We stopped at Baikal for water and fuel, and examined the damage done by
the explosion. The great iron steamer which used to be employed to
convey the train from one side of the lake to the other was almost
destroyed, its funnels and upper works being wrenched and twisted beyond
repair. But out from every crevice of her hull and from every broken
carriage came German and Austrian prisoners of war dressed in every
conceivable style of uniform. There was no guard of any description, but
they all appeared to be under the direction of a young German officer,
who saluted very stiffly as we passed. No doubt existed amongst these
Germans (so I heard from our men later) that we were tramping towards
Germany and certain death. Not one would believe but that Germany would
win the war, and destroy not only England, but also America. They had no
feelings about France, nor would they consider her as other than an
already half-digested morsel. Quartermaster-Captain Boulton put it to
one prisoner: "But suppose Germany were defeated?" "Then," said the
prisoner, "I would never return to Germany again." We fell in with
thousands of German prisoners who all held a most perplexing view of
ourselves. They described us as the only real and bitter enemy of their
country. But the same men would volunteer to work for us rather than for
any other Ally, because they said we treated them fairly and behaved to
them like men, and listened to their grievances. That is something at
any rate.




CHAPTER VIII

BEYOND THE BAIKAL