the Prisoners Enjoyed It.

BY PRISONER 8537

The first time I saw "Peanut" was when I arrived in Stuttgart Camp No. 2, after being discharged from hospital. We were marched down to the “magazine,” and here all of our clothing and belongings were checked. Peanut was the Feldwebel (sergeant) in charge of the Q.M. stores, and met us as we descended the stairs.

The moment he opened his mouth to speak to us we began to laugh. We thought him a very funny chap, and that he was making funny faces to amuse us. However, we found out very quickly that he didn't intend any familiarity at all.

Words can hardly describe him, but the name “Peanut” suited him to perfection. When he spoke he gave the impression that something was stuck on his back teeth and he was trying to loosen it. As his jaws opened and closed, his eyes popped in and out, very much the same as a cat's do when cornered.

With all his funny appearance, however, he had the greatest linguistic gift of any person I have ever met. He spoke perfect English and French, complete with all the slang and profane trimmings. , Italian, Spanish, Roumanian and Dutch.

One day, when a few of us were breaking stones in the yard, Peanut came to inspect us. After a few minutes scrutiny he approached me and grunted , “Come un dere; show a little speed!” We dropped our tools in astonishment at hearing our own language spoken like that. He saw that we were surprised, took it as a tribute to his cleverness, and didn't worry us again that day.

Once, when he was having difficulty getting enough men for work, as everyone was either sick, indisposed or lazy, he became very hostile. Any sergeant in our own army, looking for a fatigue party, has found himself up against the same sort of snag. It was the same in Germany - only more so. Peanut came, at last, to the British section. “What's the matter with you?” he asked one chap.

“Toothache,”

“And you?” pointing to another.

“Colic”.

“And you, Zettell. What's your complaint?? Zettell, a six-foot-four Canadian, replied, “I want to see the doctor about my lungs.”

“What is this parade coming to, anyhow?” demanded the distracted German. “A sick parade?” It did look for all the world as if he were holding a sick parade, and doing “Old Number Nine” out of a job.

After the parade and the M.O. had come and gone, Peanut saw Zettell limping past the office and shouted to him through the window: Say, Zettell, did the doctor recognize you this morning?”

“Sure! answered the worthy, with a grin. “We're getting to be great friends now.”

“Well, he certainly sees enough of you.”

“Yeh, there's a lot of me to see.” Replied Zettell, purposely misunderstanding the German.

One of our number, Johnny O'Connor by name, was a Cockney of Irish parentage, and a more cheerful individual never lived. He bore out the statement “that old soldiers never die: they fade away.” However, there wasn't much fading to Jimmie, in spite of hard conditions. He had been through everything that bore even the remotest likeliness to a fight since the Boxer rising, and had quite a number of medals for service. “Gol blimey,” he used to say, “I should ought to have the rooty (long service and good conduct medal), but I couldn't stay sober for any more than three years at one time. Then, if I went on a bust up, some hard-necked blighter would run me for being drunk and disorderly and refusing to fight.” Jimmie always said that with a guilty grin, for we knew, as well as he did, that there was as much chance of him being drunk and refusing to fight as there was that he could remain sober for three months, let alone three years.

Peanut was nosing around our barracks one afternoon, saw Johnnie's medals, and asked what they were for.

“This,” said our friend, pointing to the Queen's South African ribbon, “I won in South Africa.”

“But the first one, what is that for?”

“Oh, that,” with a shrug of the shoulders, “that was for kaputing three or four hundred Germans.”

“Now, where the hell did you kill three to four hundred Germans?” asked the wizened German, with contempt.

“At the battle of Mons; I had a machine gun in a hole behind a hedge. A regiment of Germans was advancing in column of route and I held them up for a while,” answered the brave John, with mock modesty.

“Well, you must be a dangerous brute - that's all I can say about it.”

In April, 1918, five of the boys were preparing to go to Aachen for medical examination by a board of neutral doctors, to see if they should be exchanged as unfit for further service. Peanut's duty was to search them for forbidden articles. He examined their clothes, boots, caps, confiscated all their papers and even their cigarettes, giving the lame excuse that something might be written on the papers of the cigarettes. Suddenly he jumped at Sergt. Kennedy, pointed to Ken's watch, and said, suspiciously, “I haven't looked in there yet.”

“What do you expect to find?” said Ken, hading over the watch, “an elephant?” Peanut ignored the question and the tone. Changing the subject, he became confidential.

“Where do you come from, Sergt. Kennedy?”

“Durham City, Durham County, England.”

“I took a big officer from dere prisoner once.”

“What, you?” exclaimed Kennedy, stepping back in feigned astonishment. “I didn't know you had ever been at the front.”Ithought you had always been a base-wallah.”

“Wel, you remember the air raid on Sunday, when our guns brought down an English machine?” Ken answered in the affirmative.

“Well, I went down to interview them.”

“So-o-o-o, that's how you took a prisoner, eh?”

“I always thought English officers were gentlemen,” continued the microscopic Heine, ignoring Kennedy's sarcasm; “but I found out differently. I asked them if they came from Nancy, and they said they didn't know her!” We could see from the angry look on his face that the two Englishmen had had a lot of fun at out Peanut's expense, and that it was a sore point with him.

“Well,” he said, in concluding the search, “take lots of grub with you- for the return trip.”

“Don't you think we can make it?” asked Duncan.” I know damn well you can't, as you are not badly enough wounded.”

He was right. All, with the exception of Ritter, were returned. Ritter simply would not take a “no” for an answer and pestered the doctors so much that they passed him to save further bother.

The reader may imagine, after he has read the above little story, that there were good Germans as well as bad, and that Peanut was a good one. Make no mistake; they were all bad, only some were worse than others.