I asked him where Ranjoor Singh was, but he did not answer me.

We were not compelled to walk. Few of us could have walked. We were
stiff from confinement and sick from neglect. Carts drawn by oxen
stood near the station, and into those we were crowded and driven to
a camp on the outskirts of the town. There comfortable wooden huts
were ready, well warmed and clean--and a hot meal--and much hot
water in which we were allowed to bathe.

Then, when we had eaten, doctors came and examined us. New clothes
were given us--German uniforms of khaki, and khaki cotton cloth from
which to bind new turbans. Nothing was left undone to make us feel
well received, except that a barbed-wire fence was all about the
camp and armed guards marched up and down outside.

Being senior surviving non-commissioned officer, I was put in charge
of the camp in a certain manner, with many restrictions to my
authority, and for about a week we did nothing but rest and eat and
keep the camp tidy. All day long Germans, mostly women and children
but some men, came to stare at us through the barbed-wire fence as
if we were caged animals, but no insults were offered us. Rather,
the women showed us kindness and passed us sweetmeats and strange
food through the fence until an officer came and stopped them with
overbearing words. Then, presently, there was a new change.

A week had gone and we were feeling better, standing about and
looking at the freshly fallen snow, marking the straight tracks made
by the sentries outside the fence, and thinking of home maybe, when
new developments commenced.