But the French are only part of Zossen. There are Russians--shaggy
peasants such as we see in cartoons or plays at home, and Mongol
Russians with flat faces and almond eyes, who might pass for Chinamen.
There are wild-eyed "Turcos" from the French African provinces,
chattering untamed Arabs playing leap-frog in front of their German
commandant as impudently as street boys back in their native bazaars.
There are all the tribes and castes of British Indians--"I've got twenty
different kinds of people in my Mohammedan camp," said the lieutenant
who was showing me about--squat Gurkhas from the Himalayas, minus their
famous knives--tall, black-bearded Sikhs, with the faces of princes.
There are even a few lone Englishmen, though most of the British
soldiers in this part of Germany are at Doberitz. Whether or not Zossen
could be called a "show" camp, it seemed, at any rate, about as well
managed as such a place could be. The prisoners were housed in new,
clean, one-story barracks; well fed, so far as one could tell from their
appearance and that of the kitchens and storerooms; they could write and
be written to, and they were compelled to take exercise. The Roman
Catholics had one chapel and the Greek Catholics another, and there was
an effort to permit Indian prisoners to observe their rules of caste.

As we tramped through barracks where chilly Indians, Russians with
broad, high cheek-bones, sensitive-looking Frenchmen with quick, liquid
eyes, jumped to their feet and stiffened at attention as the commandant
passed, a young officer, who had lived in England before the war and was
now acting as interpreter, volunteered his guileless impressions. The
Turcos were a bad lot--fighting, gambling, and stealing from each other
--there was trouble with some of, them every day. The Russians were
dirty, good-natured, and stupid.