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12880	----	Thanks to A Celebration of Women Writers http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/ for providing the source text. THREE TIMES AND OUT TOLD BY PRIVATE SIMMONS WRITTEN BY NELLIE L. MCCLUNG Author of SOWING SEEDS IN DANNY, IN TIMES LIKE THESE, and THE NEXT OF KIN With Illustrations TORONTO THOMAS ALLEN BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 1918 To the companion who failed through no fault of his and no lack of courage TOM BROMLEY loyal friend and best of com- rades, this book is dedicated. PREFACE When a young man whom I had not seen until that day came to see me in Edmonton, and told me he had a story which he thought was worth writing, and which he wanted me to write for him, I told him I could not undertake to do it for I was writing a story of my own, but that I could no doubt find some one who would do it for him. Then he mentioned that he was a returned soldier, and had been for sixteen months a prisoner in Germany, and had made his escape-- That changed everything! I asked him to come right in and tell me all about it--for like every one else I have friends in the prison-camps of Germany, boys whom I remember as little chaps in knickers playing with my children, boys I taught in country schools in Manitoba, boys whose parents are my friends. There are many of these whom we know to be prisoners, and there are some who have been listed as "missing," who we are still hoping against long odds may be prisoners! I asked him many questions. How were they treated? Did they get enough to eat? Did they get their parcels? Were they very lonely? Did he by any chance know a boy from Vancouver called Wallen Gordon, who had been "Missing" since the 2d of June, 1916? Or Reg Black from Manitou? or Garnet Stewart from Winnipeg? Unfortunately, he did not. Then he began his story. Before he had gone far, I had determined to do all I could to get his story into print, for it seemed to me to be a story that should be written. It gives at least a partial answer to the anxious questionings that are in so many hearts. It tells us something of the fate of the brave fellows who have, temporarily, lost their freedom--to make our freedom secure! Private Simmons is a close and accurate observer who sees clearly and talks well. He tells a straightforward, unadorned tale, every sentence of which is true, and convincing. I venture to hope that the reader may have as much pleasure in the reading of it as I had in the writing. NELLIE L. McCLUNG Edmonton, October 24, 1918 CONTENTS I. HOW IT STARTED II. THROUGH BELGIUM III. INTO GERMANY IV. THE LAZARET V. THE PRISON-CAMP VI. ROSSBACH VII. THE ESCAPE VIII. OFF FOR SWITZERLAND! IX. CAUGHT! X. THE CELLS! XI. THE STRAFE-BARRACK XII. BACK TO CAMP XIII. CELLELAGER XIV. OFF FOR HOLLAND! XV. CAUGHT AGAIN XVI. THE INVISIBLE BROTHERHOOD XVII. THE CELLS AT OLDENBUBG XVIII. PARNEWINKEL CAMP XIX. THE BLACKEST CHAPTER OF ALL XX. ONCE AGAIN! XXI. TRAVELLERS OF THE NIGHT XXII. THE LONG ROAD TO FREEDOM XXIII. OUT CONCLUSION ILLUSTRATIONS PRIVATE SIMMONS From a photograph taken since his return to Canada OFFICER'S QUARTERS IN A GERMAN MILITARY PRISON GIESSEN PRISON-CAMP TED BROMLEY, IN RED CROSS OVERCOAT WITH PRISON NUMBER AND MARKED SLEEVE GERMAN PRISON STAMP These stamps are used to pay prisoners for their work and to be exchanged for any money they may have when captured TWO PAGES FROM PRIVATE SIMMONS'S DIARY MAP MADE BY PRIVATE SIMMONS OF THE FIRST ATTEMPT THE CHRISTMAS CARD WHICH THE GIESSEN PRISON AUTHORITIES SUPPLIED TO THE PRISONERS MAP MADE FROM PAPER WHICH CAME IN A PARCEL, WRAPPED AROUND A FRUIT-CAKE FRIEDRICHSFELD PRISON-CAMP IN WINTER MAP WHICH PRIVATE SIMMONS GOT FROM THE CANADIAN ARTIST AT GIESSEN, SHOWING ROUTES OF SECOND AND THIRD ATTEMPTS FRIEDRICHSFELD PRISON-CAMP IN SUMMER A PRISON POST-CARD FROM FRIEDRICHSFELD BEI WESEL, SHOWING COSMOPOLITAN GROUP OF PRISONERS POST-CARD SENT BY PRIVATE BROMLEY FROM THE PRISON-CAMP OF SOLTAU, SHOWING GRAVES OF PRISONERS THREE TIMES AND OUT CHAPTER I HOW IT STARTED "England has declared war on Germany!" We were working on a pumphouse, on the Columbia River, at Trail, British Columbia, when these words were shouted at us from the door by the boss carpenter, who had come down from the smelter to tell us that the news had just come over the wire. Every one stopped work, and for a full minute not a word was spoken. Then Hill, a British reservist who was my work-mate, laid down his hammer and put on his coat. There was neither haste nor excitement in his movements, but a settled conviction that gave me a queer feeling. I began to argue just where we had left off, for the prospect of war had been threshed out for the last two days with great thoroughness. "It will be settled," I said. "Nations cannot go to war now. It would be suicide, with all the modern methods of destruction. It will be settled by a war council--and all forgotten in a month." Hill, who had argued so well a few minutes ago and told us all the reasons he had for expecting war with Germany, would not waste a word on me now. England was at war--and he was part of England's war machine. "I am quitting, George," he said to the boss carpenter, as he pulled his cap down on his head and started up the bank. That night he began to drill us in the skating-rink. I worked on for about a week, but from the first I determined to go if any one went from Canada. I don't suppose it was all patriotism. Part of it was the love of adventure, and a desire to see the world; for though I was a steady-going carpenter chap, I had many dreams as I worked with hammer and saw, and one of them was that I would travel far and see how people lived in other countries. The thought of war had always been repellent to me, and many an argument I had had with the German baker in whose house I roomed, on the subject of compulsory military training for boys. He often pointed out a stoop-shouldered, hollow-chested boy who lived on the same street, and told me that if this boy had lived in Germany he would have walked straighter and developed a chest, instead of slouching through life the way he was doing. He and his wife and the grown-up daughter were devoted to their country, and often told us of how well the working-people were housed in Germany and the affairs of the country conducted. But I think the war was as great a surprise to them as to us, and although the two women told us we were foolish to go to fight--it was no business of ours if England wanted to get into a row--it made no difference in our friendly relations, and the day we left Clara came to the station with a box of candy. I suppose if we had known as much then as we do now about German diplomacy, we shouldn't have eaten it, but we only knew then that Clara's candy was the best going, and so we ate it, and often wished for more. I have since heard, however, of other Germans in Canada who knew more of their country's plans, and openly spoke of them. One of these, employed by the Government, told the people in the office where he worked that when Germany got hold of Canada, she would straighten out the crooked streets in our towns and not allow shacks to be built on the good streets, and would see to it that houses were not crowded together; and the strangest part of it is that the people to whom he spoke attached no importance whatever to his words until the war came and the German mysteriously disappeared. * * * I never really enlisted, for we had no recruiting meetings in Trail before I left. We went to the skating-rink the first night, about fifteen of us, and began to drill. Mr. Schofield, Member of the Provincial Parliament, and Hill were in charge, and tested our marksmanship as well. They graded us according to physical tests, marksmanship, and ability to pick up the drill, and I was quite pleased to find I was Number "One" on the list. There was a young Italian boy named Adolph Milachi, whom we called "Joe," who came to drill the first night, and although he could not speak much English, he was determined to be a soldier. I do not know what grudge little Joe had against the Germans, whether it was just the love of adventure which urged him on, but he overruled all objections to his going and left with the others of us, on the last day of August. I remember that trip through the mountains in that soft, hazy, beautiful August weather; the mountain-tops, white with snow, were wrapped about with purple mist which twisted and shifted as if never satisfied with their draping. The sheer rocks in the mountain-sides, washed by a recent rain, were streaked with dull reds and blues and yellows, like the old-fashioned rag carpet. The rivers whose banks we followed ran blue and green, and icy cold, darting sometimes so sharply under the track that it jerked one's neck to follow them; and then the stately evergreens marched always with us, like endless companies of soldiers or pilgrims wending their way to a favorite shrine. When we awakened the second morning, and found ourselves on the wide prairie of Alberta, with its many harvest scenes and herds of cattle, and the gardens all in bloom, one of the boys said, waving his hand at a particularly handsome house set in a field of ripe wheat, "No wonder the Germans want it!" * * * My story really begins April 24, 1915. Up to that time it had been the usual one--the training in England, with all the excitement of week-end leave; the great kindness of English families whose friends in Canada had written to them about us, and who had forthwith sent us their invitations to visit them, which we did with the greatest pleasure, enjoying every minute spent in their beautiful houses; and then the greatest thrill of all--when we were ordered to France. The 24th of April was a beautiful spring day of quivering sunshine, which made the soggy ground in the part of Belgium where I was fairly steam. The grass was green as plush, and along the front of the trenches, where it had not been trodden down, there were yellow buttercups and other little spring flowers whose names I did not know. We had dug the trenches the day before, and the ground was so marshy and wet that water began to ooze in before we had dug more than three feet. Then we had gone on the other side and thrown up more dirt, to make a better parapet, and had carried sand-bags from an old artillery dug-out. Four strands of barbed wire were also put up in front of our trenches, as a sort of suggestion of barbed-wire entanglements, but we knew we had very little protection. Early in the morning of the 24th, a German aeroplane flew low over our trench, so low that I could see the man quite plainly, and could easily have shot him, but we had orders not to fire--the object of these orders being that we must not give away our position. The airman saw us, of course, for he looked right down at us, and dropped down white pencils of smoke to show the gunners where we were. That big gray beetle sailing serenely over us, boring us with his sharp eyes, and spying out our pitiful attempts at protection, is one of the most unpleasant feelings I have ever had. It gives me the shivers yet! And to think we had orders not to fire! Being a sniper, I had a rifle fixed up with a telescopic sight, which gave me a fine view of what was going on, and in order not to lose the benefit of it, I cleaned out a place in a hedge, which was just in front of the part of the trench I was in, and in this way I could see what was happening, at least in my immediate vicinity. We knew that the Algerians who were holding a trench to our left had given way and stampeded, as a result of a German gas attack on the night of April 22d. Not only had the front line broken, but, the panic spreading, all of them ran, in many cases leaving their rifles behind them. Three companies of our battalion had been hastily sent in to the gap caused by the flight of the Algerians. Afterwards I heard that our artillery had been hurriedly withdrawn so that it might not fall into the hands of the enemy; but we did not know that at the time, though we wondered, as the day went on, why we got no artillery support. Before us, and about fifty yards away, were deserted farm buildings, through whose windows I had instructions to send shots at intervals, to discourage the enemy from putting in machine guns. To our right there were other farm buildings where the Colonel and Adjutant were stationed, and in the early morning I was sent there with a message from Captain Scudamore, to see why our ammunition had not come up. I found there Colonel Hart McHarg, Major Odlum (now Brigadier-General Odlum), and the Adjutant in consultation, and thought they looked worried and anxious. However, they gave me a cheerful message for Captain Scudamore. It was very soon after that that Colonel Hart McHarg was killed. The bombardment began at about nine o'clock in the morning, almost immediately after the airman's visit, and I could see the heavy shells bursting in the village at the cross-roads behind us. They were throwing the big shells there to prevent reinforcements from coming up. They evidently did not know, any more than we did, that there were none to come, the artillery having been withdrawn the night before. Some of the big shells threw the dirt as high as the highest trees. When the shells began to fall in our part of the trench, I crouched as low as I could in the soggy earth, to escape the shrapnel bullets. Soon I got to know the sound of the battery that was dropping the shells on us, and so knew when to take cover. One of our boys to my left was hit by a pebble on the cheek, and, thinking he was wounded, he fell on the ground and called for a stretcher-bearer. When the stretcher-bearer came, he could find nothing but a scratch on his cheek, and all of us who were not too scared had a laugh, including the boy himself. I think it was about one o'clock in the afternoon that the Germans broke through the trench on our right, where Major Bing-Hall was in command; and some of the survivors from that trench came over to ours. One of them ran right to where I was, and pushed through the hole I had made in the hedge, to get a shot at the enemy. I called to him to be careful, but some sniper evidently saw him, for in less than half a minute he was shot dead, and fell at my side. An order to "retreat if necessary" had been received before this, but for some reason, which I have never been able to understand, was not put into effect until quite a while after being received. When the order came, we began to move down the trench as fast as we could, but as the trench was narrow and there were wounded and dead men in it, our progress was slow. Soon I saw Robinson, Smith, and Ward climbing out of the trench and cutting across the field. This was, of course, dangerous, for we were in full view of the enemy, but it was becoming more and more evident that we were in a tight corner. So I climbed out, too, and ran across the open as fast as I could go with my equipment. I got just past the hedge when I was hit through the pocket of my coat. I thought I was wounded, for the blow was severe, but found out afterwards the bullet had just passed through my coat pocket. I kept on going, but in a few seconds I got a bullet right through my shoulder. It entered below my arm at the back, and came out just below the shoulder-bone, making a clean hole right through. I fell into a shallow shell-hole, which was just the size to take me in, and as I lay there, the possibility of capture first came to me. Up to that time I had never thought of it as a possible contingency; but now, as I lay wounded, the grave likelihood came home to me. I scrambled to my feet, resolved to take any chances rather than be captured. I have an indistinct recollection of what happened for the next few minutes. I know I ran from shell-hole to shell-hole, obsessed with the one great fear--of being captured--and at last reached the reserve trench, in front. I fell over the parapet, among and indeed right on top of the men who were there, for the trench was packed full of soldiers, and then quickly gathered myself together and climbed out of the trench and crawled along on my stomach to the left, following the trench to avoid the bullets, which I knew were flying over me. Soon I saw, looking down into the trench, some of the boys I knew, and I dropped in beside them. Then everything went from me. A great darkness arose up from somewhere and swallowed me! Then I had a delightful sensation of peace and warmth and general comfort. Darkness, the blackest, inkiest darkness, rolled over me in waves and hid me so well no Jack Johnson or Big Bertha could ever find me. I hadn't a care or a thought in the world. I was light as a feather, and these great strong waves of darkness carried me farther and farther away. But they didn't carry me quite far enough, for a cry shot through me like a knife, and I was wide awake, looking up from the bottom of a muddy trench. And the cry that wakened me was sounding up and down the trench, "The Germans are coming!" Sergeant Reid, who did not seem to realize how desperate the situation was, was asking Major Bing-Hall what he was going to do. But before any more could be said, the Germans were swarming over the trench. The officer in charge of them gave us a chance to surrender, which we did, and then it seemed like a hundred voices--harsh, horrible voices--called to us to come out of the trench. "Raus" is the word they use, pronounced "rouse." This was the first German word I had heard, and I hated it. It is the word they use to a dog when they want him to go out, or to cattle they are chasing out of a field. It is used to mean either "Come out!"--or "Get out!" I hated it that day, and I hated it still more afterward. There were about twenty of us altogether, and we climbed out of the trench without speaking. There was nothing to be said. It was all up with us. CHAPTER II THROUGH BELGIUM It is strange how people act in a crisis. I mean, it is strange how quiet they are, and composed. We stood there on the top of the trench, without speaking, although I knew what had happened to us was bitterer far than to be shot. But there was not a word spoken. I remember noticing Fred McKelvey, when the German who stood in front of him told him to take off his equipment. Fred's manner was halting, and reluctant, and he said, as he laid down his rifle and unbuckled his cartridge bag, "This is the thing my father told me never to let happen." Just then the German who stood by me said something to me, and pointed to my equipment, but I couldn't unfasten a buckle with my useless arm, so I asked him if he couldn't see I was wounded. He seemed to understand what I meant, and unbuckled my straps and took everything off me, very gently, too, and whipped out my bandage and was putting it on my shoulder with considerable skill, I thought, and certainly with a gentle hand--when the order came from their officer to move us on, for the shells were falling all around us. Unfortunately for me, my guard did not come with us, nor did I ever see him again. One of the others reached over and took my knife, cutting the string as unconcernedly as if I wanted him to have it, and I remember that this one had a saw-bayonet on his gun, as murderous and cruel-looking a weapon as any one could imagine, and he had a face to match it, too. So in the first five minutes I saw the two kinds of Germans. When we were out of the worst of the shell-fire, we stopped to rest, and, a great dizziness coming over me, I sat down with my head against a tree, and looked up at the trailing rags of clouds that drifted across the sky. It was then about four o'clock of as pleasant an afternoon as I can ever remember. But the calmness of the sky, with its deep blue distance, seemed to shrivel me up into nothing. The world was so bright, and blue, and--uncaring! I may have fallen asleep for a few minutes, for I thought I heard McKelvey saying, "Dad always told me not to let this happen." Over and over again, I could hear this, but I don't know whether McKelvey had repeated it. My brain was like a phonograph that sticks at one word and says it over and over again until some one stops it. I think it was Mudge, of Grand Forks, who came over to see how I was. His voice sounded thin and far away, and I didn't answer him. Then I felt him taking off my overcoat and finishing the bandaging that the German boy had begun. Little Joe, the Italian boy, often told me afterwards how I looked at that time. "All same dead chicken not killed right and kep' long time." Here those who were not so badly wounded were marched on, but there were ten of us so badly hit we had to go very slowly. Percy Weller, one of the boys from Trail who enlisted when I did, was with us, and when we began the march I was behind him and noticed three holes in the back of his coat; the middle one was a horrible one made by shrapnel. He staggered painfully, poor chap, and his left eye was gone! We passed a dead Canadian Highlander, whose kilt had pitched forward when he fell, and seemed to be covering his face. In the first village we came to, they halted us, and we saw it was a dressing-station. The village was in ruins--even the town pump had had its head blown off!--and broken glass, pieces of brick, and plaster littered the one narrow street. The dressing was done in a two-room building which may have been a store. The walls were discolored and cracked, and the windows broken. On a stretcher in the corner there lay a Canadian Highlander, from whose wounds the blood dripped horribly and gathered in a red pool on the dusty floor. His eyes were glazed and his face was drawn with pain. He talked unceasingly, but without meaning. The only thing I remember hearing him say was, "It's no use, mother--it's no use!" Weller was attended to before I was, and marched on. While I sat there on an old tin pail which I had turned up for this purpose, two German officers came in, whistling. They looked for a minute at the dying Highlander in the corner, and one of them went over to him. He saw at once that his case was hopeless, and gave a short whistle as you do when blowing away a thistledown, indicating that he would soon be gone. I remember thinking that this was the German estimate of human life. He came to me and said, "Well, what have you got?" I thought he referred to my wound, and said, "A shoulder wound." At which he laughed pleasantly and said, "I am not interested in your wound; that's the doctor's business." Then I saw what he meant; it was souvenirs he was after. So I gave him my collar badge, and in return he gave me a German coin, and went over to the doctor and said something about me, for he flipped his finger toward me. My turn came at last. The doctor examined my pay-book as well as my wound. I had forty-five francs in it, and when he took it out, I thought it was gone for sure. However, he carefully counted it before me, drawing my attention to the amount, and then returned it to me. After my wound had been examined and a tag put on me stating what sort of treatment I was to have, I was taken away with half a dozen others and led down a narrow stone stair to a basement. Here on the cement floor were piles of straw, and the place was heated. The walls were dirty and discolored. One of the few pleasant recollections of my life in Germany has been the feeling of drowsy content that wrapped me about when I lay down on a pile of straw in that dirty, rat-infested basement. I forgot that I was a prisoner, that I was badly winged, that I was hungry, thirsty, dirty, and tired. I forgot all about my wounded companions and the Canadian Highlander, and all the suffering of the world, and drifted sweetly out into the wide ocean of sleep. Some time during the night--for it was still dark--I felt some one kicking my feet and calling me to get up, and all my trouble and misery came back with a rush. My shoulder began to ache just where it left off, but I was so hungry that the thought of getting something to eat sustained me. Surely, I thought, they are going to feed us! We were herded along the narrow street, out into a wide road, where we found an open car which ran on light rails in the centre of the road. It was like the picnic trolley cars which run in our cities in the warm weather. There were wounded German soldiers huddled together, and we sat down among them, wherever we could find the room, but not a word was spoken. I don't know whether they noticed who we were or not--they had enough to think about, not to be concerned with us, for most of them were terribly wounded. The one I sat beside leaned his head against my good shoulder and sobbed as he breathed. I could not help but think of the irony of war that had brought us together. For all I knew, he may have been the machine gunner who had been the means of ripping my shoulder to pieces--and it may have been a bullet from my rifle which had torn its way along his leg which now hung useless. Even so, there was no hard feeling between us, and he was welcome to the support of my good shoulder! Some time through the night--my watch was broken and I couldn't tell the time exactly--we came to another village and got off the car. A guard came and carried off my companion, but as I could walk, I was left to unload myself. The step was high, and as my shoulder was very stiff and sore, I hesitated about jumping down. A big German soldier saw me, understood what was wrong, and lifted me gently down. It was then nearly morning, for the dawn was beginning to show in the sky, and we were taken to an old church, where we were told to lie down and go to sleep. It was miserably cold in the church, and my shoulder ached fearfully. I tried hard to sleep, but couldn't manage it, and walked up and down to keep warm. I couldn't help but think of the strange use the church--which had been the scene of so many pleasant gatherings--was being put to, and as I leaned against the wall and looked out of the window, I seemed to see the gay and light-hearted Belgian people who so recently had gathered there. Right here, I thought, the bashful boys had stood, waiting to walk home with the girls... just the way we did in British Columbia, where one church I know well stands almost covered with the fragrant pines... I fell into a pleasant reverie then of sunny afternoons and dewy moonlit nights, when the sun had gone over the mountains, and the stars came out in hundreds. My dream then began to have in it the brightest-eyed girl in the world, who gave me such a smile one Sunday when she came out of church... that I just naturally found myself walking beside her.... She had on a pink suit and white shoes, and wore a long string of black beads... Then somebody spoke to me, and a sudden chill seized me and sent me into a spasm of coughing, and the pain of my shoulder shot up into my head like a knife... and I was back--all right--to the ruined church in Belgium, a prisoner of war in the hands of the Germans! The person who spoke to me was a German cavalry officer, who quite politely bade me good-morning and asked me how I felt. I told him I felt rotten. I was both hungry and thirsty--and dirty and homesick. He laughed at that, as if it were funny, and asked me where I came from. When I told him, he said, "You Canadians are terrible fools to fight with us when you don't have to. You'll be sick of it before you are through. Canada is a nice country, though," he went on; "I've been in British Columbia, too, in the Government employ there--they treated me fine--and my brother is there now, engineer in the Dunsmuir Collieries at Ladysmith. Great people--the Canadians!" And he laughed again and said something in German to the officer who was with him. When the sun came up and poured into the church, warming up its cold dreariness, I lay down and slept, for I had not nearly finished the sleep so comfortably begun in the basement the night before. But in what seemed like three minutes, some one kicked my feet and called to me to get up. I got to my feet, still spurred by the hope of getting something to eat. Outside, all those who could walk were falling in, and I hastened to do the same. Our guards were mounted this time, and I noticed that their horses were small and in poor condition. We were soon out of the village and marching along a splendid road. The day was bright and sunny, but a searching wind blew straight in our faces and made travelling difficult. It seemed to beat unmercifully on my sore shoulder, and I held my right wrist with my left hand, to keep the weight off my shoulder all I could. I had not gone far when I began to grow weak and dizzy. The thirst was the worst; my tongue was dry and swollen, and it felt like a cocoa doormat. I could see rings of light wherever I looked, and the ground seemed to come up in waves. A guard who rode near me had a water-bottle beside him which dripped water. The cork was not in tight as it should have been, and the sight of these drops of water seemed to madden me. I begged him for a drink, and pointed to my parched tongue; but he refused, and rode ahead as if the sight of me annoyed him! Ahead of us I could see the smoke of a large town, and I told myself over and over again that there would be lots of water there, and food and clean clothes, and in this way I kept myself alive until we reached Roulers. CHAPTER III INTO GERMANY Roulers is a good-sized town in West Flanders, of about thirty thousand population, much noted for its linen manufacture; and has a great church of St. Michael with a very high tower, which we could see for miles. But I do not remember much about the look of the town, for I could hardly drag my feet. It seemed as if every step would be my last. But I held on some way, until we reached the stopping-place, which happened to be an unused school. The men who had not been wounded had arrived several hours ahead of us. When, at last, I sat down on one of the benches, the whole place seemed to float by me. Nothing would stand still. The sensation was like the water dizziness which makes one feel he is being rapidly propelled upstream. But after sitting awhile, it passed, and I began to recognize some of our fellows. Frost, of my own battalion, was there, and when I told him I had had nothing to eat since the early morning of the day before, he immediately produced a hardtack biscuit and scraped out the bottom of his jam tin. They had been served with a ration of war-bread, and several of the boys offered me a share of their scanty allowance, but the first mouthful was all I could take. It was sour, heavy, and stale. The school pump had escaped the fate of the last pump I had seen, and was in good working order, and its asthmatic creaking as it brought up the stream of water was music in my ears. We went out in turns and drank like thirsty cattle. I drank until my jaws were stiff as if with mumps, and my ears ached, and in a few minutes my legs were tied in cramps. While I was vainly trying to rub them out with my one good hand, Fred McKelvey came up and told me a sure cure for leg-cramp. It is to turn the toes up as far as possible, and straighten out the legs, and it worked a cure for me. He said he had taken the cramps out of his legs this way when he was in the water. I remember some of the British Columbia boys who were there. Sergeants Potentier, George Fitz, and Mudge, of Grand Forks; Reid, Diplock, and Johnson, of Vancouver; Munroe and Wildblood, of Rossland; Keith, Palmer, Larkins, Scott, and Croak. Captain Scudamore, my Company Captain, came over to where I sat, and kindly inquired about my wounds. He wrote down my father's address, too, and said he would try to get a letter to him. There was a house next door--quite a fine house with a neat paling and long, shuttered windows, at which the vines were beginning to grow. It looked to be in good condition, except that part of the verandah had been torn away. The shutters were closed on its long, graceful windows, giving it the appearance of a tall, stately woman in heavy mourning. When we were at the pump, we heard a gentle tapping, and, looking up, we saw a very handsome dark-eyed Belgian woman at one of the windows. Instinctively we saluted, and quick as a flash she held a Union Jack against the pane! A cheer broke from us involuntarily, and the guards sprang to attention, suspecting trouble. But the flag was gone as quickly as it came, and when we looked again, the shutters were closed and the deep, waiting silence had settled down once more on the stately house of shutters. But to us it had become suddenly possessed of a living soul! The flash of those sad black eyes, as well as the glimpse of the flag, seemed to call to us to carry on! They typified to us exactly what we were fighting for! After the little incident of the flag, it was wonderful how bright and happy we felt. Of course, I know, the ministrations of the pump helped, for we not only drank all we wanted, but most of the boys had a wash, too; but we just needed to be reminded once in awhile of what the real issues of the war were. Later in the day, after we had been examined by another medical man, who dressed our wounds very skillfully, and gently, too, we came back to the school, and found there two heavily veiled Belgian women. They had bars of chocolate for us, for which we were very grateful. They were both in deep mourning, and seemed to have been women of high social position, but their faces were very pale and sad, and when they spoke their voices were reedy and broken, and their eyes were black pools of misery. Some of the boys afterwards told me that their daughters had been carried off by the Germans, and their husbands shot before their eyes. I noticed the absence of children and young girls on the streets. There were only old men and women, it seemed, and the faces of these were sad beyond expression. There were no outbursts of grief; they seemed like people whose eyes were cried dry, but whose spirits were still unbroken. Later in the day we were taken to the station, to take the train for the prison-camp at Giessen. Of course, they did not tell us where we were going. They did not squander information on us or satisfy our curiosity, if they could help it. The station was full of people when we got there, and there seemed to be a great deal of eating done at the stations. This was more noticeable still in German stations, as I saw afterwards. Our mode of travelling was by the regular prisoner train which had lately--quite lately--been occupied by horses. It had two small, dirty windows, and the floor was bare of everything but dirt. We were dumped into it--not like sardines, for they fit comfortably together, but more like cordwood that is thrown together without being piled. If we had not had arms or legs or heads, there would have been just room for our bodies, but as it was, everybody was in everybody's way, and as many of us were wounded, and all of us were tired and hungry, we were not very amiable with each other. I tried to stand up, but the jolting of the car made me dizzy, and so I doubled up on the floor, and I don't know how many people sat on me. I remember one of the boys I knew, who was beside me on the floor, Fairy Strachan. He had a bad wound in his chest, given him by a dog of a German guard, who prodded him with a bayonet after he was captured, for no reason at all. Fortunately the bayonet struck a rib, and so the wound was not deep, but not having been dressed, it was very painful. I could not sleep at all that night, for the air was stifling, and somebody's arm or foot or head was always bumping into me. I wonder if Robinson Crusoe ever remembered to be thankful for fresh air and room to stretch himself! We asked the guards for water, for we soon grew very thirsty, and when we stopped at a station, one of the boys, looking out, saw the guard coming with a pail of water, and cried out, "Here's water--boys!" The thought of a drink put new life in us, and we scrambled to our feet. It was water, all right, and plenty of it, but it was boiling hot and we could not drink it; and we could not tell from the look of opaque stupidity on the face of the guard whether he did it intentionally or not. He may have been a boiling-water-before-meals advocate. He looked balmy enough for anything! [Illustration: Officers' Quarters in a German Military Prison] At some of the stations the civilians standing on the platform filled our water-bottles for us, but it wasn't enough. We had only two water-bottles in the whole car. However, at Cologne, a boy came quickly to the car window at our call, and filled our water-bottles from a tap, over and over again. He would run as fast as he could from the tap to the window, and left a bottle filling at the tap while he made the trip. In this way every man in the car got enough to drink, and this blue-eyed, shock-headed lad will ever live in grateful memory. The following night after midnight we reached Giessen, and were unloaded and marched through dark streets to the prison-camp, which is on the outskirts of the city. We were put into a dimly lighted hut, stale and foul-smelling, too, and when we put up the windows, some of our own Sergeants objected on account of the cold, and shut them down. Well, at least we had room if we hadn't air, and we huddled together and slept, trying to forget what we used to believe about the need of fresh air. As soon as the morning came, I went outside and watched a dull red, angry sky flushing toward sunrise. Red in the morning sky denotes wind, it is said, but we didn't need signs that morning to proclaim a windy day, for the wind already swept the courtyard, and whipped the green branches of the handsome trees which marked the driveway. My spirits rose at once when I filled my lungs with air and looked up at the scudding clouds which were being dogged across the sky by the wind. A few straggling prisoners came out to wash at the tap in the courtyard, and I went over to join them, for I was grimy, too, with the long and horrible ride. With one hand I could make but little progress, and was spreading the dirt rather than removing it, until a friendly Belgian, seeing my difficulty, took his cake of soap and his towel, and washed me well. We were then given a ration of bread about two inches thick, and a drink of something that tasted like water boiled in a coffee-pot, and after this we were divided into ten groups. Those of us who knew each other tried hard to stay together, but we soon learned to be careful not to appear to be too anxious, for the guards evidently had instructions to break up previous acquaintanceships. The wounded were marched across the compound to the "Revier," a dull, gray, solid-looking building, where again we were examined and graded. Those seriously wounded were sent to the lazaret, or hospital proper. I, being one of the more serious cases, was marched farther on to the lazaret, and we were all taken to a sort of waiting-room, and taken off in groups to the general bathroom to have a bath, before getting into the hospital clothes. With me was a young bugler of the Fifth Royal Highlanders, Montreal, a little chap not more than fifteen, whose pink cheeks and curly hair would have made an appeal to any human being: he looked so small and lonesome and far from home. A smart young military doctor jostled against the boy's shattered arm, eliciting from him a cry of pain, whereupon he began to make fun of the little bugler, by marching around him, making faces. It gave me a queer feeling to see a grown-up man indulging in the tactics of a spoiled child, but I have heard many people express the opinion, in which I now heartily agree, that the Germans are a childish sort of people. They are stupidly boastful, inordinately fond of adulation and attention, and peevish and sulky when they cannot have their own way. I tried to imagine how a young German boy would have been treated by one of our doctors, and laughed to myself at the absurdity of the thought that they would make faces at him! The young bugler was examined before I was, and as he was marched out of the room, the doctor who had made the faces grabbed at his kilt with an insulting gesture, at which the lad attempted to kick him. The doctor dodged the kick, and the Germans who were in the room roared with laughter. I hated them more that minute than I had up to that time. The Belgian attendants who looked after the bathing of us were kind and polite. One of them could speak a little English, and he tried hard to get information regarding his country from us. "Is it well?" he asked us eagerly. "My country--is it well?" We thought of the shell-scarred country, with its piles of smouldering ashes, its pallid women with their haunted faces, the deathlike silence of the ruined streets. We thought of these things, but we didn't tell him of them. We told him the war was going on in great shape: the Allies were advancing all along the line, and were going to be in Berlin by Christmas. It was worth the effort to see his little pinched face brighten. He fairly danced at his work after that, and when I saw him afterwards, he eagerly asked--"My country--is it well?" I do not know why he thought I knew, or maybe he didn't think so. But, anyway, I did my best. I gave him a glowing account of the Allied successes, and painted a gloomy future for the Kaiser, and I again had my reward, in his glowing face. Everything we had was taken from us except shoes, socks, cap, and handkerchief, and we did not see them again: neither did we get another bath, although I was six weeks in the hospital. The hospital clothes consisted of a pajama suit of much-faded flannelette, but I was glad to get into it, and doubly glad to get rid of my shirt and tunic, which were stiff on one side with dried blood. From the lazaret, where I had my bath, I could see the gun platform with its machine guns, commanding every part of the Giessen Prison. The guard pointed it out to me, to quiet my nerves, I suppose, and to scare me out of any thought of insubordination. However, he need not have worried--I was not thinking of escaping just then or starting an insurrection either. I was quite content to lie down on the hard straw bed and pull the quilt over me and take a good long rest. CHAPTER IV THE LAZARET The lazaret in which I was put was called "M.G.K.," which is to say Machine Gun Company, and it was exactly like the other hospital huts. There were some empty beds, and the doctor seemed to have plenty of time to attend to us. For a few days, before my appetite began to make itself felt, I enjoyed the rest and quiet, and slept most of the time. But at the end of a week I began to get restless. The Frenchman whose bed was next to mine fascinated me with his piercing black eyes, unnaturally bright and glittering. I knew the look in his eyes; I had seen it--after the battle--when the wounded were coming in, and looked at us as they were carried by on stretchers. Some had this look--some hadn't. Those who had it never came back. And sometimes before the fighting, when the boys were writing home, the farewell letter that would not be mailed unless--"something happened"--I've seen that look in their faces, and I knew... just as they did... the letter would be mailed! Emile, the Frenchman, had the look! He was young, and had been strong and handsome, although his face was now thin and pinched and bloodless, like a slum child's; but he hung on to life pitifully. He hated to die--I knew that by the way he fought for breath, and raged when he knew for sure that it was going from him. In the middle of his raging, he would lean over his bed and peer into my face, crying "L'Anglaise--l'Anglaise," with his black eyes snapping like dagger points. I often had to turn away and put my pillow over my eyes. But one afternoon, in the middle of it, the great silence fell on him, and Emile's struggles were over. * * * Our days were all the same. Nobody came to see us; we had no books. There was a newspaper which was brought to us every two weeks, printed in English, but published in German, with all the German fine disregard for the truth. It said it was "printed for Americans in Europe." The name of it was "The Continental Times," but I never heard it called anything but "The Continental Liar." Still, it was print, and we read it; I remember some of the sentences. It spoke of an uneasy feeling in England "which the presence of turbaned Hindoos and Canadian cowboys has failed to dispel." Another one said, "The Turks are operating the Suez Canal in the interests of neutral shipping." "Fleet-footed Canadians" was an expression frequently used, and the insinuation was that the Canadians often owed their liberty to their speed. But we managed to make good use of this paper. I got one of the attendants, Ivan, a good-natured, flat-footed Russian, to bring me a pair of scissors, and the boy in the cot next to mine had a stub of pencil, and between us we made a deck of cards out of the white spaces of the paper, and then we played solitaire, time about, on our quilts. * * * I got my first parcel about the end of May, from a Mrs. Andrews whose son I knew in Trail and who had entertained me while I was in London. I had sent a card to her as soon as I was taken. The box was like a visit from Santa Claus. I remember the "Digestive Biscuits," and how good they tasted after being for a month on the horrible diet of acorn coffee, black bread, and the soup which no word that is fit for publication could describe. I also received a card from my sister, Mrs. Meredith, of Edmonton, about this time. I was listed "Missing" on April 29th, and she sent a card addressed to me with "Canadian Prisoner of War, Germany," on it, on the chance that I was a prisoner. We were allowed to write a card once a week and two letters a month; and we paid for these. My people in Canada heard from me on June 9th. * * * I cannot complain of the treatment I received in the lazaret. The doctor took a professional interest in me, and one day brought in two other doctors, and proudly exhibited how well I could move my arm. However, I still think if he had massaged my upper arm, it would be of more use to me now than it is. Chloroform was not used in this hospital; at least I never saw any of it. One young Englishman, who had a bullet in his thigh, cried out in pain when the surgeon was probing for it. The German doctor sarcastically remarked, "Oh, I thought the English were _brave_." To which the young fellow, lifting his tortured face, proudly answered, "The English _are_ brave--and _merciful_--and they use chloroform for painful operations, and do this for the German prisoners, too." But there was no chloroform used for him, though the operation was a horrible one. There was another young English boy named Jellis, who came in after the fight of May 8th, who seemed to be in great pain the first few days. Then suddenly he became quiet, and we hoped his pain had lessened; but we soon found out he had lock-jaw, and in a few days he died. * * * From the pasteboard box in which my first parcel came, I made a checker-board, and my next-door neighbor and I had many a game. In about three weeks I was allowed to go out in the afternoons, and I walked all I could in the narrow space, to try to get back all my strength, for one great hope sustained me--I would make a dash for liberty the first chance I got, and I knew that the better I felt, the better my chances would be. I still had my compass, and I guarded it carefully. Everything of this nature was supposed to be taken from us at the lazaret, but I managed, through the carelessness of the guard, to retain the compass. The little corral in which we were allowed to walk had a barbed-wire fence around it--a good one, too, eight strands, and close together. One side of the corral was a high wall, and in the enclosure on the other side of the wall were the lung patients. One afternoon I saw a young Canadian boy looking wistfully through the gate, and I went over and spoke to him. He was the only one who could speak English among the "lungers." The others were Russians, French, and Belgians. The boy was dying of loneliness as well as consumption. He came from Ontario, though I forget the name of the town. "Do you think it will be over soon?" he asked me eagerly. "Gee, I'm sick of it--and wish I could get home. Last night I dreamed about going home. I walked right in on them--dirt and all--with this tattered old tunic--and a dirty face. Say, it didn't matter--my mother just grabbed me--and it was dinner-time--they were eating turkey--a great big gobbler, all brown--and steaming hot--and I sat down in my old place--it was ready for me--and just began on a leg of turkey..." A spasm of coughing seized him, and he held to the bars of the gate until it passed. Then he went on: "Gee, it was great--it was all so clear. I can't believe that I am not going! I think the war must be nearly over--" Then the cough came again--that horrible, strangling cough--and I knew that it would be only in his dreams that he would ever see his home! For to him, at least, the war was nearly over, and the day of peace at hand. Before I left the lazaret, the smart-Alec young German doctor who had made faces at the little bugler blew gaily in one day and breezed around our beds, making pert remarks to all of us. I knew him the minute he came in the door, and was ready for him when he passed my bed. He stopped and looked at me, and made some insulting remark about my beard, which was, I suppose, quite a sight, after a month of uninterrupted growth. Then he began to make faces at me. I raised myself on my elbow, and regarded him with the icy composure of an English butler. Scorn and contempt were in my glance, as much as I could put in; for I realized that it was hard for me to look dignified and imposing, in a hospital pajama suit of dirt-colored flannelette, with long wisps of amber-colored hair falling around my face, and a thick red beard long enough now to curl back like a drake's tail. I knew I looked like a valentine, but my stony British stare did the trick in spite of all handicaps, and he turned abruptly and went out. The first week of June, I was considered able to go back to the regular prison-camp. A German guard came for me, and I stepped out in my pajamas to the outer room where our uniforms were kept. There were many uniforms there--smelling of the disinfectants--with the owners' names on them, but mine was missing. The guard tried to make me take one which was far too short for me, but I refused. I knew I looked bad enough, without having elbow sleeves and short pants; and it began to look as if I should have to go to bed until some good-sized patient came in. But my guard suddenly remembered something, and went into another hut, bringing back the uniform of "D. Smith, Vancouver." The name was written on the band of the trousers. D. Smith had died the day before, from lung trouble. The uniform had been disinfected, and hung in wrinkles. My face had the hospital pallor, and, with my long hair and beard, I know I looked "snaggy" like a potato that has been forgotten in a dark corner of the cellar. When we came out of the lazaret, the few people we met on the road to the prison-camp broke into broad grins; some even turned and looked after us. CHAPTER V THE PRISON-CAMP The guard took me to Camp 6, Barrack A, where I found some of the boys I knew. They were in good spirits, and had fared in the matter of food much the same as I had. We agreed exactly in our diagnosis of the soup. I was shown my mattress and given two blankets; also a metal bowl, knife, and fork. Outside the hut, on the shady side, I went and sat down with some of the boys who, like myself, were excused from labor. Dent, of Toronto, was one of the party, and he was engaged in the occupation known as "reading his shirt"--and on account of the number of shirts being limited to one for each man, while the "reading" was going on, he sat in a boxer's uniform, wrapped only in deep thought. Now, it happened that I did not acquire any "cooties" while I was in the army, and of course in the lazaret we were kept clean, so this was my first close acquaintanceship with them. My time of exemption was over, though, for by night I had them a-plenty. I soon found out that insect powder was no good. I think it just made them sneeze, and annoyed them a little. We washed our solitary shirts regularly, but as we had only cold water, it did not kill the eggs, and when we hung the shirt out in the sun, the eggs came out in full strength, young, hearty, and hungry. It was a new generation we had to deal with, and they had all the objectionable qualities of their ancestors, and a few of their own. Before long, the Canadian Red Cross parcels began to come, and I got another shirt--a good one, too, only the sleeves were too long. I carefully put in a tuck, for they came well over my hands. But I soon found that these tucks became a regular rendezvous for the "cooties," and I had to let them out. The Red Cross parcels also contained towels, toothbrushes, socks, and soap, and all these were very useful. After a few weeks, with the lice increasing every day, we raised such a row about them that the guards took us to the fumigator. This was a building of three rooms, which stood by itself in the compound. In the first room we undressed and hung all our clothes, and our blankets too, on huge hooks which were placed on a sliding framework. This framework was then pushed into the oven and the clothes were thoroughly baked. We did not let our boots, belts, or braces go, as the heat would spoil the leather. We then walked out into the next room and had a shower bath, and after that went into the third room at the other side of the oven, and waited until the framework was pushed through to us, when we took our clothes from the hooks and dressed. This was a sure cure for the "cooties," and for a few days, at least, we enjoyed perfect freedom from them. Every week after this we had a bath, and it was compulsory, too. [Illustration: Giessen Prison-Camp] As prison-camps go, Giessen is a good one. The place is well drained; the water is excellent; the sanitary conditions are good, too; the sleeping accommodations are ample, there being no upper berths such as exist in all the other camps I have seen. It is the "Show-Camp," to which visitors are brought, who then, not having had to eat the food, write newspaper articles telling how well Germany treats her prisoners. If these people could see some of the other camps that I have seen, the articles would have to be modified. * * * News of the trouble in Ireland sifted through to us in the prison-camp. The first I heard of it was a letter in the "Continental Times," by Roger Casement's sister, who had been in Germany and had visited some of the prison-camps, and was so pleased with the generous treatment Germany was according her prisoners. She was especially charmed with the soup!!! And the letter went on to tell of the Irish Brigade that was being formed in Germany to fight the tyrant England. Every Irish prisoner who would join was to be given the privilege of fighting against England. Some British prisoners who came from Limburg, a camp about thirty miles from Giessen, told us more about it. Roger Casement, himself, had gone there to gather recruits, and several Irishmen had joined and were given special privileges accordingly. However, there were many Irishmen who did _not_ join, and who kept a list of the recruits--for future reference, when the war was over! The Irishmen in our camp were approached, but they remained loyal. * * * The routine of the camp was as follows: Reveille sounded at six. We got up and dressed and were given a bowl of coffee. Those who were wise saved their issue of bread from the night before, and ate it with the coffee. There was a roll-call right after the coffee, when every one was given a chance to volunteer for work. At noon there was soup, and another roll-call. We answered the roll-call, either with the French word "Présent" or the German word "Hier," pronounced the same as our word. Then at five o'clock there was an issue of black bread made mostly from potato flour. I was given a light job of keeping the space between A Barrack and B Barrack clean, and I made a fine pretense of being busy, for it let me out of "drill," which I detested, for they gave the commands in German, and it went hard with us to have to salute their officers. On Sundays there was a special roll-call, when every one had to give a full account of himself. The prisoners then had the privilege of asking for any work they wanted, and if the Germans could supply it, it was given. None of us were keen on working; not but what we would much rather work than be idle, but for the uncomfortable thought that we were helping the enemy. There were iron-works near by, where Todd, Whittaker, Dent, little Joe, and some others were working, and it happened that one day Todd and one of the others, when going to have teeth pulled at the dentist's, saw shells being shipped away, and upon inquiry found the steel came from the iron mines where they were working. When this became known, the boys refused to work! Every sort of bullying was tried on them for two days at the mines, but they still refused. They were then sent back to Giessen and sentenced to eighteen months' punishment at Butzbach--all but Dent, who managed some way to fool the doctor pretending he was sick! That they fared badly there, I found out afterwards, though I never saw any of them. Some of the boys from our hut worked on the railroad, and some went to work in the chemical works at Griesheim, which have since been destroyed by bombs dropped by British airmen. John Keith, who was working on the railroad,--one of the best-natured and inoffensive boys in our hut,--came in one night with his face badly swollen and bruised. He had laughed, it seemed, at something which struck him as being funny, and the guard had beaten him over the head with the butt of his rifle. One of our guards, a fine old, brown-eyed man called "Sank," told the guard who had done this what he thought of him. "Sank" was the "other" kind of German, and did all he could to make our lives pleasant. I knew that "Sank" was calling down the guard, by his expression and his gestures, and his frequent use of the word "blödsinnig." Another time one of the fellows from our hut, who was a member of a working party, was shot through the legs by the guard, who claimed he was trying to escape, and after that there were no more working parties allowed for a while. Each company had its own interpreter, Russian, French, or English. Our interpreter was a man named Scott from British Columbia, an Englishman who had received part of his education at Heidelberg. From him I learned a good deal about the country through which I hoped to travel. Heidelberg is situated between Giessen and the Swiss boundary, and so was of special interest to me. I made a good-sized map, and marked in all the information I could dig out of Scott. The matter of escaping was in my mind all the time, but I was careful to whom I spoke, for some fellows' plans had been frustrated by their unwise confidences. The possession of a compass is an indication that the subject of "escaping" has been thought of, and the question, "Have you a compass?" is the prison-camp way of saying, "What do you think of making a try?" One day, a fellow called Bromley who came from Toronto, and who was captured at the same time that I was, asked me if I had a compass. He was a fine big fellow, with a strong, attractive face, and I liked him, from the first. He was a fair-minded, reasonable chap, and we soon became friends. We began to lay plans, and when we could get together, talked over the prospects, keeping a sharp lookout for eavesdroppers. [Illustration: Tom Bromley / In Red Cross overcoat with prison number and marked sleeve] There were difficulties! The camp was surrounded by a high board fence, and above the boards, barbed wire was tightly drawn, to make it uncomfortable for reaching hands. Inside of this was an ordinary barbed-wire fence through which we were not allowed to go, with a few feet of "No Man's Land" in between. There were sentry-boxes ever so often, so high that the sentry could easily look over the camp. Each company was divided from the others by two barbed-wire fences, and besides this there were the sentries who walked up and down, armed, of course. There were also the guns commanding every bit of the camp, and occasionally, to drive from us all thought of insurrection, the Regular Infantry marched through with fixed bayonets. At these times we were always lined up so we should not miss the gentle little lesson! * * * One day, a Zeppelin passed over the camp, and we all hurried out to look at it. It was the first one I had seen, and as it rode majestically over us, I couldn't help but think of the terrible use that had been made of man's mastery of the air. We wondered if it carried bombs. Many a wish for its destruction was expressed--and unexpressed. Before it got out of sight, it began to show signs of distress, as if the wishes were taking effect, and after considerable wheeling and turning it came back. Ropes were lowered and the men came down. It was secured to the ground, and floated serenely beside the wood adjoining the camp.... The wishes were continued.... During the afternoon, a sudden storm swept across the camp--rain and wind with such violence that we were all driven indoors.... When we came out after a few minutes--probably half an hour--the Zeppelin had disappeared. We found out afterwards that it had broken away from its moorings, and, dashing against the high trees, had been smashed to kindling wood; and this news cheered us wonderfully! * * * A visitor came to the camp one day, and, accompanied by three or four officers, made the rounds. He spoke to a group of us who were outside of the hut, asking us how many Canadians there were in Giessen. He said he thought there were about nine hundred Canadians in Germany altogether. He had no opportunity for private conversation with us, for the German officers did not leave him for a second; and although he made it clear that he would like to speak to us alone this privilege was not granted. Later we found out it was Ambassador James W. Gerard. It soon became evident that there were spies in the camp. Of course, we might have known that no German institution could get along without spies. Spies are the bulwark of the German nation; so in the Giessen camp there were German spies of all nationalities, including Canadian. But we soon saw, too, that the spies were not working overtime on their job; they just brought in a little gossip once in a while--just enough to save their faces and secure a soft snap for themselves. One of these, a Frenchman named George Clerque, a Sergeant Major in the French Army, was convinced that he could do better work if he had a suit of civilian clothes; and as he had the confidence of the prison authorities, the suit was given him. He wore it around for a few days, wormed a little harmless confidence out of some of his countrymen, and then one day quietly walked out of the front gate--and was gone! Being in civilian dress, it seemed quite likely that he would reach his destination, and as days went on, and there was no word of him, we began to hope that he had arrived in France. The following notice was put up regarding his escape: NOTICE! Owing to the evasions recently done, we beg to inform the prisoners of war of the following facts. Until present time, all the prisoners who were evased, have been catched. The French Sergt. Major George Clerque, speaking a good German and being in connection in Germany with some people being able to favorise his evasion, has been retaken. The Company says again, in the personal interests of the prisoners, that any evasion give place to serious punition (minima) fortnight of rigourous imprisonment after that they go in the "Strafbaracke" for an indeterminate time. GIESSEN, den 19th July, 1915. Although the notice said he had been captured we held to the hope that he had not, for we knew the German way of using the truth only when it suits better than anything they can frame themselves. They have no prejudice against the truth. It stands entirely on its own merits. If it suits them, they will use it, but the truth must not expect any favors. The German guards told us quite often that no one ever got out of Germany alive, and we were anxious to convince them that they were wrong. One day when the mail came in, a friend of George Clerque told us he had written from France, and there was great, but, of necessity, quiet rejoicing. That night Bromley and I decided that we would volunteer for farm service, if we could get taken to Rossbach, where some of the other boys had been working, for Rossbach was eighteen miles south of Giessen--on the way to Switzerland. We began to save food from our parcels, and figure out distances on the map which I had made. The day came when we were going to volunteer--Sunday at roll-call. Of course, we did not wish to appear eager, and were careful not to be seen together too much. Suddenly we were called to attention, and a stalwart German soldier marched solemnly into the camp. Behind him came two more, with somebody between them, and another soldier brought up the rear. The soldiers carried their rifles and full equipment, and marched by in front of the huts. We pressed forward, full of curiosity, and there beheld the tiredest, dustiest, most woe-begone figure of a man, whose clothes were in rags, and whose boots were so full of holes they seemed ready to drop off him. He was handcuffed and walked wearily, with downcast eyes-- It was George Clerque! [Illustration: German Prison Stamp] CHAPTER VI ROSSBACH It was September 25th that we left the prison-camp and came to Rossbach--eighteen miles south on the railway. The six of us, with the German guard, had a compartment to ourselves, and as there was a map on the wall which showed the country south of Rossbach, over which we hoped to travel, I studied it as hard as I could without attracting the attention of the guard, and afterwards entered on my map the information I had gained. It was rather a pretty country we travelled through, with small farms and fairly comfortable-looking buildings. The new houses are built of frame or brick, and are just like our own, but the presence of the old stone buildings, gray and dilapidated, and old enough to belong to the time of the Crusaders, kept us reminded that we were far from home. However, we were in great humor that morning. Before us was a Great Adventure; there were dangers and difficulties in the way, but at the end of the road was Liberty! And that made us forget how rough the going was likely to be. Besides, at the present time we were travelling south--toward Switzerland. We were on our way. At Wetzlar, one of the stations near Giessen, a kind-faced old German came to the window and talked to us in splendid English. "I would like to give you something, boys," he said, "but"--he shrugged his shoulders--"you know--I daren't." The guard pretended not to hear a word, and at that moment was waving his hand to a group of girls--just the regular station-goers, who meet the trains in Canada. This was, I think, the only place I saw them, for the women of Germany, young and old, are not encouraged to be idle or frivolous. "I just wish I could give you something," the old man repeated, feeling in his pocket as if looking for a cigar. Then Clarke, one of our boys, leaned out of the window and said, "I'll tell you what we would like best of all, old man--if you happen to have half a dozen of them on you--we'll take tickets to Canada--six will do--if you happen to have them right with you! And we're ready to start right now, too!" The German laughed and said, "You'd better try to forget about Canada, boys." * * * The guards who brought us to Rossbach went straight back to Giessen, after handing us over to the guards there, and getting, no doubt, an official receipt for us, properly stamped and signed. Rossbach has a new town and an old, and, the station being in the new town, we were led along the road to the old town, where the farming people live. It is an old village, with the houses, pig-pens, and cow-stables all together, and built so close that it would be quite possible to look out of the parlor window and see how the pigs are enjoying their evening meal or whether the cow has enough bedding. There have been no improvements there for a hundred years, except that they have electric lighting everywhere, even in the pig-pens. There were no lights in the streets, though, I noticed, and I saw afterwards that a street light would be a foolish extravagance, for the people go to bed at dark. They have the real idea of daylight-saving, and do not let any of it escape them. The guards took us around to the houses, and we created considerable interest, for strangers are a sensation at Rossbach; and, besides, prisoners are cheap laborers, and the thrifty German farmer does not like to miss a bargain. The little fellows were the first choice, for they looked easier to manage than those of us who were bigger. Clarke was taken by a woman whose husband was at the front, and who had five of as dirty children as I ever saw at one time. We asked one little boy his age, which he said was "fünf," but we thought he must be older--no child could get as dirty as that in five years! I was left until almost the last, and when a pleasant-looking old gentleman appeared upon the scene, I decided I would take a hand in the choosing, so I said, "I'll go with you." I was afraid there might be another large family, all with colds in their heads, like the five which Clarke had drawn, waiting for me, so that prompted me to choose this benevolent-looking old grandfather. The old man took me home with him to one of the best houses in the village, although there was not much difference between them. His house was made of plaster which had been whitewashed, and had in it a good-sized kitchen, where the family really lived, and an inner room which contained a large picture of the Royal Family, all in uniform, and very gorgeous uniforms, too. Even the young daughter had a uniform which looked warlike enough for a Lieutenant-Colonel's. There was also a desk in this room, where the father of the family--for the old man who brought me in was the grandfather--conducted his business. He was some sort of a clerk, probably the reeve of the municipality, and did not work on the farm at all. There was a fine home-made carpet on the floor, but the room was bare and cheerless, with low ceiling, and inclined to be dark. When we entered the kitchen, the family greeted me cordially, and I sat down to dinner with them. There were three girls and one brother, who was a soldier and home on leave. Bromley went to work for a farmer on the other side of the village, but I saw him each night, for we all went back to a large three-storied building, which may once have been a boarding-house, to sleep each night, the guard escorting us solemnly both to and from work each day. This was a very good arrangement for us, too, for we had to be through work and have our supper over by eight o'clock each night. After our prison diet, the meals we had here were ample and almost epicurean. We had soup--the real thing--made from meat, with plenty of vegetables; coffee with milk, but no sugar; cheese, homemade but very good; meat, both beef and pork; eggs in abundance; but never any pastry; and lots of potatoes, boiled in their skins, and fried. There were plenty of fruit-trees, too, in Rossbach, growing along the road, and, strange to say, unmolested by the youngsters. The trees appear to belong to the municipality, and the crop is sold by auction each year to the highest bidder. They are quite ornamental, too, standing in a straight row on each side of the road. The farmers who lived in this village followed the oldest methods of farming I had ever seen, though I saw still more primitive methods in Hanover. Vegetables, particularly potatoes and mangels, were grown in abundance, and I saw small fields of stubble, though what the grain was I do not know. I saw a threshing-machine drawn by a tractor going along the road, and one of the girls told me it was made in England. The woman who had the farm next to the one I was on was a widow, her husband having been killed in the war, and she had no horses at all, and cultivated her tiny acres with a team of cows. It seems particularly consistent with German character to make cows work! They hate to see anything idle, and particularly of the female sex. Each morning we rode out to the field, for the farms are scattered over a wide area, and three-acre and five-acre fields are the average size. The field where we went to work digging potatoes was about a mile distant from the house, and when I say we rode, I mean the brother and I--the girls walked. I remonstrated at this arrangement, but the girls themselves seemed to be surprised that it should be questioned, and the surly young brother growled something at me which I knew was a reflection on my intelligence. When we got into the field and began to dig potatoes, good, clear-skinned yellow ones, Lena Schmidt, one of the girls, who was a friend of the family, though not a relation, I think, began to ask me questions about Canada (they put the accent on the third syllable). Lena had been to Sweden, so she told me proudly, and had picked up quite a few English words. She was a good-looking German girl, with a great head of yellow hair, done in braids around her head. The girls were all fairly good-looking though much tanned from outdoor work. Lena had heard women worked in the house, and not outside, in Canada--was it true? I assured her it was true. "But," said Lena, "what do they do in house--when bread is made and dish-wash?" I told her our women read books and played the piano and made themselves pretty clothes and went visiting and had parties, and sometimes played cards. Of course it was not all told as easily as this sounds. I could see that Lena was deeply impressed, and so were the two others when she passed it on. Then she began to question me again. "Are there many women in Canada--women in every house--like here?" I told her there were not nearly so many women in Canada as here; indeed, there were not enough to go around, and there were lots of men who could not get married for that reason. When Lena passed that on, excitement reigned, and German questions were hurled at me! I think the three girls were ready to leave home! I gently reminded them of the war and the complications it had caused in the matter of travelling. They threw out their hands with a gesture of despair--there could be no Canada for them. "Fertig," they said--which is the word they use to mean "no chance," "no use to try further." Lena, however, having travelled as far as Sweden, and knowing, therefore, something of the world's ways, was not altogether without hope. "The war--will be some day done!" she said--and we let it go at that. Lena began to teach me German, and used current events as the basis of instruction. Before the end of the first day I was handling sentences like this--"Herr Schmidt expects to have his young child christened in the church next Sunday at 2 o'clock, God willing." Helene Romisch, the daughter of the house, had a mania for knowing every one's age, and put the question to me in the first ten minutes of our acquaintance. She had evidently remembered every answer she had ever received to her questions, for she told me the age of every one who passed by on the road, and when there was no one passing she gave me a list of the family connections of those who had gone, or those who were likely to go, with full details as to birthdays. I think it was Eliza, the other girl, who could speak no English and had to use Lena as interpreter, who first broached the tender subject of matrimony. Was I married? I said, "No." Then, after a few minutes' conference-- Had I a girl? "No--I hadn't," I told them. Then came a long and heated discussion, and Lena was hard put to it, with her scanty store of English words, and my recently acquired German, to frame such a delicate question. I thought I knew what it was going to be--but I did not raise a hand to help. Why hadn't I a girl? Did I not like girls? or what? I said I did like girls; that was not the reason. Then all three talked at once, and I knew a further explanation was going to be demanded if Lena's English could frame it. This is the form in which the question came: "You have no girl, but you say you like girls; isn't it all right to have a girl?" Then I told them it was quite a proper thing to have a girl; I had no objections at all; in fact, I might some day have a girl myself. Then Lena opened her heart, seeing that I was not a woman-hater, and told me she had a beau in Sweden; but I gathered from her manner of telling it that his intentions were somewhat vague yet. Eliza had already admitted that she had a "fellow," and had shown me his picture. Helene made a bluff at having one, too, though she did not seem able to give names or dates. Then Lena, being the spokeswoman, told me she could get a girl for me, and that the young lady was going to come out to the potato digging. "She see you carry water--she like you," declared Lena. This was interesting, too, and I remembered that when I was carrying water from the town pump the first day I was there, I had seen a black-eyed young lady of about sixteen standing in the road, and when I passed she had bade me "Good-day" in splendid English. On Saturday, Fanny Hummel, for that was the black-eyed one's name, did come out. The three girls had a bad attack of giggles all the time Fanny and I were talking, for Fanny could speak a little English, having studied a year at Friedberg. She had a brother in the army who was an officer, and she told me he could speak English "perfect." As far as her English would go, she told me about Friedberg and her studies there, but when I tried to find out what she thought about the war, I found that Fanny was a properly trained German girl, and didn't think in matters of this kind. When the day's work was over, Fanny and I walked back to town with the three girls following us in a state of partial collapse from giggles. That night, Lena wanted to know how things stood. Was Fanny my girl? I was sorry to break up such a pleasant little romance, but was compelled to state with brutal frankness that Fanny was not my girl! I do not know how Fanny received this report, which I presumed would be given to her the next day, for the next day was the one we had selected for our departure. CHAPTER VII THE ESCAPE Sunday, October 3d, was the day we had chosen as our "going-away" day. We did no work on Sundays, and so had a full day's rest. Besides, we had a chance for a bath on Sunday, and knew we needed every advantage we could get, for it was a long way to Switzerland. The day had been sunny and bright, but toward evening big, heavy clouds rolled up from the southwest, and the darkness came on early. This. suited our purpose, and it was hard for Bromley and me to keep our accustomed air of unconcern. By a fortunate arrangement, we were occupying a room downstairs in the old boarding-house, which made our escape less difficult. The upstairs sleeping-place would hold only three more when the six of us arrived from Giessen the week previous, and that left three of us for a downstairs room. For this, Bromley and I, and a young Englishman called Bherral were chosen. The walls of the house were of plaster, and the windows had a double barring of barbed wire, stapled in; but plaster does not make a very secure bedding for staples, and we figured it would not be hard to pry them out. [Illustration: Two Pages from Private Simmons's Diary] There was a light outside which burned all night at the corner of the house, and by it the windows were brightly illumined. This made our exit rather difficult. The doors were all locked, and there were about a dozen guards who slept in another room adjoining ours. Some of them slept, we knew, and we hoped they all did. None of the prisoners at this place had ever attempted to escape, and so the guard had become less vigilant. I suppose they figured it out that if any of us were determined to go, we would make the start from the field where we were working, and where there were no guards at all. But they made a fine bluff at being awake all night, for we heard them walking up and down in the early evening. However, we reasoned that they were not any keener on sitting up than any of the rest of us would be if we didn't have to; and it turned out that our faith in them was justified. Although we did not have to work on Sunday, those who had to work in the mines had no seventh day of rest, and the night-shift went out each night about ten-thirty when the day-shift men came in. We had decided on eleven-thirty as the hour for our departure, giving the guard one hour in which to settle down after this disturbance. We were lying on our mattresses, apparently wrapped in a heavy slumber, but in reality eagerly listening to every sound.... We heard the night-workers going out, and the day-men coming in and going heavily to rest.... A guard seemed restless for a while and tramped up and down the creaking floor... but at last the only sound to be heard was the deep breathing of tired men. I heard Bromley gently reaching for his clothes, and I did not lose any time in getting into mine. Bherral and a little Frenchman, who were in our room, were wide awake and full of fear. They had tried to dissuade us. But the guards, all unsuspecting, slept on. They slept the sweet sleep of childhood while we pushed out the strands of barbed wire which protected the window; they slept while Bromley slipped cautiously to the ground, and while I handed him down the overcoats, boots, and parcels of food (which we had been saving for a month); they slept while I slid through the window and dropped to the ground, too. Just then the wind caught the window, which was on a hinge, and slammed it noisily against the wall. We grabbed our belongings, and ran! CHAPTER VIII OFF FOR SWITZERLAND! We ran as if the whole German Army were in pursuit. Our feet did not seem to touch the ground. I believe if we could have held that pace we should have been in Switzerland in the morning! Reaching a little hollow, we slackened our pace and listened. There was not a sound from behind. Either there was no more wind, or the boys had closed the window from within. We figured that they would do this, and open it before morning so they could claim they had not heard us go. Then we put on our boots. The night was at its blackest, and a drizzling rain began to fall. This was in our favor, for nobody was likely to be about on such a night. When we saw we were not pursued, we took time to arrange our packs. I carried my compass, which I had been able to secrete during numerous searchings, and my map, a pair of socks, pipe, tobacco, matches in a tin box, an empty beer-bottle, and several things to eat, saved from our parcels,--chocolate, tinned meat, biscuits, cheese, and bread. Bromley had a pack similar to mine, and when we got them ready and our overcoats on, we started off in a southeasterly direction, guided by the light from the place we had left. We walked as fast as we could in the darkness, which was heavy enough to hide in, but made progress very difficult, for we could not see each other or one step before us. We tripped over a railway track once, and if there had been any one near they might have heard us. But in spite of the rain, which fell with steady insistence and began to weigh down our overcoats; in spite of the blackness which made the travelling unbelievably difficult; in spite of the fact that we were in a land of enemies, playing a desperate game against terrible odds, we were happier than either of us had been since being taken to Germany, for a weight had been rolled off our souls. We were on our way to freedom! When we found it necessary to consult the compass, I took off my overcoat and lay flat on the ground with my compass and matches ready. Bromley put my coat over my head and shoulders, tucking it well in around me, so no light could shine through. Then I struck a match, and in its light made the observation, always taking into consideration the fact that in that part of Europe the compass points sixteen or seventeen degrees west of due north. We were careful to avoid the main roads and to seek out the seldom-travelled, ones, for we knew that our only chance was in not being seen at all, as we wore our own Canadian uniforms, which would brand us at once for what we were. Added to that, we could not form a single German sentence if we were challenged. Of course, I could say "that Herr Schmidt expected to have his young child baptized in the church next Sunday, God willing," but I felt that that was not altogether the proper reply to make to the command--"Halt! Wer da?" The villages were very thick here, and our chief difficulty was to keep out of them. Once we ventured rather close to the road which ran near the railroad, and heard a number of people talking. They were travellers who had alighted from the train which had raced past us in the darkness a few minutes before. The station is often quite a distance from the village, and these were the passengers walking back to their homes--the village which we had been avoiding. We dropped to the ground, and the people went by, one old man singing. I knew he was old, for his voice was cracked and thin, but of great sweetness, and he sang an aria from a musical comedy which was popular then, called "The Joy of Life." I had heard a doctor in the lazaret singing it. When the sound had grown fainter in the distance, we came out of our hiding-place and went on. "It seems hard," said Bromley, "to be fighting with people who can sing like that. I can't work up any ill-will to that good old soul, going home singing--and I don't believe he has any ill-will to us. I couldn't fight the Germans if they were all like this old chap and Sank!" "You wouldn't need to," I said. "There would not have been any fighting." And then we strained our ears to listen to the song, not a word of which we understood, though to us the music was full of good-will and joy. "We've got to keep farther out," I said at last. "We are sure to run into some one and then it will be all up with us!" We found, at last, after much stumbling over rough ground, a road quite grass-grown and apparently abandoned. We followed it for about a mile, making good progress, until we came to a stream over which there was a bridge. We hesitated a minute before going over, but the place was as silent as a cemetery, and seemed perfectly safe. So we cautiously went over, keeping a sharp outlook all the time. When we were over the bridge, we found ourselves in the one street of another village. We stopped for a minute and listened. There was not a sound. We then went forward. Most of the streets of the villages are paved with cobblestones, but these were not, and our boots made no sound on the dirt road. Not even a dog barked, and just as we were at the farther end of it, the village clock rang the hour of three! "That's all right for once," I said, "but it's risky; I don't think we'd better try it again. Some barking dog is sure to awake." Soon after that the east grew red with morning, and we struck straight into the woods to find shelter. We soon found ourselves in high rushes growing out of swampy ground, and as we plunged along, we came to a high woven-wire fence, which we supposed marked the bounds of a game preserve. We quickened our pace, although the going was bad, for the light was growing and we knew these German peasants are uncomfortably early in their habits. We came on a garden, carefully fenced with rails, and helped ourselves to a few carrots and turnips to save our supply of food, and, finding near there a fairly thick wood, decided to camp for the day. That was Monday, October 4th, and was a miserable day with sudden bursts of sunshine that made our hearts light with the hope of getting both warm and dry; but the sunshine no sooner came than it was gone, and then a shower of rain would beat down on us. However, we managed to make our feet comfortable with the extra pair of socks, and we ate some carrots, bread, and cheese. But it was so cold, we could not sleep. We were glad when it grew dark enough for us to start out again. We found we were in a well-cultivated district; almost every acre was in garden, potatoes and sugar beets, whose stalks rustled and crackled as we went through them, and this made our going slower than it otherwise would have been. There were a few late apples on the trees, but they were poor, woody ones. I do not know whether they were a sample of the crop or just the culls that were not considered worth picking. But we were glad of them, and filled our pockets. The streams which we came to gave us considerable trouble. We were not exactly dry, but then we could have been wetter, and so we hunted for bridges, thereby losing much time and taking grave chances of being caught. We were new in the matter of escaping, and had a lot to learn. Now we know we should have waded through without losing a minute. That morning, just before stopping-time, in crossing a railway Bromley tripped over a signal wire, which rang like a burglar alarm and seemed to set a dozen bells ringing. We quickened our pace, and when the railway man came rushing out of his house and looked wildly up and down the track, we were so far away he could not see us! We kept well to the east, for we knew the location of Frankfort and that we must avoid it. Bromley had difficulty in keeping his direction, and I began to suspect that he thought I was lost, too. So I told him the direction the road ran, and then made an observation with the compass to convince him, but many a time in the long, black middle of the night, I thought I detected a disposition to doubt in his remarks. When the North Star shone down on us, we could find our way without trouble, but when the night was clouded, as most of the nights were, it became a difficult matter. The third night there was a faintly light patch in the sky, by which I guided my course and did not use my compass at all. Bromley had evidently not noticed this, and declared that no human being could keep his direction on as black a night as this. The faint light in the sky continued to hold, and I guided our course by it until we came to a road. Here Bromley insinuated that I had better use my compass (I was thinking the same thing, too). I assured him it was not necessary, for I knew the road was running east and west. It was, I knew, if the light patch in the sky had not shifted. When we made the observation with the compass, we found it was so; and Bromley asked me, wonderingly, how I could do it. I told him it was a sort of sixth sense that some people had. After that he trusted me implicitly. This saved him a lot of anxiety, and also made it easier for me. Soon after this we got into a miry part of the country, with the woods so thick and the going so bad that we knew we could not make any progress. It was a veritable dismal swamp, where travellers could be lost forever. As we stumbled along in this swampy place, we came to a narrow-gauge railway, which we gladly followed until we saw we were coming to a city. This we afterwards knew to be the city of Hanau. Just in the gray dawn, we left the track and took refuge in a thick bush, where we spent the day. This was October 5th. Our first work was to change our socks, spreading the ones we took off on a tree to dry. We then carefully rubbed our feet until they were dry, and put on the dry socks. We soon learned that we must leave our boots off for a while each day, to keep our feet in good condition. The pressure of the boots, especially with the dampness, made the feet tender and disposed to skin. This day was a showery one, too, but the sun shone for about an hour in the morning, and when Bromley lay down to sleep, I decided to go out and see what sort of country we were in. I wanted to check up my map, too, for if it were correct, we should be near the Main River. I made my way cautiously to the edge of the wood, marking the way by breaking the top of a twig here and there, to guide me safely back to Bromley. Ordinary travellers can call to each other, but the ways of escaping prisoners must all be ways of quietness, although their paths are not all paths of peace! I saw a beautiful little lodge, vine-covered, with a rustic fence around it, with blue smoke curling out of its red-brick chimney, and I just knew they were having bacon and eggs and coffee for breakfast. Two graceful deer, with gentle eyes, looked out at me from a tangle of willows, and then I knew the brown lodge was the game-keeper's house. A hay meadow, green with after-grass, stretched ahead of me, but there was no sign of the Main River. I had kept well under cover, I thought, but before long I had the uncomfortable feeling that some one was following me; the crackling of the bushes, which ceased when I stopped, and began again when I went on, seemed very suspicious. I abruptly changed my course, making a wide circle, and was able to elude my pursuer and find my way back to Bromley. I had an uneasy feeling that I had been too careless, and that some one had seen me. However, I lay down to sleep, for I was dead tired, and we had a splendid hiding-place in the thick bush. I do not know how long I slept; it seemed only a few minutes when a bugle-call rang out. We wakened with a start, for it went through us like a knife. We heard loud commands, and knew there was a company of soldiers somewhere near, and I gathered from my recent observations that these sounds came from the hay meadow in front of us. We did not connect the demonstration with our presence until the soldiers began shouting and charging the wood where we lay. Then we knew we were what the society papers call the "raison d'être" for all this celebration. We lay close to the earth and hardly dared to breathe. The soldiers ran shouting and firing (probably blank cartridges) in every direction. Through the brush I saw their feet as they passed--not ten feet from where we lay. The noise they made was deafening; evidently they thought if they beat the bushes sufficiently hard, they could scare us out like rabbits, and I knew they were watching the paths and thin places in the woods. But we lay tight, knowing it was our only safety. Soon the noise grew fainter, and they passed on to try the woods we had just come through, and we, worn with fatigue, fell asleep. In the afternoon they gave our woods another combing. They seemed pretty sure we were somewhere near! But they did not come quite so close to us as they had in the morning. However, we had heard enough to convince us that this was a poor place to linger, and when it got real dark, we pushed on south across the hay meadow. This meadow was full of ditches which were a little too wide to jump and were too skwudgy in the bottom to make wading pleasant. They delayed us and tired us a great deal, for it was a tough climb getting out of them. At last we decided to take the road, for the night was dark enough to hide us, and by going slowly we thought we could avoid running into any one. We had not gone very far when we heard the sound of wagons, and when we stopped to listen we could hear many voices, and knew our road was bringing us to a much-used thoroughfare. In the corner formed by the intersecting roads there was a thick bush of probably ten acres, and I could not resist the desire to scout and see what sort of country we were in. So I left Bromley, carefully marking where he was by all the ways I could, and then went out to the edge of the bush. I went along the edge of the road, keeping well into the bush. It was too dark to see much, but I could make out that there was a well-wooded country ahead of us. I came back to the exact place where I had left Bromley, or at least where I thought I had left him, but not a trace of him could I see. Of course, I dared not call, so I gave a soft whistle, as near like a bird-call as I could. Bromley reached out his hand and touched me! He was right beside me. That gave me the comfort of knowing how well the darkness and bushes hide one if he is perfectly still. We thought this road led to the river Main, and decided to keep close to it so we could get across on the bridge. We followed along the road until it branched into two roads. We took the right branch first, but as it turned more and more sharply to the west, we concluded it was the road to Frankfort, and retraced our steps to the place where we had picked it up, and went the other way. There was heavy forest along the road, and it seemed to us to run southeast by east. We wanted to go south, so we turned off this road through a chance hay meadow, and then through the forest, until we found a sort of road which ran south. All German forests have roads, more or less distinct, traversing them according to some definite plan, but they do not necessarily follow the cardinal points of the compass. We followed the south road, which was little used, until we came to a stream. There was no way of getting across it, so we followed its bank until it flowed into the Kinzig River. We knew by our map this must be the Kinzig River. We tried to find a path along the Kinzig, but there did not seem to be any, and the underbrush was impenetrable. We decided to wait until morning came, took some chocolate and biscuits and filled our beer-bottle in the stream. Then we found a comfortable bank, and put some brush under our heads and slept. But not very soundly, for we did not want to miss that misty light which comes about an hour before sunrise. We wakened just as the light began to show in the east, and, stiff and cold, with our teeth chattering, we started on our way to find some means of getting across the Kinzig. Bridge, boat, or raft, anything would do us, provided only it came soon, before the daylight. In a few minutes we came to a foot-bridge, with a well-beaten path running down to it and up the opposite bank. So we made a dash across it. We knew enough, though, to get off the path at once, for we could see it was a well-travelled one. We struck into the wood, keeping our southerly direction, but soon came out on another road, and as the light was too strong now for us, we went back into the woods and kept hidden. That was Wednesday, October 6th. Again it rained; not in showers this time with redeeming shots of sunshine, but a dull, steady, miserable rain that wet us clear through to the skin. Still, we ate our cheese and bread, and opened a tin of sardines, and managed to put the day in. We were near a town, and could hear people driving by all day long. We were kept so on the alert that we had no time to feel uncomfortable. However, we were very glad when the darkness came and we could stretch our legs and get warm again. We had great difficulty to clear the town and the railway yards ahead of us, but at last found a road leading south, and followed it through the forest. In one place, as I was going along ahead, intent on keeping the road, which seemed to be heaped up in the middle, I heard a cry behind me, and almost jumped across the road in my excitement. Instinctively I began to run, but a second cry arrested me, for it was Bromley's voice. I ran back and found he had fallen into a hole in the road. The heaped-up appearance I had noticed was the dirt thrown out of a six-foot drain, in which they were laying water-pipes, and into this Bromley had fallen. He was not hurt at all, but jarred a little by the fall. We knew we had passed the Hesse boundary, and were now in Bavaria. Our one beer-bottle did not hold nearly enough water, and in our long walk through the forest on this night we suffered from thirst. We had thought we should be able to find cows to milk, but on account of the people living in villages, there was but little chance of this. When we got out of the forest we found ourselves in an open country. We came to a good-sized stream, and crossed the bridge and to our horror found ourselves in a town of considerable size. The streets were dark, but from one or two windows lights shone. We pushed rapidly on, and thought we were nearly through, when a little upstart of a fox-terrier came barking out at us from a doorway. We stepped into a space between two houses, and just then a cat crossed the street and he transferred his attentions to her. "I always did like cats," Bromley whispered. We came out again and went on, breathing out our condemnation of all German dogs. And we were not done with them yet! For before we got out another cur flew at us and raised enough noise to alarm the town. I believe the only thing that saved us was this dog's bad character. Nobody believed he had anything--he had fooled them so often--and so, although he pursued us until we slipped down an alley and got into a thick grove, there was not even a blind raised. He ran back, yelping out his disappointment, and the bitterest part of it would be that no one would ever believe him--but that is part of the liar's punishment. We got out of the town as soon as we could, and pushed on with all haste; we were afraid that news of our escape had been published, and that these people might be on the lookout for us. The telephone poles along the roads we were travelling kept us reminded of the danger we were in. Loaded apple-trees growing beside the road tempted us to stop and fill our pockets, and as we were doing so a man went by on a bicycle. We stepped behind the tree just in time to avoid being seen, and although he slackened his pace and looked hard at the place where we were, he evidently thought it best to keep going. We met two other men later in the night, but they apparently did not see us, and we went on. We left the road after that, and plunged into the woods, for the daylight was coming. During the day of October 7th we stayed close in the woods, for we knew we were in a thickly settled part of the country. Lying on the ground, we could see a German farmer gathering in his sugar beets, ably assisted by his women-folk. We could also hear the children from a school near by, playing "Ring-a-ring-a-röselein." The rain that day was the hardest we had yet encountered, but in the afternoon the sun came out and we got some sleep. At dusk we started out again, on a road which had forest on one side and open country on the other. We could see the trains which ran on the main line from Hanau to Aschaffenburg. The Main River was at our right. Soon the forest ended abruptly, and we found ourselves in an open country, and with a railroad to cross. As we drew near, the dog at the station gave the alarm. We stepped into a clump of trees and "froze." The man at the station came rushing out and looked all around, but did not see us, and went back. We then made a wide detour and crawled cautiously over the road on our hands and knees, for this road had rock ballast which would have crunched under our feet. We then went on through the village, where another dog barked at us, but couldn't get any support from his people, who slept on. We were worried about the time, for neither of us had a watch, and we suspected that it was near morning. We hurried along, hoping to find a shelter, but the country seemed to be open and treeless. A thick mist covered the ground and helped to hide us, but it might lift at any minute. We struck straight east at last, in the hope of finding woods. Through the mist we saw something ahead of us which when we came nearer proved to be a hill. Hoping it might be wooded on the top, we made for it with all haste. When we reached the top we found no woods, but an old cellar or an excavation of a building. It was seven or eight feet deep, and the bottom was covered with rubbish. Into it we went, glad of any sort of shelter. When daylight came, we looked cautiously over the edge, and saw we were near a village; also we saw that about two hundred yards away there was a good thick wood, but it was too late now to think of changing our position. There was a potato patch on the face of the hill, with evidence of recent digging. About eight o'clock we heard voices. Women were digging the potatoes. Our feet were very sore that day, on account of the rain and of our not being able to keep our boots off enough each day, but we lay perfectly lifeless and did not even speak, for fear of attracting the attention of the potato-diggers. We wished it would rain and drive the potato-diggers in. But about nine o'clock a worse danger threatened us. We heard firing, and could hear commands given to soldiers. Soon it dawned on us that they were searching the wood for us. The hours dragged on. We were cramped and sore of feet, hungry, and nervous from lack of sleep, but managed to remain absolutely motionless. About three o'clock a five-year-old boy belonging to the potato-digging party, strolled up to the top of the hill. Bromley saw him first, and signed to me. He loitered around the top of the cellar a few minutes, threw some stones and dirt down, and then wandered away. There was nothing to indicate that he had seen us. But in a few moments a woman and little girl came. The woman looked straight at us, and made away at full speed. We knew she had seen us. Then we heard the soldiers coming, shouting. It was not a pleasant time to think of. When they surrounded the place, we stood up, and surrendered. There was nothing else to do. CHAPTER IX CAUGHT! At first it seemed as if there were a platoon of soldiers: they were everywhere I looked, and there were more coming! They were, for the most part, young fellows from the training camp at Aschaffenburg, and it was not every day they got a chance to catch a couple of prisoners. So it was done with a flourish! The Captain instructed us to put up our hands, and two of the soldiers searched us. They were welcome to my map, because already I was thinking of making another, but I did not like to see my compass go--I kept wondering how I would ever get another. There was no hostility in their attitude toward us, either from the soldiers or the civilians. The potato-diggers, mostly women, went straight back to their work as if they had done their share and now some one else could "carry on." Prisoners or no prisoners, the potatoes had to be dug. A few children gathered around us, but they kept back at a respectful distance and made no remarks. Where the military are concerned, the civilian population do not interfere, even by words or looks. The village women who gathered around us had most apathetic, indifferent, sodden faces; I don't believe they knew what it was all about. They were no more interested in what was going on than the black-and-white Holstein cows that grazed in the meadow near by. [Illustration: Map made by Private Simmons of the First Attempt] I spoke of this afterwards to Bromley. "But you must remember," he said, "they knew enough to go and tell on us. That wasn't so slow." We could see that the soldiers were greatly pleased with their catch, by the way they talked and gesticulated. Every one was pleased but us! Then the commander, addressing his men in what we took to be a congratulatory speech, called for volunteers. We knew the word. I looked at Bromley, and saw the same thought in his face, but his sense of humor never failed him. "Cheer up, Sim!" he said. "They are just calling for volunteers to shoot us. The boys must have something to practise on." We laughed about it afterwards, but I must say I did not see much fun in it that minute. But it was only volunteers to take us into Aschaffenburg. The commander wished to spread the joy and gladness as far as it would go, and I think it was fully a dozen who escorted us to Aschaffenburg, about a mile and a half away. They marched us through the principal streets, where I saw the sign "Kleiderfabrik" many times. The people stopped to look at us, but I saw no evidence of hostility. I am not sure that the majority of the people knew who we were, though of course they knew we were foreigners. There was one person, however, who recognized us, for as we were marching past one of the street-corners, where a group had gathered, a voice spoke out in excellent English, "Canadians, by Jove! And two fine big chaps, too!" The voice was friendly, but when I turned to look I could not see who had spoken. Their pride in showing us off was "all right for them," but pretty hard on us, for it was a long time since we had slept, and we did not enjoy being paraded through the city just for fun. We knew we were in for it, and wanted to know just what they were going to do with us. At last they drew up with great ceremony before the Military Headquarters, where there was more challenging, by more guards. I think another guard fell in behind to see that we did not bolt, and we were conducted into the presence of the Supreme Commander of that Military District. He sat at a high desk in the centre of the room. There were several clerks or secretaries in the room, all in uniform, and there seemed to be considerable business going on when we came in, for numerous typewriters were going and messengers were moving about. I noticed there was not a woman in the room. When we entered and were swung up to the Commander's desk, with a few words of introduction, there was complete silence. The soldiers who brought us in stepped back in a straight line, all in step, and waited to be congratulated, with that conscious air of work well done that a cat has when she throws down a mouse and stands around to hear the kind words which will be spoken. The Supreme Commander was a grizzled man, with bushy gray eyebrows which were in great need of being barbered, red cheeks, and a curled-up mustache. He spoke through an interpreter. We were asked our names, ages, previous occupation, when captured, and the most important questions of all, "Why were we fighting against Germany?" and, "Why did we want to leave Germany?" I was questioned first, and after I had answered all the minor questions, I told him I enlisted in the Canadian Army because we considered ourselves part of the British Empire, and besides, Great Britain's share in the war was an honorable one which any man might well be proud to fight for. I said we were fighting for the little nations and their right to live and govern themselves. I told him it was the violation of Belgium that had set Canada on fire. When this was passed on by the interpreter, I could see it was not well received, for the old man's eyebrows worked up and down and he said something which sounded like "Onions." Then he asked me what did Canada hope to get out of the war? I said, "Nothing"--Canada would gain nothing--but we had to maintain our self-respect, and we couldn't have kept that if we had not fought. "But," I said, "the world will gain a great deal from the war, for it will gain the right to live at peace." At the mention of peace, some of the officers laughed in contempt, but at a glance from the Supreme Commander, the laugh was checked with great suddenness! He then asked me why I wanted to get out of Germany. I told him no free man enjoyed being a prisoner, and besides, I was needed in the army. All these answers were taken down by two secretaries, and Bromley was put through the same list of questions. He told them no one in Canada had to fight, no one wanted to fight, because we are peaceable people, but we believe a little nation had a right to live, and we had been taught that the strong must defend the weak. When they asked him why he wanted to get away from Germany, he told them he had a wife and two children in Canada, and he wanted to see them: whereupon the Commander broke out impatiently, "This is no time for a man to think of his wife and children!" When the Supreme Commander was through with us, we were taken to the station and put on the train for Giessen, escorted by a Sergeant Major, who had an iron cross ribbon on his coat, and two privates. We got a drink at a tap in the station and ate some bread and cheese from our pack, which they had not taken away from us, but they did not offer us anything to eat. On the train, where we had a compartment to ourselves, one of the privates bought some fruit, and gave us a share of it. Our German money had been taken away from us when they searched us, and we had nothing but prison-stamps, which are of no use outside the prison-camp. One of the privates was a university man, and in broken English tried to tell us why Germany had to enter the war, to save herself from her enemies. I thought his reasoning was more faulty than his English, but believed in his sincerity. He told us that every nation in the whole world hated Germany and was jealous of "him," and that England was the worst of all. He said England feared and hated the Bavarians most of all, and that all Bavarian prisoners were shot. I tried to convince him that this was not so; but he was a consistent believer and stuck to it. He said when Germany won the war "he" would be very kind to all the countries "he" conquered, and do well for them. He told us he hated England, but not all "Engländers" were bad! At Hanau we changed cars and had a few minutes to wait, and our guards walked up and down with us. The station was crowded with people, and the lunch-tables were crowded, although it was getting late in the evening. At Friedberg we had an hour's wait, and we saw the same thing. Beer-drinking and eating was going on in a big lunch-room, but the patrons were ninety per cent men. The Sergeant Major with the iron cross did not bother us at all, and at Friedberg he devoted himself to the young lady who sold cigars, beer, and post-cards in the station. We asked our friend who could speak a little English what they were saying, but he, being a university man and of high degree socially, gave us to understand that the Sergeant Major was lowering his dignity to flirt with the girl behind the counter. He said it was all "verrücktheit" (craziness). We were of the opinion that it was the girl who was stepping down! When we got into Giessen, they took us on the street-car to the prison-camp, and we were glad, for it had been a long day for us, and the thought of longer ones ahead was not cheering. We were taken to the hut where the prison-guards sleep, and were given a room at the very end, where we would surely be safe. We were tired enough not to give any trouble, and when they left us, we threw ourselves down without undressing and slept till morning. At nine o'clock we were taken before the officers of our own Company, and put through the same questions. The answers were written down, as before. We were then marched away to the Strafe-Barrack. The Strafe-Barrack had in it about thirty prisoners, but it was not nearly full. These were all kept at one end of the hut, and at the other end there were three men whose official standing was somewhat of a mystery to us at first. Two of them were Belgians, a private and a Sergeant, and one was a British Sergeant. They were dressed like ordinary prisoners, but seemed to be able to go about at will. We soon caught on to the fact that they were spies, whose business it was to watch the prisoners and repeat anything that would be of interest to the authorities. During the five days we were kept there, waiting for "cells," we found them quite friendly. CHAPTER X THE CELLS! On the morning of the fifth day two cells were reported empty, and we were taken to them. The cells are in a wooden building inside the camp, and in the building we were in there were ten of them, divided from each other by wooden partitions whose cracks are battened with strips of wood to prevent light from coming through. There are two windows, one over the door and one in the outside wall. These have a solid wooden door which can be shut over them, excluding every ray of light. The cells are about six feet by eight in size, and have a wooden platform to sleep on. There is no bedding of any kind. There is one shelf, on which a pitcher of drinking-water stands, and there is an electric button by which the guard can be called. We were allowed to keep all our clothing, including our overcoats, and I managed to hold on to a stub of a pencil and a piece of stout string. When the guard brought me in and told me to "make myself at home" or words to that effect, and went out, locking the door, I sat down on the wooden platform, and looked around. It was as black as the infernal regions--I might as well have had my eyes shut, for all I could see. However, I kept on looking. There was no hurry--I had time to spare. I had more time than I had ever had before. Soon I noticed that in the partition at my right there was a place where the darkness was broken, and a ray of light filtered through. As I watched it, into the light spot there came two glistening points which looked very much like a pair of eyes. I did not move, for I could hear the guards moving up and down the gangway, but I could hardly wait until I heard the gates of the gangway close. Then I went to the crack and whispered. "Hello!" "Hello!" came back the answer; and looking through the crack I saw a lighted cell, and in it a man, the owner of the two bright eyes I had seen. "What are you?" came a whisper. "Canadian," I answered; "in for trying to escape." By putting my ear to the crack, I could hear when he whispered. "I am a Frenchman," he said in perfect English; "Malvoisin is my name, and this is my second attack of cells--for escaping--but I'll make it yet. Have you the rings? No? Well, you'll get them. Look at me." I could see that his uniform had stripes of bright red wagon paint on the seams, and circles of it on the front of the tunic and on his trousers, with a large one on the back of the tunic between the shoulders. "You'll get these when you get into the Strafe-Barrack," he said. "How long shall I be there?" I asked. "Nobody knows," he answered. "If they like you, they may keep you! It's an indeterminate sentence.... That's a good cell you have. I was in that cell the last time, and I fixed it up a little." "What did you do to it?" I asked. "There's a built-in cupboard over at the other side, where you can keep your things!" "Things!" I said--"what things? I've nothing but a pencil and a string." "The boys will bring you stuff," he said; and then he gave me instructions. "Write a note," he said. "Here's a piece of paper," shoving a fragment of newspaper through the crack. "Write a note addressed to one of your friends, tell him you are in cells, but get out every day to lavatory in Camp 8--they'll bring you food, and books." "Books!" I said. "What good would books be to me in this black hole?" "I am just coming to that," he whispered back; "there's a crack like this with a movable batten over on the other side. You can stand on the platform, pull down the strip of wood, and get in quite a decent light from the other cell. It is a light cell like mine; and right above it you'll find the board that is loose in the ceiling; you can pull it down and slip your book into the space and then let it up again." I stepped over to the other side, and found everything just as he said. Life grew brighter all at once, and the two weeks of "cells" were robbed of a great part of their terror. I set to work to pull a nail with my cord, and was able to do it after considerable labor, but there was no hurry at all. It all helped to put the long hours in! With the nail I made the reading-crack larger, in anticipation of the books which were to come, but was careful not to have it too big for the strip of wood to cover when it was swung back into place. When morning came I got my issue of bread, the fifth part of a small round loaf, which was my allowance for the day. Then for ten minutes we all swept out our cells and were taken out to the lavatory. I had my note ready, and when the guard was not looking, slipped it into the hand of a Frenchman who was standing near me. The lavatory was in the same building as Camp 8 Lavatory, and was divided from theirs by a wall with an opening in it, through which parcels might be passed between the strands of barbed wire. The Frenchman delivered my note quite safely, and the next morning I found several little packages on the floor of the lavatory. Bromley and I managed to get out at the same time, and as the guard did not understand English, we were able to say a few words to each other. The boys sent us things every day--chocolate, biscuits, cheese, cigarettes, matches, and books. We wore our overcoats to the lavatory each day, so we could use the pockets to carry back our parcels without detection. We were also careful to leave nothing in the cell that would attract the attention of the guard, and Malvoisin and I conserved matches by lighting one cigarette with the other one, through the crack. Bromley had no reading-crack in his room, but with a nail and string soon made himself one. Standing on the platform, I could open the reading-crack and get several inches of light on my book. I read three or four books in this way, too, making them last just as long as I could. On the fourth day I had light in my cell. The two windows were opened and the cell was aired. On the light day I got more to eat, too, coffee in the morning, and soup in the evening. On that night I had a mattress and blankets, too. Toward the end of my two weeks I had hard luck. The cell next to mine, on which I depended for the light to read by, was darkened. I was right in the middle of "The Harvester." I tried it by the crack between my cell and that of Malvoisin, but the light was too dim and made my eyes ache. However, after two days a light-cell prisoner was put in, and I was able to go on with my story. Malvoisin did all he could to make my punishment endurable. On account of his cell being lighted, he could tell, by the sunlight on the wall, what time it was, and passed it on to me, and when I couldn't read because the cell next to mine was dark, he entertained me with the story of his adventures--and they were many! His last escape had been a marvellous one--all but the end. When outside of the grounds, on a digging party, he had entertained the guards so well, by showing them fancy steps in dancing, that they had not noticed that he was circling closer and closer to a wood. Then, when he had made some grotesque movement, which sent the staid German guards into paroxysms of laughter, he had made a dash for the wood. The soldiers at once surrounded the place, but Malvoisin had gone up a tree. The guards fired through the woods, calling on him to surrender, while he sat safe and happy in one of the highest branches, watching the search for him. The searching of the wood continued for two days, but he remained in his nest in the tree, coming down at night to get the food he had buried in the ground while on the digging party. They gave up the search then, and he started for Switzerland. He got a suit of painter's clothes at one place--overalls and smock--by going through a window where the painters had been working, and with his knowledge of German was passing himself off for a painter, and working toward home. But his description was in the newspapers, and a reward offered for his capture. His brilliant black eyes and the scar on his cheek gave him away, and one of his fellow-workmen became suspicious, and for the sake of the reward notified the military. But he said he would be sure to reach home next time! He had a week longer punishment than we had, and so when our two weeks were up we left him there. When I said "Good-bye" to him through the crack, and tried to tell him how much he had done for me, he laughed light-heartedly and called back, "Good-bye, old man, I'll meet you in Paris--if not sooner!" CHAPTER XI THE STRAFE-BARRACK When they took us to the Strafe-Barrack, the Company painter was summoned and put on our rings, which stamped us as desperate characters who would have to be watched. There was something to me particularly distasteful about the rings, for I hated to have my Canadian uniform plastered with these obnoxious symbols. But I did not let the guards see that it bothered me at all, for we knew that the object of all their punishment was to break our spirits. The Strafe-Barrack was supposed to finish the work begun in the cells. It followed up the weakening of our bodies and minds, caused by the fourteen days' solitude and starvation, and was intended to complete the job with its deadly monotony and inaction. We got no parcels; so the joy of expectation was eliminated. We did not know how long we were in for, so we could not even have the satisfaction of seeing the days pass, and knowing we were nearing the end! We had no books or papers; even the "Continental Times" was denied us! We got the same food as they had in the prison-camp, and we had a mattress to sleep on, and two blankets. So far as physical needs were concerned, we were as well off as any of the fellows, but the mental stagnation was calculated, with real German scientific reasoning, to break us down to the place where we could not think for ourselves. They would break down our initiative, they thought, and then we should do as they told us. As usual in dealing with spiritual forces, they were wrong! In the morning we swept the floor of the hut, and spread up our beds and had our breakfast. Then we sat on stools for an indefinite period, during which time we were not supposed to speak or move. It was the duty of the guards to see that we obeyed these rules. It is a mean way to treat a human being, but it sent us straight back upon our own mental resources, and I thought things out that I had never thought about before. Little incidents of my childhood came back to me with new significance and with a new meaning, and life grew richer and sweeter to me, for I got a longer view of it. It had never occurred to me, any more than it does to the average Canadian boy, to be thankful for his heritage of liberty, of free speech, of decency. It has all come easy to us, and we have taken all the apples which Fortune has thrown into our laps, without thinking. But in those long hours in the Strafe-Barrack I thought of these things: I thought of my father and mother... of the good times we had at home... of the sweet influences of a happy childhood, and the inestimable joy of belonging to a country that stands for fair play and fair dealing, where the coward and the bully are despised, and the honest and brave and gentle are exalted. I thought and thought and thought of these things, and my soul overflowed with gratitude that I belonged to a decent country. What matter if I never saw it again? It was mine, I was a part of it, and nothing could ever take it from me! Then I looked at the strutting, cruel-faced cut-throat who was our guard, and who shoved his bayonet at us and shook his dirty fist in our faces to try to frighten us. I looked at his stupid, leering face and heavy jowl, and the sloped-back forehead which the iron heel had flattened with its cruel touch. He could walk out of the door and out of the camp, at will, while I must sit on a chair without moving, his prisoner! Bah! He, with the stupid, _verboten_ look in his face, was the bondsman! I was free! There were other guards, too, decent fellows who were glad to help us all they dared. But the fear of detection held them to their distasteful work. One of them, when left in charge of us as we perched on our chairs, went noisily out, in order to let us know he was going, so that we could get off and walk about and talk like human beings, and when he came back--he had stayed out as long as he dared--I think he rattled the door to warn us of his coming! Then the head spy, the Belgian private, who had his headquarters in the Strafe-Barrack, showed us many little kindnesses. He had as his batman one of the prisoners whose term of punishment had expired, and Bromley, who was always quick-witted and on the alert, offered himself for the job, and was taken, and in that way various little favors came to us that we should not otherwise have had. Being ring-men, there were no concessions for us, and the full rigor of the _strafe_ would have fallen on us--and did at first; but when Bromley got to be batman, things began to loosen a little for us and we began to get _part_ of our parcels. The head spy claimed more than the usual agent's commission for all these favors, but we did not complain, for according to the rules we were not entitled to any. The process regarding the parcels was quite simple. Spies in the parcel party, working under the Belgian, brought our parcels to his room at the end of the Strafe-Barrack. He opened them and selected what he wanted for himself, giving Bromley what was left. Sometimes, in his work of batman, Bromley got "tired," and wanted help, suggesting that a friend of his be brought in to assist him. I was the friend, and in this way I was allowed to go up to the Belgians' room to sweep, or do something for them, and then got a chance at our parcels. At night, too, when the guard had gone and the lights were out, we got a chance to eat the things we had secreted under the mattress; but generally we kept our supplies in the Belgians' room, which was not in danger of being searched. Bromley, as usual, made a great hit in his new position of batman. He had a very smooth tongue, and, finding the British Sergeant susceptible to flattery, gave him plenty of it, and when we got together afterwards, many a laugh I had over his description of the British Sergeant's concern for his appearance, and of how he sent home to England for his dress uniform. We got out together when we went back to our own Company to get extra clothes. We stayed out about as long as we liked, too, and when we came back, we had the Belgian with us, so nothing was said. The strafe-barrack keepers, even the bayonet man, had a wholesome fear of the Belgian. This Belgian was always more or less of a mystery to us. He was certainly a spy, but it was evident he took advantage of his position to show many kindnesses to the other prisoners. * * * There was one book which we were allowed to read while in Strafe-Barrack, and that was the Bible. There were no Bibles provided, but if any prisoner had one, he might retain it. I don't think the Germans have ever got past the Old Testament in their reading, and when they read about the word of the Lord coming to some one and telling him to rise up early and go out and wipe out an enemy country--men, women, and children--they see themselves, loaded with _Kultur_, stamping and hacking their way through Belgium. I read the Books of the Kings and some other parts of the Old Testament, with a growing resentment in my heart every time it said the "Lord had commanded" somebody to slay and pillage and steal. I knew how much of a command they got. They saw something they wanted, a piece of ground, a city, perhaps a whole country. The king said, "Get the people together; let's have a mass-meeting; I have a message from God for the people!" When the people were assembled, the king broke the news: "God wants us to wipe out the Amalekites!" The king knew that the people were incurably religious. They would do anything if it can be made to appear a religious duty. Then the people gave a great shout and said: "The Lord reigneth. Let us at the Amalekites! If you're waking, call me early"--and the show started. The Lord has been blamed for nearly all the evil in the world, and yet Christ's definition of God is love, and He goes on to say, "Love worketh no ill to his neighbor." I can quite understand the early books in the Bible being written by men of the same cast of mind as the Kaiser, who solemnly and firmly believed they were chosen of God to punish their fellow-men, and incidentally achieve their ambitions. But it has made it hard for religion. Fair-minded people will not worship a God who plays favorites. I soon quit reading the Old Testament. I was not interested in fights, intrigues, plots, and blood-letting. But when I turned to the teachings of Christ, so fair and simple, and reasonable and easy to understand, I knew that here we had the solution of all our problems. Love is the only power that will endure, and when I read again the story of the Crucifixion, and Christ's prayer for mercy for his enemies because he knew they did not understand, I knew that this was the principle which would bring peace to the world. It is not force and killing and bloodshed and prison-bars that will bring in the days of peace, but that Great Understanding which only Love can bring. I was thinking this, and had swung around on my chair, contrary to rules, when the guard rushed up to me with his bayonet, which he stuck under my nose, roaring at me in his horrible guttural tongue. I looked down at the point of his bayonet, which was about a quarter of an inch from my tunic, and let my eyes travel slowly along its length, and then up his arm until they met his! I thought of how the image of God had been defaced in this man, by his training and education. It is a serious crime to destroy the king's head on a piece of money; but what word is strong enough to characterize the crime of taking away the image of God from a human face! The veins of his neck were swollen with rage; his eyes were red like a bull's, and he chewed his lips like a chained bulldog. But I was sorry for him beyond words--he was such a pitiful, hate-cursed, horrible, squirming worm, when he might have been a man. As I looked at him with this thought in my mind the red went from his eyes, his muscles relaxed, and he lowered his bayonet and growled something about "Englishe schwein" and went away. "Poor devil," I thought. I watched him, walking away.... "Poor devil,... it is not his fault."... Malvoisin came to the Strafe-Barrack a week after we did, and I could see that the guards had special instructions to watch him. None of the ring-men were allowed to go out on the digging parties from the Strafe-Barrack, since Malvoisin had made his get-away in front of the guards, and for that reason, during the whole month we were there, we had no chance at all for exercise. Malvoisin was thin and pale after his three weeks' confinement in cells, but whenever I caught his eye he gave me a smile whose radiance no prison-cell could dim. When he came into the room, every one knew it. He had a presence which even the guards felt, I think. We went out a week before him, and we smuggled out some post-cards which he had written to his friends and got them posted, but whether they got by the censor, I do not know. The last I saw of him was the day he got out of Strafe-Barrack. He walked by our hut, on the way to his Company. He was thinner and paler still, but he walked as straight as ever, and his shoulders were thrown back and his head was high! His French uniform was in tatters, and plastered with the obnoxious rings. A guard walked on each side of him. But no matter--he swung gaily along, singing "La Marseillaise." I took my hat off as he went by, and stood uncovered until he disappeared behind one of the huts, for I knew I was looking at something more than a half-starved, pale, ragged little Frenchman. It was not only little Malvoisin that had passed; it was the unconquerable spirit of France! CHAPTER XII BACK TO CAMP After the monotony of the cells and the Strafe-Barrack, the camp seemed something like getting home for Christmas. All the boys, McKelvey, Keith, Clarke, Johnston, Graham, Walker, Smith, Reid, Diplock, Palmer, Larkins, Gould, Salter, Mudge, and many others whom I did not know so well, gathered around us and wanted to know how we had fared, and the story of our attempt and subsequent punishment formed the topic of conversation for days. All the time we had been in retirement, we were not allowed to write letters or cards, and I began to fear that my people would be very anxious about me. I had given cards to returning "strafers" to post, but I was not sure they had ever got out of Germany. Many parcels had come for me from other friends, too, and the big problem before me now was to find some way to acknowledge them. A card a week, and a letter twice a month, does not permit of a very flourishing correspondence. A decent German guard consented to take Bromley and me to the building where the parcels were kept for men who were in punishment, and we, being strong in faith, took a wheelbarrow with us. Of course, we had received a number of parcels through our friend the spy, but we hoped there would be many more. However, I got only one, a good one from G. D. Ellis, Weston, England, and that saved me from a hard disappointment. I saw there, stacked up in a pile, numerous parcels for Todd, Whittaker, Little Joe, and others, who were serving their sentences at Butzbach. I reported this to our Sergeant Major, and the parcels were opened. Some of the stuff was spoiled, but what was in good condition was auctioned off among us and the money sent to them. A letter came to me from my sister, Mrs. Ralph Brown, of Buchanan, Saskatchewan, saying they were worried about me because they had not heard from me, and were afraid I was not receiving my parcels. Then I decided I would have to increase my supply of cards. The Russian prisoners had the same number of cards we had, but seldom wrote any. Poor fellows, they had nobody to write to, and many of them could not write. So with the contents of my parcels I bought up a supply of cards. I had, of course, to write them in a Russian's name, for if two cards went into the censor's hands from M. C. Simmons, No. 69, Barrack A, Company 6, something would happen. So cards went to my friends from "Pte. Ivan Romanoff" or "Pte. Paul Rogowski," saying he was quite well and had seen M. C. Simmons to-day, who was grateful for parcel and had not been able to write lately, but would soon. These rather mystified some of the people who received them, who could not understand why I did not write directly. My cousin, Mamie Simmons, and Mrs. Lackie, of Dereham Centre, Ontario, wrote a letter back to the Russian whose card they had received, much to his joy and surprise. One of my great desires at this time was to have a compass, for Bromley and I were determined to make another attempt at escape, just as soon as we could, and many an hour I spent trying to find a way to get the information out to my friends that I wanted a compass. At last, after considerable thinking, I sent the following card to a friend of mine with whom I had often worked out puzzles, and who I felt would be as likely to see through this as any one I could think of. This was the message: DEAR JIM:--I send you this card along with another to come later, which please pass on to Fred. In next parcel, send cheese, please. Yours as ever M. C. SIMMONS In the address I slipped in the words--"Seaforth Wds." This I hoped the censor would take to mean--"Seaforth Woods"; and which I hoped my friend would read to mean--"See fourth words"; and would proceed to do so. After I had sent this away, I began to fear it might miscarry and resolved to try another one. I wrote a letter to my brother Flint, at Tillsonburg, Ontario, in which I used these words, "I want you to look into this for me"; later on in the letter, when speaking of quite innocent matters which had nothing to do with "compasses," I said, "Look into this for me and if you cannot manage it alone, get Charley Bradburn to help you." I took the envelope, which had a bluish tint inside and steamed it open, both the ends and bottom flap, and when it was laid open, I wrote in it in a very fine hand, these words: "I tried to escape, but was caught and my compass taken away from me. Send me another; put it in a cream cheese." When the envelope was closed, this was almost impossible to see. I knew it was risky, for if I had been found out, I would have been "strafed" for this, just as hard as if I had tried to escape. However, I posted my letter and heard nothing more about it. I had, through the kindness of friends, received a number of books, Mr. Brockington, of Koch Siding, British Columbia, and Miss Grey, of Wimbledon, England, having been very good to me in this way; and as many of the parcels of the other boys contained books, too, we decided to put our books together, catalogue them, and have a library. One of the older men became our librarian, and before we left Giessen I think we had a hundred volumes. The people who sent these books will never know the pleasure they gave us! The games, too, which the Red Cross sent us were never idle, and made many a happy evening for us. At night we had concerts, and many good plays and tableaux put on by the boys. There was a catchy French love song, "Marie," which was a great favorite with the boys. From this we began to call the Kilties "Marie," and there were several harmless fights which had this for a beginning. The Kilties had a hard time of it, and had to get another dress before they could be taken on a working party. The Germans did not consider the kilt a "decent dress" for a man. The parcels were an endless source of delight, and I was especially fortunate in having friends who knew just what to send. Mrs. Palmer, of Plymouth, sent me bacon; Mrs. Goodrich, my sister, and Mrs. Goodrich, Sr., of Vancouver, sent fruit-cakes; Mrs. Hill, wife of the British reservist who gave me my first drill in British Columbia, sent oatmeal, and his sisters, Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Hamer, made candy. Lee Davison, of Trail, whose brother is now a prisoner in Germany, sent me tobacco, and so did Harold Andrews, of Trail, and Billy Newell, of Koch Siding. The distribution of the mails was a time of thrills. One of the Sergeants called it out, while every one crowded eagerly around. Poor Clarke, one of the brightest, merriest-hearted boys we had, seldom got a letter, but he was right on hand every time, and when there was no letter for him, would tear his hair dramatically and cry,-- "Gott strafe England." Clarke had the good gift of making everybody laugh. I remember once seeing him patching his trousers with a Union Jack, and singing, "We'll never let the Old Flag fall!" * * * The German respect for the military caste was well shown in the punishment of a Russian officer who had offended them by something he had done or had not done. He was sent to our hut--as a punishment. He had a room to himself, a batman, the privilege of sending out to buy food, as much as he liked. His punishment consisted in having to live under the same roof and breathe the same air as common soldiers. He was a very good fellow, and told us many things about his country. Incidentally we found out that his wages as a Lieutenant in the Russian Army were one hundred and fifty dollars a year! * * * Bromley and I had not worked at all since coming out of Strafe-Barrack. Being ring-men gave us immunity from labor. They would not let us outside of the compound. Even if we volunteered for a parcel party, the guard would cry "Weg!"--which is to say, "Go back." This made all our time leisure time, and I put in many hours making maps, being as careful as possible not to let the guards see me. I got the maps in a variety of ways. Some of them had been smuggled in in parcels, and some of the prisoners had brought them in when they came. A Canadian soldier, who was a clever artist, and had a room to himself where he painted pictures for some of the Germans, gave me the best one, and from these I got to know quite a lot about the country. From my last experience I knew how necessary it was to have detailed knowledge of the country over which we must travel to reach the border. My interest in maps caused the boys to suspect that I was determined to escape, and several broached the subject to me. However, I did not wish to form an alliance with any one but Bromley. We considered two was enough, and we were determined to go together. * * * One day, in the late fall, when the weather was getting cold, an American, evidently connected with the Embassy, came to see us, and asked us about our overcoats. The German officers in charge of the camp treated him with scant courtesy, and evidently resented his interference. But as a result of his visit every person who did not already have a Red Cross or khaki coat got a German coat. * * * Just before Christmas Day we got overcoats from the Red Cross, dark blue cloth, full length and well lined. They had previously sent each of us a blanket. The treatment of overcoats was to cut a piece right out of one sleeve, and insert a piece of yellowish-brown stuff, such as is shown in Bromley's photograph. We knew that coats were coming for us, and were particularly anxious to get them before they were disfigured with the rings which they would put on or with this band of cloth. If we could get the coats as they came from the Red Cross, they would look quite like civilian's coats, and be a great help to us when we made our next escape. Bromley and I had spent hard thinking on how we could save our coats. Larkins, one of the boys who worked in the parcels office, watched for our overcoats, and when they came he slipped them into the stack which had been censored, and in that way we got them without having them interfered with. But even then we were confronted with a greater difficulty. The first time we wore them the guards would notice we had no rings, and that would lead to trouble. The piece of cloth on the arm was not so difficult to fix. Two of the boys whose coats were worn out gave us the pieces out of their coats, which we _sewed on_, instead of inserting. The rings had been put on in brown paint lately instead of red, and this gave Bromley an idea. We had a tin of cocoa, saved from our parcels, and with it we painted rich brown rings on our new coats. We were careful not to wear these coats, for we knew the cocoa rings were perishable, but we had our old overcoats to wear when we needed one. This saw us past the difficulty for a while. * * * On Christmas Day we had the privilege of boiling in the cook-house the puddings which came in our parcels, and we were given a Christmas card to send instead of the ordinary cards--that was the extent of the Christmas cheer provided for us. * * * Soon after Christmas there was a party of about four hundred picked out to be sent away from Giessen; the ring-men were included, and all those who had refused to work or given trouble. Bromley and I were pretty sure we should be included, and in anticipation of the journey touched up the cocoa rings on our coats. They were disposed to flake off. I also prepared for the projected move by concealing my maps. I put several in the pasteboard of my cap and left no trace, thanks be to the needle and thread I had bought in the army canteen, and my big one I camouflaged as a box of cigarettes. A box of Players' Cigarettes had been sent to me, which I had not yet broken into. I carefully removed the seal, being careful to break it so that it could be put back again without detection. Then I cut my map into pieces corresponding to the size of a cigarette, and, emptying out the tobacco from a few, inserted the section of map instead, and put them carefully in with the label showing. I then closed the box and mended the band so that it looked as if it had not been broken. I felt fairly safe about this. [Illustration: The Christmas Card which the Giessen Prison Authorities supplied to the Prisoners] The day came when we were to leave. Sometimes Bromley and I were on the list, sometimes we were not. We did not really know until our names were called. Our cocoa rings were fresh and fine, and we walked out with innocent faces. I don't know why they suspected me, but the Company officer, with two soldiers, came over to me where I stood at the end of a double line. At the word from the officer, the soldiers tore off my pack, opened my coat, examined the rings on my tunic which were, fortunately, of the durable red paint, guaranteed not to crock or run. I thought for sure they would search me, which I did not fear at all, for my maps I considered safe, but I did not want them fooling around me too much, for my cocoa rings would not stand any rough treatment. I wished then I had put sugar in the cocoa to make them stick better. But after considerable argument, they left me. Just before the officer walked away, he shook a warning finger at me and said, "Fini--dead--fertig," which was his French, English, and German for the game idea: "If you don't behave yourself, you are a dead man!" He directed the soldiers to keep a strict watch on us, and one of them volunteered the opinion that we should have rings in our noses! CHAPTER XIII CELLELAGER The attention given to me by the prison-guards would have been disconcerting to a less modest man than I am. A soldier sat with me all the way on the train. I could not lose him! He stuck to me like a shadow. When I stood up, he stood up. When I changed my seat, he changed his. And he could understand English, too, so Bromley and I could not get a word in. He seemed to me--though I suppose that was simply imagination--to be looking at my rings, and I knew my pack's string was rubbing them. I hardly knew what to do. At last I hastily removed my pack, folded my overcoat so that the rings would not show, and hung it up, but as the train lurched and rolled, I was fearful of the effect this would have on the rings. I fancied I smelled dry cocoa, and seemed to see light brown dust falling on the seat. Why hadn't I thought to put sugar in it when I mixed it up? When we reached the camp, which was called Cellelager, we found we had come to one which was not in the same class as Giessen. The sleeping-accommodations were insufficient for the crowd of men, and there was one bunk above the other. There was one canteen for the whole camp (instead of one in each hut as we had in Giessen), and here we could buy cakes, needles, thread, and buttons, also apples. The food was the same, except that we had soup in the morning instead of coffee, and it was the worst soup we had yet encountered. As an emetic, it was an honest, hard-working article which would bring results, but it lacked all the qualifications of a good soup. I tried it only once. We were delighted to see no rings except what we had in our party. The Commandant of the camp did not take any notice of them, so we were able to remove all traces of them from our new overcoats, and when Steve Le Blanc, from Ottawa, gave me a nice navy-blue civilian coat, I gave my ringed tunic to one of the boys, who forthwith passed himself off for a ring-man, to avoid being sent out to work. I found, however, he only enjoyed a brief exemption, for his record, all written down and sent along with him, showed his character had been blameless and exemplary, and the rings on his coat could not save him. It was "Raus in!" and "Raus out!" every day for him! In this manner did his good deeds find him out. There was a football ground at this camp, and a theatre for the prisoners to use, but in the week we were there I saw only one game of football. At the end of a week we were moved again, most of us. They did not, of course, tell us where we were going, but as they picked out all of us who had ever tried to escape--and all those who had refused to work--we were pretty sure it was not a "Reward of Merit" move. We were awakened at a very early hour and were started off to the station, loaded with stuff. We had blankets, wash-basin, empty mattress, and wooden clogs. The boys did not take kindly to the wooden clogs, and under cover of the darkness--for it was long before daylight--they threw them away. The road to the station the next morning must have looked as if a royal wedding party had gone by. This time we were glad to be able to see where we were going, although it was a dismal, barren country we travelled through, with many patches of heather moor and marsh. The settlements were scattered and the buildings poor. But even if we did not think much of the country, we liked the direction, for it was northwest, and was bringing us nearer Holland. At Bremen, the second largest seaport in Germany, we stayed a couple of hours, but were not let out of our car, so saw nothing of the city. At about four o'clock in the afternoon, we arrived in Oldenburg, and began our eight-mile march to Vehnemoor Camp, which is one of the Cellelager group and known as Cellelager VI. We were glad to dispose of our packs by loading them on a canal-boat, which we pulled along by ropes, and we arrived at the camp late in the evening. This camp had but a few prisoners in it when we came, but there were nearly four hundred of us, and we filled it to overflowing. There were three tiers of bunks where the roof was high enough to admit of it, and that first night we were there we slept on our empty mattresses. However, we still had our Red Cross blanket and the two German blankets apiece, and we managed to keep warm. There were two rooms with two peat stoves in each room. The camp was built beside a peat bog, on ground from which the peat had been removed, and there was no paving of any kind around it. One step from the door brought us to the raw mud, and the dirt inside the camp was indescribable. There were no books or papers; the canteen sold nothing but matches, notepaper, and something that tasted remotely like buckwheat honey. The first morning the Commandant addressed us, through an interpreter. He told us he had heard about us. There was dead silence at that; we were pretty sure we knew what he had heard. Then he told us that some of us had refused to work and some had tried to escape; he was grieved to hear these things! He hoped they would not happen again. It was foolish to act this way, and would meet with punishment (we knew that). If we would retain his friendship, we must do as we were told. There was no other way to retain his friendship. He repeated that. Some of us felt we could get along without his friendship better than without some other things. We noticed from the first that he didn't seem sure of himself. Then came roll-call! None of us like the thought of getting out to work in this horrible climate, cold, dark, and rainy, and the roll-call brought out the fact that we had very few able-bodied men. He had a list of our names, and we were called in groups into an office. Bromley and I gave our occupations as "farmers," for we hoped to be sent out to work on a farm and thus have an opportunity of getting away. Most of the Canadians were "trappers," though I imagine many of them must have gained their experience from mouse-traps. Many of the Englishmen were "boxers" and "acrobats." There were "musicians," "cornetists," and "trombone artists," "piano-tuners," "orchestra leaders," "ventriloquists," "keepers in asylums," "corsetiers," "private secretaries," "masseurs," "agents," "clerks," "judges of the Supreme Court," and a fine big fellow, a Canadian who looked as if he might have been able to dig a little, gave his occupation as a "lion-tamer." The work which we were wanted to do was to turn over the sod on the peat bogs. It looked as if they were just trying to keep us busy, and every possible means was tried by us to avoid work. The "lion-tamer" and three of his companions, fine, vigorous young chaps, stayed in bed for about a week, claiming to be sick. They got up for a while every afternoon--to rest. The doctor came three times a week to look us over, but in the intervening days another man, not a doctor, who was very good-natured, attended to us. One day nine went on "sick parade"; that is, lined up before the medical examiner and were all exempted from work. The next day there were ninety of us numbered among the sick, and we had everything from galloping consumption to ingrowing toe-nails, and were prepared to give full particulars regarding the same. But they were not asked for, for armed guards came in suddenly and we were marched out to work at the point of the bayonet. Steve Le Blanc, one of the party, who was a splendid actor, spent the morning painfully digging his own grave. He did it so well, and with such faltering movements and so many evidences of early decay, that he almost deceived our own fellows. He looked so drawn and pale that I was not sure but what he was really sick, until it was all over. When he had the grave dug down to the distance of a couple of feet, the guard stopped him and made him fill it in again, which he did, and erected a wooden cross to his own memory, and delivered a touching funeral oration eulogizing the departed. We all got in early that day, but most of us decided we would not try the "sick parade" again. This was in the month of January, which is the rainy season, and there was every excuse for the boys' not wanting to work--besides the big reason for not wanting to help the Germans. One night, when some of our fellows came in from work, cold, wet, and tired, and were about to attack their supper of black bread and soup, the mail came in, and one of the boys from Toronto got a letter from a young lady there who had been out on the Kingston Road to see an Internment Camp. He let me read the letter. She had gone out one beautiful July day, she said, and found the men having their evening meal under the beeches, and they did so enjoy their strawberries and ice-cream; and they had such lovely gardens, she said, and enough vegetables in them to provide for the winter. The conclusion of the letter is where the real sting came: "I am so glad, dear Bert, that you are safe in Germany out of the smoke and roar and dirt of the trenches. It has made me feel so satisfied about you, to see these prisoners. I was worrying a little about you before I saw them. But now I won't worry a bit. I am glad to see prisoners can be so happy. I will just hope you are as well cared for as they are.... Daddy and Mother were simply wild about Germany when they were there two years before the war. They say the German ways are so quaint and the children have such pretty manners, and I am afraid you will be awfully hard to please when you come back, for Daddy and Mother were crazy about German cooking." I handed the letter back, and Bert and I looked at each other. He rolled his eyes around the crowded room, where five hundred men were herded together. Two smoking stoves, burning their miserable peat, made all the heat there was. The double row of berths lined the walls. Outside, the rain and sleet fell dismally. Bert had a bowl of prison soup before him, and a hunk of bread, black and heavy. He was hungry, wet, tired, and dirty, but all he said was, "Lord! What _do_ they understand?" * * * Every day we devised new ways of avoiding going to work. "Nix arbide" (no work) was our motto. The Russians, however, never joined us in any of our plans, neither did they take any part in the fun. They were poor, melancholy fellows, docile and broken in spirit, and the guards were much harsher with them than with us, which was very unjust, and we resented it. We noticed, too, that among our own fellows those who would work were made to work, while the "lion-tamer" and his husky followers lay in bed unmolested. His latest excuse was that the doctor told him to lie in bed a month--for he had a floating kidney. Of course the doctor had not said anything of the kind, but he bluffed it out. One morning when the guards were at their difficult task of making up a working party, they reported that they were twenty-five men short. Every one had been at roll-call the night before, the guards were on duty, no one could have got away. Wild excitement reigned. Nobody knew what had happened to them. After diligent searching they were found--rolled up in their mattresses. They were all quickly hauled forth and sent out to work. The mattress trick had worked well until too many had done it, on this morning. The morning was a troublesome time, and we all felt better when it had passed; that is, if we had eluded or bluffed the guard. Bromley and I had a pretty successful way of getting very busy when the digging party was being made up. We would scrub the table or grab a gadbroom and begin to sweep, and then the guards, thinking this work had been given to us, would leave us alone! As time went on, the Commandant became more and more worried. I think he realized that he had a tough bunch to handle. If he had understood English, he could have heard lots of interesting things about his Kaiser and his country--particularly in the songs. The "lion-tamer" and his three followers generally led the singing, sitting up in their bunks and roaring out the words. The singing usually broke out just after the guards had made an unsuccessful attempt to pull the bedclothes off some of the boys who had determined to stay in bed all day; and when the few docile ones had departed for the peat bog, the "shut-ins" grew joyful to the point of singing. This was a hot favorite: "O Germany, O Germany; Your fate is sealed upon the sea. Come out, you swine, and face our fleet; We'll smash you into sausage-meat." Another one had a distinctly Canadian flavor: "Kaiser Bill, Kaiser Bill, you'd better be in hell, be in hell! When Borden's beauties start to yell, start to yell, We'll hang you high on Potsdam's palace wall-- You're a damned poor Kaiser after all." They had another song telling how they hated to work for the Germans, the refrain of which was "Nix arbide" (I won't work). The Commandant came in one day to inspect the huts. The "bed-ridden" ones were present in large numbers, sitting up enjoying life very well for "invalids." The Commandant was in a terrible humor, and cried out "Schweinstall"--which is to say "pig-pen"--at the sight of the mattresses. He didn't like anything, and raged at the way the fellows had left their beds. It might have seemed more reasonable, if he had raged at the way some of them had not left their beds! The men he was calling down were the gentle ones, those who were out working. But to the "lion-tamer" and his followers, who were lazily lying in their beds, laughing at him, he said never a word. We knew enough about Germany and German methods to know this sort of a camp could not last. Something was going to happen; either we should all be moved, or there would be a new Commandant and a new set of guards sent down. This Commandant had only handled Russians, I think, and we were a new sort of Kriegsgefangenen (prisoners of war). Bromley and I wanted to make our get-away before there was a change, but we had no compass--my card had not been answered. There was a man named Edwards, who was captured May 8th, a Princess Pat, who once at Giessen showed me his compass and suggested that we go together next time. He was at Vehnemoor, too, and Bromley and I, in talking it over, decided to ask Edwards and his friend to join us. Then the four of us got together and held many conferences. Edwards had a watch and a compass; I had maps, and Edwards bought another one. We talked over many plans, and to Edwards belongs the honor of suggesting the plan which we did try. The difficulties in the way of escaping were many. The camp-ground was about three hundred feet long and seventy-five feet wide, surrounded by a barbed-wire fence about ten feet high. The fence had been built by putting strong, high posts in the ground and stretching the wire on with a wire-stretcher, so that it could not be sprung either up or down. The bottom wires were very close together. Inside of this was an ordinary barbed-wire fence with four or five strands, through which we were forbidden to go. Outside the camp at the northwest corner was the hut where the guards lived when not on duty, and beside this hut was the kennel where the watch-dog was kept. He was a big dog, with a head like a husky! The camp was lighted by great arc-lights about sixty feet apart. German soldiers were stationed outside and all around the camp, and were always on the alert. We planned to go on Friday night, but an unforeseen event made that impossible. A very dull German soldier had taken out about a dozen Frenchmen to work on the moor. Two of them had slipped away some time during the afternoon, and he did not notice he was short until he got in. Then great excitement prevailed, and German soldiers were sent out in pursuit. We watched them going out, dozens of them, and decided this was a poor time to go abroad. The moon was nearly full and the clouds which had filled the sky all day, were beginning to break, all of which was against us. On Saturday, just as we feared, an extra guard of about twenty-five men was sent in from Oldenburg, and as the guard changed every two hours, and this was about 5.30 o'clock in the evening when they came, we reasoned that the double guard would go on at seven. After the guard had been doubled, there would be but little chance for us. It was now or never! CHAPTER XIV OFF FOR HOLLAND! The eastern fence was the one we had marked as our point of departure, and, Saturday being wash-day, there was nothing suspicious in the fact that we had hung our clothes there to dry. They had to be hung somewhere. The boys were expecting parcels that night, for a canal-boat had come up from Oldenburg, and every one was out in the yard. Several of the boys were in our confidence, and we had asked them to stroll up and down leisurely between the hut and the east fence. Just at the last minute the fourth man, Edwards's friend, came to me and said:-- "Sim, we will never make it. The guards will see us, and they'll shoot us--you know they'll just be glad to pot us to scare the others. It is madness to think we can get away from here with these lights shining." I told him I thought we had a chance, but did not try to persuade him. Of course, we all knew we were taking a grave risk, but then, why shouldn't we? It was the only way out. "Don't go, Sim," he said earnestly. I told him we were going, but if he felt as he said, it would be better for him not to come, and already I could see that Edwards, who was in the group of strollers, had dropped on his stomach and was filing the lower wire of the inner fence, and when the wire broke he crawled through to the other fence. I joined the party of strollers then, and walking toward the fence, could see what Edwards was doing. With his left hand he held the bottom wire and filed it close to the post, which did much to deaden the sound, but when the wire broke, to my strained ears the crack was loud enough to alarm the guard. But the sound of our voices must have covered it over, for all went well. We walked back again leisurely, though to my excited imagination the sound of the filing deadened every other sound. We were back to the fence again when I heard the whang of the second wire, and at that I dropped to the ground and began to crawl after Edwards. The light from the arc-lights caught the horseshoes on the heels of Edwards's boots, and they flashed to my eyes and seemed to me to shine like the headlights of an engine! It seemed to me as if the guards must see them. On he went--on--and on I followed, and behind me came Bromley. I could hear him breathe above the beating of my own heart. Crawling is a slow and terrible way to travel when every instinct cries out to run. But for about twenty yards we crawled like snakes--changing then to the easier method of creeping on hands and knees. Then three shots rang out, and it seemed as if our hearts stopped beating--but we kept on going! Our first thought was, of course, that we had been discovered. But no other sound came to us, and, looking back to the _Lager_, we could still see the men moving carelessly about. The bog was traversed by many ditches, and had a flat but uneven surface, with tufts of grass here and there. It gave us no shelter, but the winter night had fallen, and we were glad of the shelter afforded by the darkness. We knew the moon would be up before long, and we wanted to be as far away from the camp as possible before that happened. I had gone out to work for a couple of days, to get a knowledge of the country, and I knew from my map that there was a railway at the edge of the bog, and as this would be the place where they would expect to catch us, we wanted to get past it as soon as possible. But the ditches, filled with water cold as ice, gave us great trouble. Generally we could jump them, but sometimes they were too wide and we had to scramble through the best we could. About eight o'clock the moon came up, a great ball of silver in a clear blue sky, and turned the stagnant water of the bog to pools of silver. It was a beautiful night to look at, but a bad night for fugitives. Bromley, being a little heavier than either Edwards or I, broke through the crust of the bog several times, and had difficulty in getting out. About midnight, with the heavy going, he began to show signs of exhaustion. His underwear, shrunken with cold-water washing, bound his limbs, and he told us he could not keep up. Then we carried his overcoat and told him we would stop to rest just as soon as we crossed the track, if we could find a bush, and he made brave efforts to keep up with us. "You'll be all right, Tom, when we get out of the swamp," we told him. About half-past two we reached the railroad, and finding a close thicket of spruce on the other side, we went in and tried to make Bromley comfortable. He fell fast asleep as soon as he got his head down, and it was evident to Edwards and me that our comrade was in poor shape for a long tramp. Still we hoped that a day's rest would revive him. He slept most of the day and seemed better before we started out. The day was dry and fine, but, of course, we were wet from the hard going across the bog, and it was too cold to be comfortable when not moving. We could hear the children playing, and the wagons passing on a road near by, and once we heard the whistle of a railway train--but no one came near the wood. At nightfall we stole out and pushed off again. Bromley made a brave attempt to keep going, but the mud and heavy going soon told on him, and he begged us to go on and leave him. "If you don't go on, boys," he said, "we'll all be taken. Leave me, and you two will have a chance. I can't make it, boys; I can only crawl along." We came to a road at last and the going was easier. Bromley found he could get along more easily, and we were making pretty fair time when we saw something dark ahead of us. I was of the opinion that we should go around it, but Bromley could not stand any more travelling across country, and we pushed on. The dark object proved to be a house, and it was only one of many, for we found ourselves in a small town. Then we took the first road leading out of the town, and, walking as fast as we could, pushed quietly out for the country, Edwards ahead, I next, and Bromley behind. I heard some one whistling and thought it was Bromley, and waited for him to come up to tell him to keep quiet, but when he came beside me, he whispered, "They are following us." We went on. Soon a voice behind us called, "Halt!" "It's no use, Sim--they have us," Bromley whispered. Ahead of us was a little bush, toward which we kept going. We did not run, because we thought that the people who were following us were not sure who we were, and therefore would not be likely to shoot. Bromley knew he could not stand a race for it in his condition, but, knowing him as I do, I believe he would have made the effort; but I think he saw that if he went back and surrendered, it would give us more time to get away. "Go on, Sim," he whispered to me. We had agreed that if anything happened to one of us, the others were to go on. We could not hope to help each other against such numbers. When we got opposite the wood, we made a dash for it. I think it was then that Bromley went back and gave himself up. I often wondered what he told them about the other men they had seen. Whatever he thought was best for our safety, I am sure of that, for Bromley was a loyal comrade and the best of chums. * * * We lay there for a while, wondering what to do. We were about in the middle of a very small grove, and knew it was a poor place to stay in, for it was a thin wood, and the daylight was not far distant. Edwards, who was right beside me, whispered that he had just seen a soldier climb a tree and another one handing him a gun. This decided us to crawl to the edge of the wood again. But when we reached it, Edwards, who was ahead, whispered back to me that he saw three civilians right in front of us. This began to look like a tight corner. We determined to take a chance on the civilians' not being armed, and make a dash for it. We did, and "the civilians" turned out to be a group of slim evergreens. We saw a forest ahead, and made for it. The ground was sandy and poor, and the trees were scattered and small, and grew in clumps. The going was not hard, but the loss of Bromley had greatly depressed us. Once we met a man--ran right into him--and probably scared him just as much as he did us. He gave us a greeting, to which we grunted a reply, a grunt being common to all languages. We saw the headlight of a train about three o'clock in the morning, reminding us of the railroad to the south of us. Coming to a thick spruce grove, we decided to take cover for the day. The morning was red and cloudy, with a chilly wind crackling the trees over our heads, but as the day wore on, the wind went down and the sun came out. It was a long day, though, and it seemed as if the night would never come. It was too cold to sleep comfortably, but we got a little sleep, some way. When we started out at night, we soon came to a ditch too wide to jump, and as our feet were dry we did not want to wet our socks, so took them off and went through. January is a cold month for wading streams, and a thin crust of ice was hard on the feet. They felt pretty numb for a while, but when we had wiped them as dry as we could and got on our socks and boots again, they were soon all right. But our care for our feet did not save them, for the muddy ground, full of bog-holes, which we next encountered, made us as wet and miserable as we could be. One large town--it may have been Sögel--gave us considerable trouble getting around it. The time of year made the going bad. There were no vegetables in the gardens or apples on the trees; no cows out at pasture. Even the leaves were gone from the trees, thus making shelter harder to find. The spruce trees and Scotch fir were our stronghold, and it was in spruce thickets we made our hiding-places by day. The advantage of winter travel was the longer nights, and although it had been raining frequently, and the coldest, most disagreeable rains, the weather was dry during the time we were out. But the going was heavy and bad, and when the time came to rest, we were completely done out. We had put ourselves on short rations because we had not been able to save much; we had no way of carrying it except in our pockets, and we had to be careful not to make them bulge. We had biscuits, chocolate, and cheese, but not being able to get even a raw turnip to supplement our stores, we had to save them all we could. On January 25th, our third day out, the bush was so short we had to lie all day to remain hidden. We could not once stand up and stretch, and the day was interminably long. A bird's nest, deserted now, of course, and broken, hung in a stunted Scotch fir over my head, and as I lay looking at it I thought of the hard struggle birds have, too, to get along, and of how they have to be on the watch for enemies. Life is a queer puzzle when a person has time to figure it out. We make things hard for each other. Here we were, Ted and I, lying all day inactive, not because we wanted to, but because we had to, to save our lives. Lying in a patch of scrub, stiff, cold, and hungry, when we might have been clearing it out and making of it a farm which would raise crops and help to feed the people! Hunger sharpens a man's mind and gives him a view of things that will never come when the stomach is full; and as we lay there under scrub, afraid even to speak to each other, afraid to move, for a crackling twig might attract some dog who would bark and give the alarm, I took a short course in sociology.... The Catholics are right about having the people come fasting to mass, for that is the time to get spiritual truths over to them! Hunger would solve all the capital and labor troubles in the world; that is, if the employers could be starved for a week--well, not a whole week--just about as long as we had--say, two biscuits a day for three days, with nothing better ahead. But hunger is just a word of two syllables to most people. They know it by sight, they can say it and write it, but they do not know it. At these times the thought of liberty became a passion with us. Still, we never minimized the danger nor allowed ourselves to become too optimistic. We knew what was ahead of us if we were caught: the cells and the Strafe-Barrack, with incidentals. On the fourth day we crossed an open patch of country, lightly wooded, and then came to a wide moor which offered us no protection whatever. Our only consolation was that nobody would be likely to visit such a place. There was not even a rabbit or a bird, and the silence was like the silence of death. I knew from my map that we had to cross the river Ems, and I also knew that this would probably be the deciding factor in our escape. If we got over the Ems, we should get the rest of the way. About two o'clock in the morning we reached the Ems. It is a big river in normal times, but it was now in flood, as we could see by the trees which stood in the water, as well as by the uprooted ones that floated down the stream. Swimming was out of the question. We hunted along the bank that morning, but could find nothing, and as daylight was coming, we had to take cover. All day we remained hidden in a clump of spruce and looked out upon the cruel sweep of water that divided us from liberty. The west wind came softly to us, bringing sounds from the Holland border, which we knew from our map was only four or five miles away! We heard the shunting of cars and the faint ringing of bells. We discussed every plan. We would search the riverbank for a boat, though we were afraid the German thoroughness would see to it that there was no boat on this side of any of their border rivers. Still, they could not watch everything, and there might be one. Failing that, we would make a raft to carry our clothes, and swim it. We had a knife, but no rope. I remember in "Swiss Family Robinson" how easily things came to hand when they were needed, and I actually looked in the dead grass at my feet to see if by any chance I might find a rope or wire--or something. But there were no miracles or fairies--no fortunate happenings for us; and when night came on again we scoured the bank for a boat, but in vain. Never a boat could we see. We then drew together some of the driftwood that lay on the shore, but when we tried it in the water it would hardly float its own weight. I felt the hopelessness of this plan, but Ted worked on like a beaver, and I tried to believe he had more hope than I had. But suddenly he looked at me, as he stopped, and I felt that our last plan was gone! "It's no use," he said. There was only the bridge left, and that, we knew, was very dangerous. Still, there was a chance. It might not be guarded--the guard might be gone for a few minutes. And all the time the murmurs came to us on the wind from the Holland border, and sounded friendly and welcoming. We started out to find the bridge. We were better dressed than Bromley and I had been, for we had on the dark blue overcoats, but not being able to speak the language was dead against us. "Even if they do get us, Sim," Ted said, "we'll try it again--if we live through the punishment." "All right," I said, "I'm game." CHAPTER XV CAUGHT AGAIN The bridge was a fine iron one without lights. The road which led to it was not much travelled, and it looked as if it might carry us over--without accident. Anyway, it was our only chance. We walked on to the bridge, taking care to make no noise, and striking a gait that was neither slow nor fast. We were nine tenths of the way over the bridge, with hope springing in our tired hearts at each step. Away to the west, straight ahead of us, distant lights twinkled. We thought they were in Holland, and they beckoned to our tired hearts like the lights of home. We were only about ten feet from the other side of the bridge, when... suddenly a light was flashed on us, a great dazzling light that seemed to scorch and wither us. It seemed to burn our prison-clothes into our very souls. I'm sure the rings on my knees showed through my overcoat! Into the circle of light three German soldiers came, with rifles levelled. They advanced upon us until their bayonets were touching us. And again we saw our dream of freedom fade! The soldiers took us in charge and marched us to Lathen, a town near by, where part of the hotel was used as barracks. They showed us no hostility; it was just part of their day's work to gather in escaping prisoners. There was a map on the wall, and when they asked us where we came from, we showed them Canada on the map of the North American Continent. They were decent-looking young fellows and asked us many questions about Canada. Although it was about midnight there seemed to be people on the streets, which were brilliantly lighted. A Sergeant Major came in, with a gendarme, who had two women with him. They were well-dressed looking women, but I kept wondering what they were doing out so late. The Sergeant Major and the policeman lacked the friendliness of the privates, and the former began the conversation by saying, "England ist kaputt." The Sergeant Major repeated his statement, with greater emphasis, and I put more emphasis on my reply, and there we stuck! It did not seem that we could get any farther. It seemed a place to say, "Time will tell." The gendarme was a coarse, beer-drinking type, and I kept wondering how two such fine-looking women came to be with him. The younger and handsomer one was not his wife, I knew--he was so attentive to her. The other one may have been, though she was evidently his superior in every way. Still, even in our own country very fine women are sometimes careless about whom they marry. The Sergeant Major poured out a volume of questions in German, to which we replied, "Nix forstand." Then the gendarme thought something was being overlooked, and he suggested that we be searched. I was afraid of that, and had taken the precaution of hiding the compass as well as I could, by putting it in the bottom of the pasteboard box that held our shaving-stick. The stick had been worn down, leaving room for the compass at the bottom of the box. The soldier who searched us did not notice the compass, and handed the shaving-stick back to me, and I breathed easier. But the gendarme had probably done more searching than the soldier, and asked me for it. He immediately let the stick fall out, and found the compass, which he put in his pocket, with a wink at the others... and it was gone. All our little articles were taken from us and put into two parcels, which we were allowed to carry, but not keep, and which were eventually returned to us, and, whether it was done by carelessness or not I do not know, but by some fortunate circumstance my maps were left in my pay-book case and put in the package, but I did not see them until after my punishment was over. [Illustration: Map made from Paper which came in a Parcel, wrapped around a Fruit-Cake / Notice the stain caused by the cake. This is the map that was hidden in the cigarette-box] My notebook attracted the attention of the gendarme, and he took it from me. I had made entries each day, and these he read aloud, translating them into German as he went, much to the apparent entertainment of the two women, who laughed at him, with a forced gaiety which confirmed my diagnosis of their relationship. I think he was crediting me with entries I had never made, for the central figure seemed to be one "Rosie Fräulein," whom I did not have the pleasure of meeting. We could see that although the privates were friendly, there was no semblance of friendliness in either the gendarme or the Sergeant Major. I think they would have gladly shot us on the spot--if they had dared. They were pronounced cases of anglophobia. The gendarme at last broke out into English, cutting his words off with a snarl: "What do you fellows want to get back for anyway? England is no good! England is a liar, and a thief." When he said this, I could see Edwards's face grow white and his eyes glitter. He was breathing hard, like a man going up a steep hill, and his hands were opening and closing. He walked over to the gendarme and glared in his face,--"What do I want to get back for?" he repeated in a steady voice, stretched tight like a wire, "I'll tell you--this is not any ordinary war, where brave men fight each other. This is a war against women and children and old men. I have fought with the Boers in Africa, but I bore them no ill-will--they fought like men and fought with men. I've been through Belgium--I've seen what you have done. I have boys of my own--little fellows--just like the ones you cut the hands off--and I will tell you why I want to get back--I want to serve my country and my God--by killing Germans--they're not fit to live!" The women drew back in alarm, though I do not think they understood the words. Instinctively I drew up beside Edwards, for I thought it was the end; but to our surprise the brutal face of the gendarme relaxed into a broad grin, and he turned to the women and Sergeant Major and made some sort of explanation. We did not know what was coming, and then a controversy took place between the two men as to what should be done with us. The gendarme wanted to take us, but the ladies protested, and at last we were led away by the two privates, carrying our two little packages of belongings. We went into an adjoining room, where a coal fire burned in a small round heater, whose glow promised comfort and warmth. The privates very kindly brought us a drink of hot coffee and some bread, and pulled two mattresses beside the stove and told us to go to sleep. Then they went out and brought back blankets, and with friendly looks and smiles bade us good-night, incidentally taking our shoes with them. "The Germans are a spotty race," said Ted, as we lay down. "Look at these two fellows--and then think of those two mugs that any decent man would want to kill at sight!"--He pointed to the room where we had left the gendarme and the Sergeant Major. "Oh--wouldn't I enjoy letting a bit of daylight through that policeman's fat carcass!" Next morning, when we awakened, our guards came again and brought us some more coffee and bread. It was a bright morning, of sunshine, with a frost which glistened on the pavement and the iron railing surrounding the building we were in. The streets were full of people, and streamers of bunting festooned the buildings. Children were on the streets, carrying flags, and the place had a real holiday appearance. "Suppose this is all in our honor, Sim," Ted said as he looked out of the window. "I wonder how they knew we were coming--we really did not intend to." One of the guards, who had a kodak and was taking pictures of the celebration, asked us if he could take our pictures. So we went out to the front door, which was hung with flags, and had a picture taken. "What are the flags up for?" we asked him. "It is the birthday of the All-Highest," he replied proudly. Ted said to me, so the guard could not hear, "Well, the old man has my sincere wishes--that it may be his last." During the forenoon we were taken by rail to Meppen. The Sergeant Major came with us, but did not stay in the compartment with the guards and us. On the way the guard who had taken our photograph showed us the proof of it, and told us he would send us one, and had us write down our addresses. He must have been a photographer in civil life, for he had many splendid pictures with him, and entertained us by showing them to us. I remember one very pretty picture of his young daughter, a lovely girl of about fourteen years of age, standing under an apple-tree. Before the Sergeant Major handed us over to the military authorities at Meppen, he told them what Edwards had said about wanting to go back to kill Germans, but he did not tell all that Edwards had said. However, they treated us politely and did not seem to bear us any ill-will. In the civil jail at Meppen to which we were taken, and which is a fine building with bright halls and pleasant surroundings, we were put in clean and comfortable cells. There was a bed with mattress and blankets, which in the daytime was locked up against the wall, toilet accommodations, drinking-water, chair, table, wash-basin, and comb. It looked like luxury to us, and after a bowl of good soup I went to sleep. I wakened the next morning much refreshed and in good spirits. The guard was polite and obliging, and when I said, "Guard, I like your place," his face broke into a friendly grin which warmed my heart. Ted had spoken truly when he said the Germans were a "spotty race." It is a spotty country, too, and one of the pleasant spots to us was the civil jail at Meppen. Of course, to men who had been sleeping in beds and eating at tables and going in and out at their own pleasure, it would have been a jail; but to us, dirty, tired, hungry, red-eyed from loss of sleep, and worn with anxiety, it was not a jail--it was a haven of rest. And in the twenty-four hours that we spent there we made the most of it, for we well knew there were hard times coming! CHAPTER XVI THE INVISIBLE BROTHERHOOD A special guard was sent from Vehnemoor to bring us back, and we had to leave our comfortable quarters at Meppen and go back with him. The guard took a stout rope and tied us together, my right wrist to Edwards's left, and when we were securely roped up, he tried to enlighten us further by dancing around us, shouting and brandishing his gun, occasionally putting it against our heads and pretending he was about to draw the trigger. This was his way of explaining that he would shoot us if we didn't behave ourselves. We tried to look back at him with easy indifference, and when he saw that he had not succeeded in frightening us, he soon ceased to try. However, from the wicked looks he gave us, we could see that he would be glad to shoot us--if he had a reasonable excuse. At the station in Meppen, where he took us fully an hour before train time, as we stood in the waiting-room with the guard beside us, the people came and looked curiously at us. The groups grew larger and larger, until we were the centre of quite a circle. We did not enjoy the notoriety very much, but the guard enjoyed it immensely, for was he not the keeper of two hardened and desperate men? We noticed that the majority of the women were dressed in black. Some of them were poor, sad, spiritless-looking creatures who would make any person sorry for them; and others I saw whose faces were as hard as the men's. The majority of them, however, seemed to be quite indifferent; they showed neither hostility nor friendliness to us. We changed cars at Leer, where on the platform a drunken German soldier lurched against us, and, seeing us tied together, offered to lend us his knife to cut the cord, but the guard quickly frustrated his kind intention. At Oldenburg we were herded through the crowded station and taken out on the road for Vehnemoor, the guard marching solemnly behind us. He knew we had no firearms, and we were tied together, but when Ted put his free hand in his pocket to find some chocolate, as we walked along, the guard screamed at him in fear. He seemed to be afraid we would in some way outwit him. But he was quite safe from us; not that we were afraid of either him or his gun, for I think I could have swung suddenly around on him and got his gun away from him, while Edwards cut our cords with the knife which was in my little package. I think he knew that we could do this, and that is why he was so frightened. But there was one big reason which caused us to walk quietly and peaceably forward to take our punishment, and that was the river Ems, with its cruel sweep of icy water and its guarded bridges. We knew it was impossible to cross it at this season of the year, so the guard was safe. We would not resist him, but already we were planning our next escape when the flood had subsided and the summer had come to warm the water. He had a malicious spirit, this guard, and when we came to Vehnemoor and were put in our cells, he wanted our overcoats taken from us, although the cells were as cold as outside. The Sergeant of the guard objected to this, and said we were not being punished, but only held here, and therefore we should not be deprived of our coats. Several times that night, when we stamped up and down to keep from freezing, I thought of the guard and his desire that our coats should be taken from us, and I wondered what sort of training or education could produce as mean a spirit as that! Surely, I thought, he must have been cruelly treated, to be so hard of heart--or probably he knew that the way of promotion in the German army is to show no softness of spirit. But the morning came at last, and we were taken before the Commandant, and wondered what he would have to say to us. We were pretty sure that we had not "retained his friendship." He did not say much to us when we were ushered into his little office and stood before his desk. He spoke, as before, through an interpreter. He looked thin and worried, and, as usual, the questions were put to us--"Why did we want to leave?" "What reason had we? Was it the food, or was it because we had to work?" [Illustration: Friedrichsfeld Prison-Camp in Winter] We said it was not for either of these; we wanted to regain our freedom; we were free men, and did not want to be held in an enemy country; besides, we were needed! We could see the Commandant had no interest in our patriotic emotions. He merely wanted to wash his hands of us, and when we said it was not on account of the poor food, or having to work, I think he breathed easier. Would we sign a paper--he asked us then--to show this? And we said we would. So the paper was produced and we signed it, after the interpreter had read and explained it to us. In the cells the food was just the same as we had had before, in the regular prison-camp. They seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of that soup. We wondered if there was a flowing well of it somewhere in the bog. The food was no worse, but sometimes the guards forgot us. The whole camp seemed to be running at loose ends, and sometimes the guards did not come near us for half a day, but we were not so badly off as they thought, for we got in things from our friends. On the first morning, when we were taken to the lavatory, we saw some of the boys. They were very sorry to know we had been caught, and told us Bromley had been sent to Oldenburg a few days before, for his punishment. They also told us that the night we escaped, no alarm had been given, although the guards may have noticed the hanging wires. Several of the boys had had the notion to go when they saw the wires down, but they were afraid of being caught. The general opinion was that the guards knew we had gone, but did not give the alarm until morning, because they had no desire to cross the bog at night. Our method of getting stuff to the cell was simple. I wore my own overcoat to the lavatory, and hung it up inside. When I went to get it, I found another coat was hanging beside it, which I put on and wore back to the cell. In the pocket of the "other coat" I found things--bread, cheese, sardines, biscuits, and books. The next day I wore the other coat, and got my own, and found its pockets equally well supplied. It was a fellow called Iguellden, whose coat I had on alternate days. He watched for me, and timed his visit to the lavatory to suit me. Of course, the other boys helped him with the contributions. Edwards was equally well supplied. In the prison-camp the word "friend" has an active and positive quality in it which it sometimes lacks in normal times. On the second night in the cell I suffered from the cold, for it was a very frosty night, and as the cells were not heated at all, they were quite as cold as outside. I was stamping up and down, with my overcoat buttoned up to the neck and my hands in my pockets, trying to keep warm, when the new guard came on at seven o'clock. He shouted something at me, which I did not understand, but I kept on walking. Then he pounded on the wall with the butt of his rifle, crying, "Schlafen! schlafen!" To which I replied, "Nix schlafen!" (I can't sleep!) I then heard the key turn in the door, and I did not know what might be coming. When he came in, he blew his breath in the frosty air, and asked, "Kalt?" I did not think he needed to take my evidence--it certainly was "kalt." Then he muttered something which I did not understand, and went out, returning about twenty minutes later with a blanket which he had taken from one of the empty beds in the _Revier_. I knew he was running a grave risk in doing this, for it is a serious offense for a guard to show kindness to a prisoner, and I thanked him warmly. He told me he would have to take it away again in the morning when he came on guard again, and I knew he did not want any of the other guards to see it. My word of thanks he cut short by saying, "Bitte! bitte! Ich thue es gerne" (I do it gladly); and his manner indicated that his only regret was that he could not do more. I thought about him that night when I sat with the blanket wrapped around me, and I wondered about this German soldier. He evidently belonged to the same class as the first German soldier I had met after I was captured, who tried to bandage my shoulder when the shells were falling around us; to the same class as good old Sank at Giessen, who, though he could speak no English, made us feel his kindness in a hundred ways; to the same class as the German soldier who lifted me down from the train when on my way to Roulers. This man was one of them, and I began to be conscious of that invisible brotherhood which is stronger and more enduring than any tie of nationality, for it wipes out the differences of creed or race or geographical boundary, and supersedes them all, for it is a brotherhood of spirit, and bears no relation to these things. To those who belong to it I am akin, no matter where they were born or what the color of their uniform! Then I remembered how bitterly we resented the action of a British Sergeant Major at Giessen, who had been appointed by the German officer in charge to see after a working party of our boys. Working parties were not popular--we had no desire to help the enemy--and one little chap, the Highland bugler from Montreal, refused to go out. The German officer was disposed to look lightly on the boy's offense, saying he would come all right, but the British Sergeant Major insisted that the lad be punished--and he was. I thought of these things that night in the cell, and as I slept, propped up in the corner, I dreamed of that glad day when the invisible brotherhood will bind together all the world, and men will no more go out to kill and wound and maim their fellow-men, but their strength will be measured against sin and ignorance, disease and poverty, and against these only will they fight, and not against each other. When I awakened in the morning, stiff and cramped and shivering, my dream seemed dim and vague and far away--but it had not entirely faded. That day the guard who brought me soup was a new one whom I had not seen before, and he told me he was one of the twenty-five new men who had been sent down the night we escaped. I was anxious to ask him many things, but I knew he dared not tell me. However, he came in and sat down beside me, and the soup that he brought was steaming hot, and he had taken it from the bottom of the pot, where there were actual traces of meat and plenty of vegetables. Instead of the usual bowlful, he had brought me a full quart, and from the recesses of his coat he produced half a loaf of white bread--"Swiss bread" we called it--and it was a great treat for me. I found out afterwards that Ted had received the other half. The guard told me to keep hidden what I did not eat then, so I knew he was breaking the rules in giving it to me. He sat with his gun between his knees, muzzle upwards, and while I ate the soup he talked to me, asking me where I came from, and what I had been doing before the war. When I told him I had been a carpenter, he said he was a bridge-builder of Trieste, and he said, "I wish I was back at it; it is more to my liking to build things than to destroy them." I said I liked my old job better than this one, too, whereupon he broke out impatiently, "We're fools to fight each other. What spite have you and I at each other?" I told him we had no quarrel with the German people, but we knew the military despotism of Germany had to be literally smashed to pieces before there could be any peace, and, naturally enough, the German people had to suffer for having allowed such a tyrant to exist in their country. We were all suffering in the process, I said. "It's money," he said, after a pause. "It is the money interests that work against human interests every time, and all the time. The big ones have their iron heel on our necks. They lash us with the whip of starvation. They have controlled our education, our preachers, government, and everything, and the reason they brought on the war is that they were afraid of us--we were getting too strong. In the last election we had nearly a majority, and the capitalists saw we were going to get the upper hand, so to set back the world, they brought on the war--to kill us off. At first we refused to fight--some of us--but they played up the hatred of England which they have bred in us; and they stampeded many of our people on the love of the Fatherland. Our ranks broke; our leaders were put in jail and some were shot; it's hard to go back on your country, too. "But I don't believe in nationalities any more; nationalities are a curse, and as long as we have them, the ruling class will play us off, one against the other, to gain their own ends. There is only one race--the human race--and only two divisions of it; there are those who represent money rights and special privileges, and those who stand for human rights. The more you think of it, the more you will see the whole fabric of society resolving itself into these two classes. The whole military system is built on the sacrifice of human rights." I looked at him in astonishment. "Who are you?" I asked. "I am just a bridge-builder," he answered, "but I'm a follower of Liebknecht... We can't do much until the Prussian system is defeated. There are just a few of us here--the guard who got you the blanket is one of us. We do what we can for the prisoners; sometimes we are caught and strafed.... There is no place for kindness in our army," he added sadly. "I must go now," he said; "I heard one of the guards say we were going to be moved on to another camp. I may not see you again, but I'll speak to a guard I know, who will try to get the good soup for you. The Sergeant of the guard is all right, but some of them are devils; they are looking for promotion, and know the way to get it is to excel in cruelty. We shall not meet, but remember, we shall win! Germany's military power will be defeated. Russia's military power is crumbling now, the military power of the world is going down to defeat, but the people of all nations are going to win!" We stood up and shook hands, and he went out, locking me in the cell as before. I have thought long and often of the bridge-builder of Trieste and his vision of the victory which is coming to the world, and I, too, can see that it is coming, not by explosions and bombardments, with the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying--not that way will it come--but when these have passed there shall be heard a still, small voice which will be the voice of God, and its words shall be-- "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself!" CHAPTER XVII THE CELLS AT OLDENBURG It was on February 3d that we were taken from Vehnemoor to Oldenburg, and when we started out on the road along the canal, roped together as before, Ted and I knew we were going up against the real thing as far as punishment goes, for we should not have Iguellden and the rest of the boys to send us things. We came out of the Vehnemoor Camp with somewhat of a reluctant feeling, for we knew we were leaving kind friends behind us. Ted had received the same treatment that I had in the matter of the blankets and the good soup--thanks to the friendly guard. It was in the early morning we started, and as Vehnemoor was almost straight west of Oldenburg, we had the sun in our faces all the way in. It was good to be out again--and good to look at something other than board walls. Our road lay along the canal which connected Vehnemoor with Oldenburg. Peat sheds, where the peat was put to dry after it was cut, were scattered along the canal, and we passed several flat-bottomed canal-boats carrying the peat into Oldenburg. They were drawn by man-power, and naturally made slow progress. The canal furnished a way of transportation for the small farmers living near it, too, whose little farms had been reclaimed from the bog, and their produce was brought into Oldenburg on the canal-boats. We could see better-looking buildings back farther, where the land was more fertile. At one place we saw a canal-boat with sails, but as the day was still it lay inactive, fastened to an iron post. The settlement seemed to be comparatively recent, judging by the small apple-trees around the buildings, and it looked as if this section of the country had all been waste land until the canal had been put through. When we arrived at Oldenburg, which we did early in the morning, we were marched through its narrow streets to the military prison. We could see that the modern part of the city was very well built and up to date, with fine brick buildings, but the old part, which dates back to the eleventh century, was dirty and cheerless. The prison to which we were taken was a military prison before the war, where the German soldiers were punished, and from the very first we could see that it was a striking example of German efficiency--in the way of punishment. Nothing was left to chance! We were searched first, and it was done by removing all our clothing. Then, piece by piece, the guard looked them over. He ran his hand under the collar of our shirts; he turned our pockets inside out; he patted the lining of our coats; he turned out our stockings and shook them; he looked into our boots. As he finished with each article, it was thrown over to us and we dressed again. Our caps, overcoats, braces, belts, and knives were taken away from us. They were careful to see that we should not be tempted to commit suicide. When I saw my cap go, I wondered if my maps, which I had sewed in the pasteboard, would escape this man's hawk eyes. I thought I had lost my other maps, and wondered how we should ever replace them. But it would be time enough to think of that--when we got out. The guard's manner was typical of the management at Oldenburg. It had no element of humanity in it. It was a triumph of _Kultur_. The men might as well have been dummies, set by a clock and run by electricity. There was a blackboard on the wall which told how many prisoners were in the institution and what they were getting. The strongest and worst punishment given is called "Streng Arrest," and the number who were getting it was three. The guard, while we were there, rubbed out the 3 and put in a 5. Ted and I looked at each other. "That's us," he said. Our two little parcels were deposited in a locker downstairs, where other parcels of a like nature were bestowed, and we were conducted up a broad stair and along a passage, and saw before us a long hall, lined with doors sheeted with steel. The guard walked ahead; Ted and I followed. At last he unlocked a door, and we knew one of us had reached his abiding-place. "I always did like a stateroom in the middle of the boat," Ted said, as the guard motioned to him to go in. That was the last word I heard for some time, for the guard said not a word to me. He came into the cell with me, and shut the iron door over the window, excluding every particle of light. I just had time to see that the cell was a good-sized one--as cells go. In one corner there was a steam coil, but it was stone cold, and remained so all the time I was there. There was a shelf, on which stood a brown earthen pitcher for drinking-water--but nothing else. Our footsteps rang hollow on the cement floor, which had a damp feeling, like a cellar, although it was above the ground floor. Without a word the guard went out, and the key turned in the lock with a click which had a sound of finality about it that left no room for argument. Well, it has come, I thought to myself--the real hard German punishment... they had me at last. The other time we had outwitted them and gained many privileges of which they knew nothing, and Malvoisin had cheered me through the dark hours. Here there was no Malvoisin, no reading-crack, no friends, nothing to save us. They had us! We had staked the little bit of freedom we had on the chance of getting full freedom. It was a long chance, but we had taken it--and lost! I knew the object of all their punishment was to break our wills and make us docile, pliable, and week-kneed like the Russians we had seen in the camps--poor, spiritless fellows who could give no trouble. Well--we would show them they could not break ours! * * * The eight-mile walk had tired me, and I lay down on the platform to try to sleep, but it was a long time before I could close my eyes: the darkness was so heavy, so choking and horrible. If there had been even one gleam of light it wouldn't have been so bad, but I couldn't even see a gleam under the door, and every time I tried to sleep the silence bothered me--if I could only hear one sound, to tell me some one was alive and stirring about! Still, I kept telling myself, I must put it in, some way--I must--I must--I must. * * * When I awakened, my first thought was that it was still night! Then I remembered it was all night for me, and the thought set me shivering. My hands were stiff and cold, and I missed my overcoat. The waking-up was the worst time of all, for my teeth chattered and my knees trembled, so it was hard to stand. But when I had stamped up and down for a while, I felt better. It must be near morning, I thought. I should know when it was morning, because the guard would come and let me have ten minutes to sweep my cell, and then I should see Ted. I should perhaps get a chance to speak to him--even a wink would help! It was a larger cell than the one at Giessen, and after sitting still for a while I got up and walked up and down. I could take four steps each way, by not stepping too far. My steps echoed on the cement floor, and I quite enjoyed seeing how much noise I could make, and wondered if anybody heard me. But when I stopped and leaned up against the wall, I could hear nothing. Then I sat down again and waited. I remembered how, after the cells, the Strafe-Barrack did not seem too bad, for we could see people and talk occasionally; and after the Strafe-Barrack the prison-camp was comparative freedom, for we could get our parcels and read, and see the boys, so I thought I will pretend now that my punishment was sitting still.... I can't move a muscle; the cut-throat guard that was over us in the Strafe-Barrack is standing over me with his bayonet against my chest--I must not move--or he'll drive it in.... I wish I could change my position--my neck is cramped.... Then I jumped up and walked up and down, and tried to tell myself it was good to be able to move! But I caught myself listening all the time--listening for the guard to come and open the door! * * * It seemed a whole day since we came, and still there was no sound at the door. The guard must have forgotten us, I thought.... The guards at Vehnemoor forgot to bring us soup sometimes.... These mechanical toys may have run down; the power may have gone off, and the whole works have shut down. Certainly the lights seem to have gone out. I laughed at that. Well, I would try to sleep again; that was the best way to get the time in. I tried to keep myself thinking normally, but the thought would come pushing in upon me, like a ghostly face at a window, that the guard had forgotten us. I told myself over and over again that we had come in at noon, and this was the first day; it was bound to be long, I must wait! They--had--not--forgotten us. * * * I knew exactly what I should look like when they found me. My hair would be long, falling over my shoulders, and my beard--not red, but white--would be down to my waist,--for people live for weeks on water, and my nails would be so long they would turn back again... and my hands would be like claws, with the white bones showing through the skin, and the knuckles knotted and bruised. I remembered seeing a cat once that had been forgotten in a cellar... It had worn its claws off, scratching at the wall. Then a chill seized me, and I began to shiver. That frightened me, so I made a bargain with myself--I must not think, I must walk. Thinking is what sends people crazy. I got up then and began to pace up and down. Twelve feet each way was twenty-four feet. There were five thousand two hundred and eighty feet in a mile--so I would walk a mile before I stopped--I would walk a mile, and I would not think! I started off on my mile walk, and held myself to it by force of will, one hundred and ten rounds. Once I lost the count and had to go back to where I did remember, and so it was really more than a mile. But when it was done, and I sat down, beyond a little healthy tingling in my legs I did not feel at all different. I was listening--listening just the same. Ted and I had agreed that if we were side by side, we would pound on the wall as a sign. Four knocks would mean "I--am--all--right." I pounded the wall four times, and listened. There was no response. Then, for a minute, the horror seized me--Ted was dead--every one was dead--I was the only one left! If the authorities in our prisons could once feel the horror of the dark cell when the overwrought nerves bring in the distorted messages, and the whole body writhes in the grip of fear,--choking, unreasoning, panicky fear,--they would abolish it forever. * * * After an eternity, it seemed, the key sounded in the lock and the guard came in, letting in a burst of light which made me blink. He came over to the window, swung open the iron door, and the cell was light! "What time is it?" I asked him in German. He knew his business--this guard. He answered not a word. What has a prisoner to do with time--except "do" it. He handed me a broom--like a stable broom--and motioned me to sweep. It was done all too soon. He then took me with him along the hall to the lavatory. At the far end of the hall and coming from the lavatory, another prisoner was being brought back with a guard behind him. His clothes hung loose on him, and he walked slowly. The light came from the end of the hall facing me, and I could not see very well. When we drew near, a cry broke from him-- "Sim!" he cried. "Good God!... I thought you were in Holland." It was Bromley! Then the guard poked him in the back and sent him stumbling past me. I turned and called to him, but my guard pushed me on. * * * I put in as much time washing as I could, hoping that Ted would be brought out, but I did not see him that day or the next. At last I had to go back, and as the guard shoved me in again to that infernal hole of blackness, he gave me a slice of bread. I had filled my pitcher at the tap. This was my daily ration the first three days. I was hungry, but I was not sick, for I had considerable reserve to call upon, but when the fourth day came I was beginning to feel the weariness which is not exactly a pain, but is worse than any pain. I did not want to walk--it tired me, and my limbs ached as if I had _la grippe._ I soon learned to make my bread last as long as it would, by eating it in instalments, and it required some will-power to do this. Thoughts of food came to torture me--when I slept, my dreams were all of eating. I was home again, and mother was frying doughnuts.... Then I was at the Harvest-Home Festival in the church, and downstairs in the basement there were long tables set. The cold turkey was heaped up on the plates, with potatoes and corn on the cob; there were rows of lemon pies, with chocolate cakes and strawberry tarts. I could hear the dishes rattling and smell the coffee! I sat down before a plate of turkey, and was eating a leg, all brown and juicy--when I awakened. There is a sense in which hunger sharpens a man's perceptions, and makes him see the truth in a clearer light--but starvation, the slow, gnawing starvation, when the reserve is gone, and every organ, every muscle, every nerve cries out for food--it is of the devil. The starving man is a brute, with no more moral sense than the gutter cat. His mind follows the same track--he wants food... Why do our authorities think they can reform a man by throwing him into a dark cell and starving him? * * * There was a hole in the door, wide on the inside and just big enough on the outside for an eye, where the guards could spy on us. We could not get a gleam of light through it, though, for it was covered with a button on the outside. On the fourth day I had light in my cell, and it was aired. Also, I got soup that day, and more bread, and I felt better. I saw Ted for a few seconds. He was very pale, but bearing it well. Though the sunburn was still on his face, the pallor below made it ghastly; but he walked as straight as ever. I climbed up to the window, by standing on the platform, and could just see over. Down below in the courtyard soldiers were gathering for roll-call, and once I saw recruits getting their issue of uniforms.... Sometimes the courtyard was empty, but I kept on watching until the soldiers came. At least they were something--and alive! During the light day, probably as a result of the additional food, I slept nearly all day. When I awakened, the cell was getting dark. I have heard people say the sunset is a lonely time, when fears come out, and apprehensions creep over them... and all their troubles come trooping home. I wonder what they would think of a sunset which ushered in eighty-four hours of darkness!... I watched the light fading on the wall, a flickering, sickly glow that paled and faded and died, and left my eyes, weakened now by the long darkness, quite misty and dim. And then the night, the long night came down, without mercy. * * * On one of my light days the guard forgot to bring my soup. He brought the coffee in the morning, and went out again at once. I thought he had gone for the bread, but when he did not come, I drank the coffee--which was hot and comforting. He did not come near me all day. It may have been the expectation of food, together with the hot coffee, which stimulated my stomach, for that day I experienced what starving men dread most of all--the hunger-pain. It is like a famished rat that gnaws and tears. I writhed on the floor and cried aloud in my agony, while the cold sweat dripped from my face and hands. I do not remember what I said... I do not want to remember... That night when I saw the light growing dim in the cell, and the long black night setting in, I began to think that there was a grave possibility that this sentence might finish me. I might die under it! And my people would never know--"Died--Prisoner of War No. 23445, Pte. M. C. Simmons"--that is all they would see in the casualty list, and it would not cause a ripple of excitement here. The guard would go back for another one, and a stretcher... I shouldn't be much of a carry, either! Then I stood up and shook my fist at the door, including the whole German nation! I was not going to die! Having settled the question, I lay down and slept. When I awakened, I knew I had slept a long time. My tongue was parched and dry, and my throat felt horribly, but my pain was gone. I wasn't hungry now--I was just tired. Then I roused myself. "This is starvation," I whispered to myself; "this is the way men die--and that's what--I am not going to do!" The sound of my own voice gave me courage. I then compelled my muscles to do their work, and stood up and walked up and down, though I noticed the wall got in my road sometimes. I had a long way to go yet, and I knew it depended now on my will-power. My beard was long and my hair tangled and unkempt. I should have liked a shave and a hair-cut, but this is part of the punishment and has a depressing effect on the prisoner. It all helps to break a man down. * * * I kept track of the days by marking on the wall each day with my finger-nail, and so I knew when the two weeks were drawing to a close. The expectation of getting out began to cheer me--and the last night I was not able to sleep much, for I thought when the key turned next time I should be free! I wondered if we could by any chance hear what had happened on the battle-front. Right away I began to feel that I was part of the world again--and a sort of exultation came to me... They--had--not--broken me! CHAPTER XVIII PARNEWINKEL CAMP The key turned at last! Entering, the guard, with face as impassive as ever, motioned to me to sweep out. I wondered if I could have mistaken the number of days, or if... we were going to get longer than the two weeks. He did not enlighten me! I was taken out to wash, and filled my brown pitcher at the tap--just as usual. Then came the moment of tense anxiety.... Would he lock me in? He gave me the usual allowance of bread, which I put in my pocket, as a man who was going on a journey and wants to be on his way, without waiting to eat. Then he motioned to me to come out, and I knew we were free! Ted was at the door of his cell, and we followed the guard downstairs without speaking. In the room below our things were given back to us. I dared not examine my cap to see if my maps had been touched, but I could not keep from turning it around as if to be sure it was mine. Certainly it looked all right. Our two little parcels, still unopened, were returned to us, and the guard from Vehnemoor who had come for us had brought one of the prisoners with him to carry our stuff that had been left there, blankets, wash-basin, clogs, etc. [Illustration: Map which Private Simmons got from the Canadian Artist at Giessen, and which was sewed inside the Pasteboard of his Cap / His successful journey from Selsingen to Holland is indicated by the dotted line ............ / The unsuccessful attempt is shown ---------- from Oldenburg] From the prisoner we got the news of the camp. "How are the folks at home?" we asked him. "Ninety of the worst ones--since you two fellows and Bromley left--were taken to another camp, and when they were moving them McKinnon and another fellow beat it--but we're afraid they were caught." "Why?" we asked him. "They catch them all; nobody gets out of Germany alive." "You talk like a guard!" Ted said. "Well," said the boy (I am sorry I forget his name), "look here. Who do you know that has got away? You didn't; Bromley didn't; the two Frenchmen who went the night before you went didn't. Do you hear of any who did?" "Keep your ear to the ground and you will!" said Ted. "They'll shoot you the next time," he said earnestly. "If I were you, I wouldn't try it." Then the guard came, and we could say no more. Again we were taken to the station and put on the train. Our hands were not tied this time; we were just ordinary prisoners now--we had done ours. Besides, I suppose they knew we shouldn't run far--that had been taken out of us by the "cells." But our good spirits came back when the train started. We went east towards Rotenburg, through the same sort of low, marshy country we had travelled before, with scrubby trees and plenty of heather moor. We passed through Bremen again, where we got a glimpse of white sails, and then on to Rotenburg, where we changed cars and had to wait for two hours. Of course we were hungry--the Oldenburg prison had not sent us out well fed to meet the world, and the one slice of bread had gone. But we had prison-stamps, and our guard took us to the lunch-counter at Rotenburg, where we got a cup of real coffee, some bread, and an orange. The guard paid for what we got with his own money, accepting our stamps in payment. Our stamps were good only at Vehnemoor Camp, having the name "Vehnemoor" stamped on them. I suppose we were two tough-looking characters. The people seemed to think so, for they looked at us with startled faces, and a little girl who was crossing the platform ran back in alarm to her mother when she saw us coming. We arrived at Dienstedt after nightfall, and walked out a mile along a rough road to the camp, which was one of the Cellelager group--Cellelager I. We saw that it consisted of two huts, and when we entered the hut to which we were taken, we saw nothing but Russians, pale-faced, dark-eyed, bearded Russians. They were sitting around, hardly speaking to each other, some mending their clothes, some reading, some staring idly ahead of them. We were beginning to be afraid they had sent us to a camp where there was no one but Russians, until we saw some British, at the other end. "By Jove, I'll bet you're hungry," a big fellow said, reaching up into his bunk and bringing out a pasteboard parcel. "Here you are, matey; there's a bit of cheese and biscuits. I've a bit of water heatin', too; we'll get you something to drink. Get something into you; we ain't bad done for 'ere with our parcels comin' reglar." The other men brought out boxes, too,--currant-loaf, sardines, fruit-cake, and chocolate. There were three coal-stoves in the room, and on one of these a pan of water was steaming. They had condensed milk and cocoa, and made us up mugs of it, and I never, anywhere, tasted anything so good. There were two tiers of bunks in the room, but around the wall there was an open space where there were some little tables. Two of the Englishmen, who were playing cards, put them away and offered us their table. "Here, boys, be comfortable; sit right down here and let us see you eat." We let them see us! We ate like wolf-hounds. We ate, not until we were satisfied, but until we were ashamed! And still the invitations to eat were heard on every side. We were welcome to the last crumb they had! When at last we stopped, they began to tell us about the camp. It seemed that the distinguishing feature was _lice!_ It had never been fumigated, and the condition was indescribable. "We're bad enough," one of the Englishmen said, "but the Russians are in holes." Then they told us what they had done to attract the attention of the authorities. The branch camps are never inspected or visited, as are the main camps such as Cellelager itself and Giessen, and so conditions in the out-of-the-way camps have been allowed to sink far below the level of these. "We each wrote a card to some one in England, telling them about the lice. We would have stretched it--if we could--but we couldn't. We drew pictures, and told what these lice could do; especially we told about the Russians, and how bad they were. There are twenty-one of us, and there went out twenty-one cards all dealing with the same subject. The censor began to feel crawly, I'll bet, before he got far into reading them, and he would not let one of those cards out of Germany. It wouldn't have sounded very good to the neutral countries. So along came one of the head officers. He came in swaggering, but, by George, he went out scratching! And he certainly got something moving. We're all going down to Cellelager to-morrow to be fumigated; and while we're out, there's going to be a real old-fashioned house-cleaning! You're just in time, boys. Have you got any?" "We did not have any," we said, "when we came." "Well, you'll get them here, just sitting around. They're all over the floor and crawl up the leg of your chair; they crawl up the wall and across the ceiling and drop down on your head and down the back of your collar; they're in the walls and in the beds now. But their days are numbered, for we are all going up to Cellelager to-morrow to be fumigated. They're running a special train, and taking us all." That night Ted and I slept on two benches in the middle of the room, but we found that what the boys said was true. They had crawled up on us, or else had fallen from the ceiling, or both. We had them! But the next day we made the trip to Cellelager by special train--"The Louse Train" it was called. The fumigator was the same as at Giessen, and it did its work well. While the clothes were baking, we stood in a well-heated room to wait for them. The British and French, having received parcels, were in good condition, but the Russians, who had to depend entirely on the prison-fare, were a pitiful sight. They looked, when undressed, like the India famine victims, with their washboard ribs and protruding stomachs, dull eyes and parched skin. The sores caused by the lice were deep and raw, and that these conditions, together with the bad water and bad food, had had fatal results, could be seen in the Russian cemetery at Cellelager I, where the white Russian crosses stand, row on row. The treatment of Russian prisoners will be a hard thing for Germany to explain to the nations when the war is over. Parnewinkel was the name of the village near Cellelager I, and this name was printed on the prison-stamps which we used. The camp was built on a better place than the last one, and it was well drained, but the water was bad and unfit to drink unless boiled. As the spring came on, many of the Russians went out to work with the farmers, and working parties, mostly made up of Russians, were sent out each day. Their work was to dig ditches through the marshes, to reclaim the land. To these working parties soup was sent out in the middle of the day, and I, wishing to gain a knowledge of the country, volunteered for "Suppentragen." A large pot, constructed to hold the heat by having a smaller one inside which held the soup, was carried by two of us, with a stick through the handle, to the place where the Russians were working, and while they were attending to the soup, we looked around and learned what we could of the country. I saw a method of smoking meat which was new to me, at a farmhouse near where the Russians were making a road. Edwards and I, with some others, had carried out the soup. The Russians usually ate their soup in the cow-stable part of the house, but the British and Canadians went right into the kitchen. In this house everything was under one roof--that is, cows, chickens, kitchen, and living-room--and from the roof of the kitchen the hams were hung. The kitchen stove had two or three lengths of pipe, just enough to start the smoke in the right direction, but not enough to lead it out of the house. Up among the beams it wound and curled and twisted, wrapping the hams round and round, and then found its way out in the best way it could. Of course some of it wandered down to the kitchen where the women worked, and I suppose it bothered them, but women are the suffering sex in Germany; a little smoke in their eyes is not here or there. The houses we saw had thatched roofs, with plastered walls, and I think in every case the cow-stable was attached. Dairying was the chief industry; that and the raising of pigs, for the land is poor and marshy. Still, if the war lasts long enough, the bad lands of Germany will be largely reclaimed by the labor of Russian prisoners. It's cheap and plentiful. There were ninety thousand of them bagged in one battle in the early days of the war, at the Mazurian Lakes! The Russians are for the most part simple, honest fellows, very sad and plaintive, and deserving of better treatment than they have had. When the Russians had gone out to work, leaving only the sick ones, and the English and French, sometimes there were not enough well prisoners for "Suppentragen," for the British were clever in the matter of feigning sickness. The _Revier_ was in charge of a doctor and a medical Sergeant, who gave exemption from work very easily. Then there were ways of getting sick which were confusing to doctors. Some one found out how to raise a swelling, and there was quite an epidemic of swollen wrists and ankles. A little lump of earth in a handkerchief, pounded gently on the place, for twenty minutes or so, will bring the desired result. Soap-pills will raise the temperature. Tobacco, eaten, will derange the heart. These are well-known methods of achieving sick-leave. I had a way all my own. I had a loose toe-nail, quite ready to come off, but I noticed it in time, and took great care not to let it come off. Then I went to the doctor to have it removed. On that I got exemption till the nail grew. * * * One day at Parnewinkel, Edwards and I were called into the Commandant's office, whither we went with many misgivings--we did not know how much he knew of us and our plans. But the honest man only wanted to pay us. Edwards had worked quite a bit at Vehnemoor, but I couldn't remember that I had worked at all. However, he insisted that I had one and a half days to my credit, and paid me twenty-seven pfennigs, or six and three quarter cents! I remembered then that I had volunteered for work on the bog, for the purpose of seeing what the country was like around the camp. I signed a receipt for the amount he gave me, and the transaction was entered in a book, and the receipt went back to the head camp. "Look at that," said Ted; "they starve us, but if we work they will pay us, even taking considerable pains to thrust our wages upon us. Of a truth they are a 'spotty' people." However, the reason for paying us for our work was not so much their desire to give the laborer his hire as that the receipts might be shown to visitors, and appear in their records. * * * The Russians had a crucifix at the end of the hut which they occupied, and a picture of the Virgin and the Holy Child before which they bowed and crossed themselves in their evening devotions. Not all of them took part. There were some unbelieving brothers who sat morosely back, and took no notice, wrapped in their own sad thoughts. I wondered what they thought of it all! The others humbly knelt and prayed and cried out their sorrows before the crucifix. Their hymns were weird and plaintive, yet full of a heroic hope that God had not forgotten. One of them told me that God bottles up the tears of his saints, hears their cry, and in His own good time will deliver all who trust in Him. That deliverance has already come to many of them the white-crossed graves, beyond the marsh, can prove. But surely, somewhere an account is being kept of their sorrows and their wrongs, and some day will come the reckoning! Germany deserves the contempt of all nations, if it were for nothing else than her treatment of the Russian prisoners. When my toe-nail began to grow on, I got permanent exemption from work because of my shoulder, and was given the light task of keeping clear the ditches that ran close beside the huts. I often volunteered on parcel parties, for I liked the mile and a half walk down the road through the village of Parnewinkel to Selsingen, where there was a railway station and post-office. Once in a while I saw German women sending parcels to soldiers at the front. The road lay through low-lying land, with scrubby trees. There was little to see, but it was a pleasure to get out of the camp with its depressing atmosphere. In Parnewinkel there was an implement dealer who sold "Deering" machinery, mowers and rakes, and yet I never saw either a mower or a rake working. I saw women cutting hay with scythes, and remember well, on one trip to the post-office, I saw an old woman, bare-legged, with wooden clogs, who should have been sitting in a rocking-chair, swinging her scythe through some hay, and she was doing it well, too. The scarcity of horses probably accounted for the mowers and rakes not being used, cows being somewhat too slow in their gait to give good results. Although Hanover is noted for its horses, the needs of the army seem to have depleted the country, and I saw very few. Every one rides a bicycle. I think I saw less than a dozen automobiles. * * * Having been exempted from work, I was around the camp all day, and one day found a four-legged affair with a ring on the top big enough to hold a wash-basin. In this I saw a possibility of making a stove. Below, I put a piece of tin--part of a parcel-box--to hold the fire, with a couple of bricks under it to save the floor, and then, using the wooden parcel-boxes for fuel, I was ready to look about for ingredients to make "mulligan." There is nothing narrow or binding about the word "mulligan"; mulligan can be made of anything. It all depended on what we had! On this stove I made some very acceptable mulligan out of young turnip-tops (they had been brought to the camp when very small seedlings, from a farmer's field where one of our boys had been working, and transplanted in the prison-yard,--I only used the outside leaves, and let them go on growing), potatoes (stolen from the guards' garden), oxo cubes (sent in a parcel), oyster biscuits (also sent in a parcel), salt and pepper, and water. The turnip-tops I put in the bottom of the dish, then laid on the potatoes, covering with water and adding salt. I then covered this with another wash-basin, and started my fire. We were not allowed to have fires, and this gave the mulligan all the charm of the forbidden. When it was cooked, I added the oxo cubes and the oyster biscuit, and mashed all together with part of the lid of a box, and the mulligan was ready. The boys were not critical, and I believe I could get from any one of them a recommendation for a cook's position. In the winter we had had no trouble about a fire, for the stoves were going, and we made our mulligan and boiled water for tea on them. Our guards were ordinary soldiers--sometimes those who had been wounded or were sick and were now convalescent--and we had all sorts. Usually the N.C.O.'s were the more severe. The privates did not bother much about us: they had troubles enough of their own. At the school garden, where the Commandant lived, I went to work one day, and made the acquaintance of his little son, a blue-eyed cherub of four or five years, who addressed me as "Englisches Schwein," which was, I suppose, the way he had heard his father speak of us. He did it quite without malice, though, and no doubt thought that was our proper name. He must have thought the "Schwein" family rather a large one! * * * It was about May, I think, that a letter came from my brother Flint, telling me he was sending me some of the "cream cheese I was so fond of"--and I knew my compass was on the way. In about three weeks the parcel came, and I was careful to open the cheese when alone. The lead foil had every appearance of being undisturbed, but in the middle of it I found the compass! After that we talked over our plans for escape. Edwards and I were the only Canadians in the camp, and we were determined to make a break as soon as the nights got longer. In the early summer, when the daylight lasts so long, we knew we should have no chance, for there were only four or five hours of darkness, but in August we hoped to "start for home." CHAPTER XIX THE BLACKEST CHAPTER OF ALL When the days were at their longest, some of the Russians who had been working for the farmers came into camp, refusing to go back because the farmers made them work such long hours. There is daylight-saving in Germany, which made the rising one hour earlier, and the other end of the day was always the "dark." This made about a seventeen-hour day, and the Russians rebelled against it. The farmers paid so much a day (about twenty-five cents) and then got all the work out of the prisoners they could; and some of them were worked unmercifully hard, and badly treated. Each night, a few Russians, footsore, weary, and heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, trailed into camp with sullen faces, and we were afraid there was going to be trouble. On the night of July 3d, three tired Russians came into camp from the farms they had been working on after we had had our supper. The N.C.O. was waiting for them. The trouble had evidently been reported to Headquarters, and the orders had come back. The Commandant was there, to see that the orders were carried out. In a few minutes the N.C.O. started the Russians to run up and down the space in front of the huts. We watched the performance in amazement. The men ran, with dragging footsteps, tired with their long tramp and their long day's work, but when their speed slackened, the N.C.O. threatened them with his bayonet. For an hour they ran with never a minute's breathing-spell, sweating, puffing, lurching in their gait, and still the merciless order was "Marsch!" "Marsch!" and the three men went struggling on. When the darkness came, they were allowed to stop, but they were so exhausted they had to be helped to bed by their friends. We did not realize that we had been witnessing the first act in the most brutal punishment that a human mind could devise, and, thinking that the trouble was over, we went to sleep, indignant at what we had seen. In the morning, before any of us were awake, and about a quarter of an hour before the time to get up, a commotion started in our hut. German soldiers, dozens of them, came in, shouting to everybody to get up, and dragging the Russians out of bed. I was sleeping in an upper berth, but the first shout awakened me, and when I looked down I could see the soldiers flourishing their bayonets and threatening everybody. The Russians were scurrying out like scared rabbits, but the British, not so easily intimidated, were asking, "What's the row?" One of the British, Walter Hurcum, was struck by a bayonet in the face, cutting a deep gash across his cheek and the lower part of his ear. Tom Morgan dodged a bayonet thrust by jumping behind the stove, and escaped without injury. When I looked down, I caught the eyes of one of our guards, a decent old chap, of much the same type as Sank, and his eyes were full of misery and humiliation, but he was powerless to prevent the outbreak of frightfulness. I dressed myself in my berth--the space below was too full already, and I thought I could face it better with my clothes on. When I got down, the hut was nearly empty, but a Gordon Highlander who went out of the door a few feet ahead of me was slashed at by one of the N.C.O.'s and jumped out of the way just in time. All this was preliminary to roll-call, when we were all lined up to answer to our names. That morning the soup had lost what small resemblance it had had to soup--it had no more nourishment in it than dishwater. We began then to see that they were going to starve every one into a desire to work. We had not been taking soup in the morning, for it was, even at its best, a horrible dish to begin the day with. We had made tea or coffee of our own, and eaten something from our parcels. But this morning we were lined up with the Russians and given soup--whether we wanted it or not. After the soup, the working parties were despatched, and then the three unhappy Russians were started on their endless journey again, racing up and down, up and down, with an N.C.O. standing in the middle to keep them going. They looked pale and worn from their hard experience of the night before, but no Bengal tiger ever had less mercy than the N.C.O., who kept them running. The distance across the end of the yard was about seventy-five feet, and up and down the Russians ran. Their pace was a fast trot, but before long they were showing signs of great fatigue. They looked pitifully at us as they passed us, wondering what it was all about, and so did we. We expected every minute it would be over; surely they had been punished enough. But the cruel race went on. In an hour they were begging for mercy, whimpering pitifully, as they gasped out the only German word they knew--"Kamerad--Kamerad"--to the N.C.O., who drove them on. They begged and prayed in their own language; a thrust of the bayonet was all the answer they got. Their heads rolled, their tongues protruded, their lips frothed, their eyes were red and scalded--and one fell prostrate at the feet of the N.C.O., who, stooping over, rolled back his eyelid to see if he were really unconscious or was feigning it. His examination proved the latter to be the case, and I saw the Commandant motion to him to kick the Russian to his feet. This he did with right good will, and the weary race went on. But the Russian's race was nearly ended, for in another half-dozen rounds he fell, shuddering and moaning, to the ground--and no kick or bayonet thrust could rouse him... Another one rolled over and over in a fit, purple in the face, and twitching horribly. He rolled over and over until he fell into the drain, and lay there, unattended. The last one, a very wiry fellow, kept going long after the other two, his strength a curse to him now, for it prolonged his agony, but he fell out at last, and escaped their cruelty, at least for the time, through the black door of unconsciousness. Then they were gathered up by some of the prisoners, and carried into the _Revier_. * * * Just as the three unconscious ones were carried away, three other Russians, not knowing what was in store for them, came in. We did not see them until they walked in at the gate. They also had been on farms, and were now refusing to work longer. They came into the hut, where their frightened countrymen were huddled together, some praying and some in tears. The newcomers did not know what had happened. But they were not left long in doubt. An N.C.O. called to them to "heraus," and when they came into the yard, he started them to run. The men were tired and hungry. They had already spent months on the farms, working long hours: that did not save them. They had dared to rebel, so their spirits must be broken. Our hearts were torn with rage and pity. We stormed in and out of the huts like crazy men, but there was nothing we could do. There were so few of us, and of course we were unarmed. There was no protest or entreaty we could make that would have made any appeal. Orders were orders! It was for the good of Germany--to make her a greater nation--that these men should work--the longer hours the better--to help to reclaim the bad land, to cultivate the fields, to raise more crops to feed more soldiers to take more prisoners to cultivate more land to raise more crops. It was perfectly clear to the Teutonic mind. No link in the chain must be broken. Deutschland über Alles! At noon the Russians were still running--it is astonishing what the human machine can stand! The N.C.O. impatiently snapped his watch and slashed at the one who was passing him, to speed them up, and so hasten the process. He was getting hungry and wanted his dinner. Then an order came from the Commandant that it was to be stopped--and we hoped again, as we had the night before, that this was the end. We brought the three poor fellows, pale and trembling, to our end of the hut, and gave them as good a meal as our parcels would afford. One of them had a bayonet wound in his neck, which the N.C.O. had given him. He had jabbed him with the point of his bayonet, to quicken his speed. In spite of their exhaustion, they ate ravenously, and fell asleep at once, worn out with the long hours of working as well as by the brutal treatment they had received. But there was no sleep for the poor victims--until the long, black sleep of unconsciousness rolled over them and in mercy blotted out their misery--for the N.C.O.'s came for them and dragged them away from us, and the sickening spectacle began again. There were just eleven of us, British and Canadians, in the camp at this time, twelve of the British having been sent away; and it happened that this was the day, July 4th, that we wrote our cards. We remembered that when the men had written cards about the lice it had brought results: we had no other way of communication with the world, and although this was a very poor one, still it was all we had. We knew our cards would never get out of Germany; indeed, we were afraid they would never leave the camp, but we would try. We went to the place where the cards were kept, which was in charge of a Polish Jew, who also acted as interpreter. He had been in the Russian Army, and had been taken prisoner in the early days of the war. There was a young Russian with him who did clerical work in the camp. They were both in tears. The Jew walked up and down, wringing his hands and calling upon the God of Abraham and of Isaac and of Jacob! Sometimes he put his hands over his ears... for the cries of his countrymen came through the window. When we got our cards, we wrote about what had happened. Some of the cards were written to John Bull; some to the British War-Office; some to the newspapers; some to friends in England, imploring them to appeal to the United States Government at Washington, to interfere for humanity's sake. We eased our minds by saying, as far as we could say it on a card, what we thought of the Germans. Every card was full of it, but the subject was hardly touched. I never knew before the full meaning of that phrase, "Words are inadequate." Words were no relief!--we wanted to kill--kill--kill. * * * The running of the Russians went on for days. Every one of them who came in from the farm got it--without mercy.... Different N.C.O.'s performed the gruesome rites... * * * We had only one hope of quick results. The Commandant of the camp at Celle--that is the main Cellelager--had an English wife, and had, perhaps for that reason, been deprived of his command as an Admiral of the fleet. We hoped he would hear of our cards--or, better still, that his wife might hear. The first indication we had that our cards had taken effect was the change in the soup. Since the first day of the trouble, it had been absolutely worthless. Suddenly it went back to normal--or a little better. Suddenly, too, the running of the Russians stopped, although others of them had come in. A tremendous house-cleaning began--they had us scrubbing everything. The bunks were aired; the blankets hung on the fence; the windows cleaned; the yard was polished by much sweeping. Evidently some one was coming, and we hoped it was "the Admiral." At the same time, the N.C.O.'s grew very polite to us, and one of them, who had been particularly vicious with the Russians, actually bade me "good-morning"--something entirely without precedent. Every day, I think, they expected the Admiral, but it was two weeks before he came. His visit was a relief to the Germans, but a distinct disappointment to us. Apparently, the having of an English wife does not change the heart of a German. It takes more than that. He did not forbid the running of the Russians; only the bayonet must not be used. The bayonet was bad form--it leaves marks. Perhaps the Admiral took this stand in order to reinstate himself again in favor with the military authorities, and anxious to show that his English wife had not weakened him. He had the real stuff in him still--blood and iron! * * * The running of the Russians began again--but behind the trees, where we could not see them... but we could hear... There are some things it were well we could forget! The running of the Russians ceased only when no more came in from the farms. Those who had been put out came out of the _Revier_ in a day or so--some in a few hours--pale and spiritless, and were sent back to work again. They had the saddest-looking faces I ever saw--old and wistful, some of them; others, gaping and vacant; some, wild and staring. They would never resist again--they were surely broken! And while these men would not do much for the "Fatherland" in the way of heavy labor, they would do very well for exchanges! [Illustration: Friedrichsfeld Prison-Camp in Summer] CHAPTER XX ONCE AGAIN! As the days began to shorten, Edwards and I began to plan our escape. We had the maps, the one he had bought at Vehnemoor and the one I had made. We had the compass, which we had kept hidden in a very small crack in the sloping roof of the hut, and the Red Cross suits had come, and were dark blue and quite unnoticeable except for the piece of brown cloth sewed on the sleeve. Mine had Russian buttons on it, which I had put on to have for souvenirs--and which I have since had made into brooches for my sisters. On the map which Edwards had bought at Vehnemoor, the railways were marked according to their kind: the double-tracked, with rock ballast, were heavily lined; single-tracked with rock ballast, were indicated by lighter lines; single-tracked, with dirt ballast, by lighter lines still. I knew, from the study of maps, every stream and canal and all the towns between us and the border. On the map which I had drawn myself, from one I got from the Canadian artist at Giessen, I had put in all the railways and the short spur lines of which there are so many in northern Germany. We knew that when a railway line ended without reaching another line, it was a good indication that the soil was valueless, and therefore there would be no settlement of any account. Through such districts we would direct our way. We began to prepare for our flight by adopting a subdued manner, such as becomes discouraged men. We were dull, listless, sad, rarely speaking to each other--when a guard was present. We sat around the hut, morose and solemn, sighing often, as men who had lost hope. But we were thinking, all the time, and getting ready. I had a fine toffee tin, with a water-tight lid, which had come to me in a parcel from Mr. Robert McPherson, Aberdeen, Scotland, whose brother-in-law, Mr. Alec Smith, of Koch Siding, was a friend of mine. This can, being oval in shape, fitted nicely into my pocket, and we decided to use it for matches. Edwards had a sun-glass, which we thought we would use for lighting our pipes when the sun was shining, and thus conserve our supply of matches. Our first plan was to cut our way through the wires, as we had done at Vehnemoor, but, unfortunately, three Russians, early in the spring, did this--and after that no cat ever watched a mouse-hole with greater intentness than the guards at Parnewinkel watched the wires. We saw this was hopeless! We then thought we would volunteer for work on farms as we had done before at Rossbach, but although French and Russians were taken, "Engländers" were not wanted! The Englishmen in the camp not wanting to work had given themselves a bad name, hoping that the Russians and French would carry it on to the farmers for whom they were working, so that they would be afraid to employ such desperate characters. One of them had "et an ear off'n" the last man he worked for. Another one never took orders from any one--"the last man that tried it, woke up in the middle of a long fit of sickness!--and had since died." Another one admitted he had a terrible temper, but he had had it "from a child and couldn't help it--he turned blind when he was mad, and never knew where he was hittin'!" This all worked well for them, but when Ted and I wanted to get out, we were refused. "Engländers" were not wanted! The first working party that was made up to go out and work with a guard did not give either Ted or me a chance, although we wanted to go, but four other Englishmen volunteered. They were not anxious to have us go with them, for they knew we were thinking of escaping, and when there is an escape, those who were present at the time have embarrassing questions asked them and various privileges are likely to be curtailed afterwards. On Saturday morning, at roll-call, a working party was asked for, and Ted and I volunteered, and with a Welshman and some Frenchmen, we walked out to a small village called Seedorf, about four miles away, where we were turned loose in a field of turnips from which the weeds had not been taken out since the turnips were planted. There were about a dozen of us, and we were taken into the house at noon to be fed. The farmhouse was one of the best I had seen in this section of the country, for the pig-pen, chickens, and cow-stable were in a separate building. The two daughters of the house were true daughters of Germany and did not eat the bread of idleness; the biggest one, bare-legged and with sleeves rolled up, was attending to the stock, without pausing for anything. She looked as strong as a man, and was absorbed in her work--not even stopping a second to look at us. The other one worked in the house at meal-times, but no doubt joined her sister afterwards. The dinner consisted of soup, potatoes, bread, and coffee, and the soup was a real treat, entirely different from the kind we were used to. After dinner we went back to the field and put in a fine afternoon's work. We were anxious to establish a good record before we left there. We had saved up a lot of things from our parcels, thinking that our manner of escape might be such that we could take them with us. A working party such as we were on made it impossible to carry anything, for we were in great danger of being searched. Whenever the Commandant thought of it, he ordered a search. Just as the Commandant at Giessen was keen on rings, so this one went in for searching. We were searched at unexpected times--going out to work or coming in--at meal-times or at bedtime. The following day--Sunday--we sat around with our saddest, most dejected air, like two men in whose hearts all hope had died. We had everything ready--razor, tobacco, matches, toffee tin, toothbrush, comb, pocket-knife, watch, soap, strong safety-pins, and some strong string. Edwards had the sun-glass, shaving-soap and brush, and other things to correspond with mine. It was quite a grief to us to have to leave behind us all the things we had been saving from our parcels. The people of Trail, British Columbia, had sent parcels to all their prisoners, and one of mine had followed me from Giessen to Vehnemoor and from Vehnemoor to Parnewinkel, and at last had found me. It contained, among other things, hard-tack biscuits, just the thing for carrying in our pockets, and my aunts in Ontario had sent me some line dried beef and tins of jam. At this time, also, an exceptionally good box came from Miss Ray, of London, England, and home-made candy from Miss Dorothy Taylor, of New Westminster, British Columbia. We had a regular blow-out on Sunday, but were too much afraid of being searched to risk taking anything with us beyond the necessary things, and so had to leave our precious stores behind. Oh, well--they wouldn't go to waste! Monday morning we dragged our tired feet along the four miles to the turnip-patch--with every appearance of complete submission. I had the compass in the middle of a package of tobacco; my maps were still in the pay-book case in my pocket. We gave ourselves up to the joy of labor, and pulled weeds all day with great vigor. We wanted to behave so well that they wouldn't notice us. Of course we were not sure that any chance would come. We might have to carry our stuff for several days before we should get a chance. That night we came into the kitchen again and sat down at the long table. Every one was hungry and fell to eating without a word. No wonder the guard thought he had a quiet, inoffensive gang whose only thought at that moment was fried potatoes. The potatoes were good, hot from the frying-pan, and we ate as many as we could, for we believed it might be a long time before we again sat at a table. The guard, at last, satisfied that we were all right, strolled into the next room--a sort of dining- and living-room, where the family were eating. We could hear fragments of conversation and some laughter, and it seemed a good time to slip away! We crowded down a few more fried potatoes, and then leisurely left the table and looked out of the window. A big black cloud had come up from the west, and although it was still early in the evening it was beginning to grow dusk. Outside there was no one stirring but the young lady feeding the pigs, and she was not taking any notice of any one. She was a fine example of the absorbed worker. We lit our pipes and strolled out to enjoy the cool of the evening. The pigs were gathered about the trough, protesting the distribution of their evening meal, squealing "Graft" and calling for a commission to settle it. The lady took no notice of them. They could settle it among themselves. They did not need to eat at all if they didn't want to. She should worry. It was take it or leave it--for all she cared! She had gone as far as she was going to, in bringing it to them. We looked back at the kitchen. Fried potatoes still held the attention of the prisoners, and the guard was not to be seen. We turned around the front of the house and found ourselves on the shaded street. There was a row of trees along each side of the street and the houses were built well back. It was not the main street of the village and had more the appearance of a lane. We had concluded that even if the alarm were given, we should only have the one guard to deal with, for the prisoners would not pursue us, neither would the farmer. The big danger was in the fact that the guard had his gun, and if he saw us would shoot, but the shady lane was deserted and still, and we pushed on with an unconcerned stride that covered the ground, but would not attract the attention of the casual observer. When we came to the edge of the village, we saw the wood which we had observed when coming in from work both days, and which seemed to promise shelter, although the trees were small. We passed through it quickly, and kept it between us and the village until we reached a ditch two and a half or three feet deep and overgrown with heather. By this time it was beginning to rain, for which we were glad, for it would discourage travelling and drive indoors those who had any place to go to. We crawled on our hands and knees along the ditch, whose bottom was fairly dry and grassy, until we found a place where the heather hung well over the edge and made a good protection. We could look through the heather at the village, which was about six hundred yards away! We stayed here until it was quite dark. There did not seem to be any search made for us. The guard would be afraid to leave the other prisoners to come looking for us himself, and we knew none of the village people would be keen on coming out in the rain. But there was a telegraph station at Seedorf, and it gave us an uncomfortable feeling to remember that the guard could wire to Selsingen and get some one there to telephone to the camp. But the rain, which was falling heavily, was our best hope that we were unpursued. It beat into my ear as I lay in the heather, until I put my cap over the side of my head. At dark we stole out, after taking our direction with the compass while we were in the ditch. When we came out, we observed the direction of the wind, and started straight south. We would follow this course until we rounded Bremen, and then it was our purpose to go west to the Holland boundary. From our maps we knew that to strike straight across from where we were would bring us to a well-settled country, and the chief desire of our lives now was for solitude! CHAPTER XXI TRAVELLERS OF THE NIGHT The country we travelled over in the first hours of the night was poor and evidently waste land, for we saw no cultivation until near morning, when we crossed through a heavy oat-field, soaking wet with the night's rain. When we came out we were as wet as if we had fallen into the ocean. We took some of the oats with us, to nibble at as we went along. We came to a wide stream, with wooded banks, which looked deep and dangerous. So we made a pack of our clothes, and cautiously descended into it, expecting to have to swim over. However, we found we could easily wade it, for we had made our crossing at a ford. On the other side we found ourselves stumbling over a turnip-field, and very gladly helped ourselves, and carried away two of them for provisions for the next day. When morning came we took cover in a thin wood. On the other attempts we had been able to carry something to eat, and an extra pair of socks. This time we had nothing but what we had on. I had selected from the stockings I had a pair knit by Miss Edna McKay, of Vancouver, which were the first pair she had knit, but were very fine and well made. We removed our socks the first thing each morning, and rubbed our feet and put the socks in a tree to dry, being careful not to have them so high they would be seen. We were trying to take every precaution this time! The first day we were near some farm-buildings, and as we lay in the woods, pretty chilly and wet, we could hear the hens scolding and cackling. Cackling hens always bring me back to the pleasant days of childhood, and I was just enjoying a real heartsome visit to the old home at Delmer... and was chasing Willie Fewster around a straw-stack... when the farmer's dog, an interfering, vicious-looking brute, came peering through the woods and gave us heart spasms, barking at us for a few minutes. But we did not move a muscle, and, seeing that he couldn't start a row with us, he went away, muttering to himself about suspicious characters being around. A woman passed through the wood, too, going over to one of the neighbors--I think to borrow something, for she carried a plate. But she did not see us, as we lay low in the scrub. * * * We certainly found plenty of unsettled country to travel through in the first days of our journey, for we seemed to go through one marsh after another, covered with coarse, long hay, which would have been cut, no doubt, but for the soft bottoms which make it impossible to use a mower. To drain this land would furnish more work for the Russian prisoners! In one place we suddenly stepped down a couple of feet into a bog filled with water, but with grass on the top. We discovered that it was a place from which the peat had been removed, and it was the only sign of human activity that we saw all night. On the evening of August 23d, when we started out after a fairly good day in a spruce thicket, we could see the lights of Bremen reflected in the sky. The lights of a city, with its homes, its stores, its eating-places, its baths, should be a welcome sight to wayfaring men who have been living on oats and turnips, but not for us, to whom a city meant only capture. So when we noticed the rosy glow in the southern sky we steered our course farther west, but still taking care to avoid the city, which we intended to pass on the south and east side. Our troubles were many that night. A good-sized river got in our way and had to be crossed. There was no bridge in sight, and we had determined to waste no time looking for one. So we undressed on the marshy bank and made bundles of our clothes, pinning our tunics about everything with the safety-pins which we carried. We also used the cord around the bundles. Ted was doubtful about swimming and carrying his clothes, so I said I would try it first, with mine. I went down through the coarse grass, which was harsh and prickly to my feet, and full of nettles or something which stung me at every step, and was glad to reach the open water. The moon was in the last quarter, and clouded over, so the night was of the blackest. I made the shore without much trouble, and threw my bundle on a grassy bank. I called over to Ted that the going was fine, and that I would come back for his clothes. At that, he started in to meet me, swimming on his back and holding his clothes with both hands, using only his feet, but when he got into the current, it turned him downstream. I swam toward him as fast as I could, but by the time I reached him he had lost the grip of his clothes, and when I got them they were wet through. As we were nearer to the bank from which he had started, we went back to it, for we were both pretty well blown. However, in a few minutes we were able to strike out again, and reached the other bank in safety. Poor Ted was very cold and miserable, but put on his soaking garments, without a word, and our journey continued. This was another ditch country--ditches both wide and deep, and many of them treacherous things, for their sides were steep and hard to climb. The darkness made it doubly hard, and sometimes we were pretty well frightened as we let ourselves down a greasy clay bank into the muddy water. Later on we found some corduroy bridges that the hay-makers had put over the ditches. All night we had not found anything to eat, and when we arrived at a wood near morning, we decided to stay, for we could see we were coming into a settlement, and the German farmers rise early in harvest-time. So, hungry, muddy, wet, and tired, we lay down in the wood, and spent a long, uncomfortable day! My watch stopped that day, and never went again. Edwards's watch was a better one, and although it stopped when it got wet, it went again as soon as it had dried out. That day we had not a mouthful of anything. But we comforted ourselves with the thought that in this settled country there would be cows, and unless these farmers sat up all night watching them, we promised ourselves a treat the next night. At nightfall we stole out and began again to get over the distance that separated us from freedom. The country was drier and more settled, but the cows, we saw, were all in farmyards, and we were afraid to risk going near them. About midnight we almost stumbled over a herd of them, and one fine old whiteface arose at our request and let us milk her. Ted stood at her head, and spoke kind words to her and rubbed her nose, while I filled our tin again and again. She was a Holstein, I think, though we could not see if she was black or red--it was so dark, we could only see the white markings. We were sorry to leave her. She was another of the bright spots in my memory of Germany. We crossed a railroad, a double-tracked one with rock ballast, which my map showed to be a line which runs to Bremen, and a little later we came to the Weser. This river brought up pleasant recollections of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, who drowned the rats in the Weser by the magic of his pipe. But there was no romance in it as we came upon it in a gray and misty dawn. It was only another barrier to our freedom. There were bunches of willows on the water's edge, and some fine beeches, whose leaves were slightly tinged with yellow, farther back. We selected a close bunch of willows for our hiding-place, and after spending a short time looking for a boat, we gave up the quest, and took cover. We were feeling well, and were in a cheerful mood,--no doubt the result of our pleasant meeting with the Holstein,--and when we saw some straw in a field not far from the willows, we went over and got two armfuls of it, and made beds for ourselves. Fresh, clean straw, when dry, makes a good bed, and no Ostermoor mattress was ever more comfortable. We burrowed into it like moles, and although it rained we had a good day. Waking up in the afternoon, we decided on a general clean-up, and, dipping water from the Weser in a rusty tin pail without a handle, we washed our faces, cleaned our teeth, shaved, and combed our hair. My socks were in fine shape, but Ted's began to show signs of dissolution. The heels were gone, and the toe of one was broken and going. His feet were sore and blistered, and he sat long looking at the perfidious socks which had failed him so soon. Then he had a plan--he would make himself a pair out of the sleeves of his undershirt. To me was given the delicate task of cutting off the sleeves with rather a dull knife, which I managed to do with some difficulty, and, with a thorn for a needle and wool from the socks for thread, a pair of socks were constructed. The thorn was too soft and doubled back, so Ted sharpened a piece of hard wood, and with it made the holes for the yarn. From our shelter in the willows we could see a ferry-boat carrying people across the river, and sometimes people passed along the sandy shore quite near to us, but the willows were thick and we were not discovered. Two big freight steamers also passed by us. That night we went cautiously down the bank looking for a boat. We could swim the river, but a boat would suit us better, for the night was chilly and dark. Before we had gone far, we found one tied in the rushes. But the oars were locked to the bottom of the boat, and we had to cut them loose with our pen-knives, which took quite awhile, for the wood was hard! When we got across the Weser we found plenty of cows. Some of them were fickle jades who would let us almost touch them, and would then sniff at us in disapproval and leave us. Others would not consider our case for a moment. They were not going to run any danger of giving aid and comfort to the enemy! But one good old one with a crooked horn took pity on us, and again we felt better. The fields were divided by hedges, made of a closely-leaved green shrub, somewhat resembling--in the leaf--our buckthorn. It was very thick and very green, and we crawled into one of these on the morning of the fourth day, glad of such a good shelter. However, there was no room to move--or stand up. The hedge being low made it necessary to lie down all day. Still, we were well satisfied with the hot milk, and slept most of the day. Waking up suddenly, I heard a whistle, and, without moving, could see a man's legs coming toward us. Then a dog, white with black markings, darted past him, and, to my horror, stood not six feet from me. We stopped breathing--we shut our eyes for fear we might wink--we effaced ourselves--we ceased to be--I mean we wished we could. The dog came nearer--I could hear his soft footfalls--I knew the brute was stepping high--as they do when they see something. I knew his tail was going straight out behind--he was pointing! The man walked by, whistling--but the dog stayed! Then I heard the man call him--insisting that he come--making remarks about his lack of sense. It sounded like "Come here, you fool!" The dog, with a yelp of disapproval, did as he was told, but I could hear him barking as he ran along--in a hurt tone. His professional pride had been touched! That afternoon as we lay in the hedge, we saw a company of school-children running toward us. I think it was the afternoon recess, and they came running and shouting straight for the hedge. I could only see their feet from where I lay, but it seemed to me that there were a large number. They stopped in the field on the right of where we lay, and played some game--I was too excited to notice what it was. Sometimes it brought them close to the hedge, and then they ran away again. It may have been a ball-game. We were cold and hot by turns, watching the feet that advanced and receded, and were coming at us again, racing this time as if to see who would reach the hedge first, when a sudden downpour of rain came on--and they ran back! We heard the voices growing fainter in the distance, and registered a vow that if we got out of this place alive we would not trust in a hedge again. Dogs and children seemed to be our greatest dangers! When we began our journey that night, we crossed a light railway, one of those which on the map was indicated with light lines, and which, sure enough, had only dirt ballast. Ahead of us was another railway track with lights, which we determined to leave alone. The lights of the two towns, Delmenhorst and Gunderksee, shone against the western sky, and we kept to the south to avoid them. The going was difficult on account of the settlement, and we had to be watching all the time for travellers. There were a lot of people out that night who might better have been at home--and in bed! We were glad to take refuge before daylight in an extensive wood. We had a few turnips, which we ate. The day was spent as usual trying to dry our socks and get our feet in shape for the night, but the rain came down hard, and when we started out at dusk we were soaking wet. We at once got into a forest, a great dark, quiet forest, where fugitives could hide as long as they liked, but which furnished no food of any kind. In the small clearings we came upon herds of cattle, but they were all young, with not a cow among them. This was one of the planted forests of Germany, where a sapling is put in when a big tree is taken out, to conserve the timber supply. No one would know that it had been touched by man, except for the roads which ran through it. There was no waste wood; there were no stumps, no hacked trees, no evidences of fire--such as I have often seen in our forests in British Columbia. The Germans know how to conserve their resources! There was no wind or stars, and there were so many roads crossing and dividing, that it was hard for us to keep our direction. Toward morning it began to rain, and soon the wet bushes, as well as the falling rain, had us wet through. We stopped at last to wait for daylight, for the forest was so dense we believed we could travel by day with safety. We lit our pipes in the usual way, to conserve our matches. One match would light both, when we followed this order. The lighted one was inverted over the unlighted one. Into the lighted one Ted blew, while I drew in my breath from the unlighted one. This morning, something went wrong. Either the tobacco was soggy or I swallowed nicotine, for in a few minutes I had all the symptoms of poisoning, I wanted to lie down, but the ground was too wet. So I leaned against a tree, and was very sorry for myself. Ted felt much the same as I did. Then we tried to light a fire--we were so cold and wet, and, besides, we had a few potatoes, carried from a garden we passed the night before, which we thought we could roast. Hunger and discomfort were making us bold. Our matches would not light the damp wood, and we could find no other. We chewed a few oats, and were very down-hearted. It looked as if lack of food would defeat us this time! We had so far come safely, but at great expense of energy and time. We had avoided travelled roads, bridges, houses, taking the smallest possible risk, but with a great expense of energy. Our journey had been hard, toilsome, and slow. We were failing from lack of food. Our clothes hung in folds on us, and we were beginning to feel weak. The thought of swimming the Ems made us shudder! One thing seemed clear--we must get food, even if to get it imposed a risk. There was no use in starving to death.... The recklessness of the slum-cat was coming to us. The weather had no mercy that day, for a cold, gray, driving rain came down as we leaned against a tree, two battered hulks of men, with very little left to us now but the desire to be free. * * * If this were a book of fiction, it would be easy to lighten and vary the narrative here and there with tales of sudden attacks and hair's-breadth escapes. But it is not a fancy story--it is a plain tale of two men's struggle, with darkness, cold, and hunger, in a land of enemies. It may sound monotonous to the reader at times, but I assure you, we never, for one minute, got accustomed to the pangs of hunger, the beat of the rain, or the ache of our tired legs, and the gripping, choking fear that through some mishap we might be captured. The country was so full of bogs and marshes that we had to stick to the road that night, but we met no person, and had the good fortune to run into a herd of cows, and drank all the milk we could hold. Unfortunately we had nothing in which to carry milk, so had to drink all we could, and go on, in the hope of meeting more cows. While we were helping ourselves, the storm which had been threatening all night came on in great fury, and the lightning seemed to tear the sky apart. We took refuge in an old cow-shed, which saved us from the worst of it. That morning we hid in a clump of evergreens, thick enough to make a good shelter, but too short for comfort, for we could not stand up! Ted was having a bad time with his feet, for his improvised socks did not work well. They twisted and knotted and gave him great discomfort. This day he removed his undershirt, which was of wool, and, cutting it into strips five or six inches wide, wound them round and round his feet, and then put his boots on. He had more comfort after that, but as the weather was cold the loss of his shirt was a serious one. That night we came to a river, which we knew to be the Hunte, and looked about for a means of crossing it. We knew enough to keep away from bridges, but a boat would have looked good to us. However, there did not seem to be any boat, and we decided to swim it without loss of time, for this was a settled district, and therefore not a good place to hesitate. On account of our last experience in crossing a river, we knew a raft to carry our clothes on would keep them dry and make it easier for us. So, failing to find any stuff with which to make a raft, we thought of a gate we had passed a short time back. It was a home-made affair, made of a big log on the top, whose heavy root balanced the gate on the post on which it swung. We went back, found it, and lifted it off, and although it was a heavy carry, we got it to the river, and, making two bundles of our clothes, floated them over on it. I swam ahead, pushing it with one hand, while Ted shoved from behind. Our clothes were kept dry, and we dragged the gate up on the bank. We hope the farmer found it, and also hope he thought it was an early Hallowe'en joke! That day, August 31st, we took refuge in the broom, which was still showing its yellow blossom, and, as the, sun came out occasionally, we lit our pipes with Ted's sun-glass. The sun and wind dried our tobacco and our socks, and we started off that night feeling rather better. It was a fine night for our purpose, for there was considerable wind, and we kept going all night, mostly on the roads. At daylight we took refuge in an open wood. The day was cloudy and chilly, and we found it long. At night, we had not gone far when we found three cows in a small field. We used all our blandishments on them, but the lanky one with straight horns was unapproachable and aloof in her manner, and would not let us near her. One of the others was quiet enough, but was nearly dry. The third one was the best, and we filled and drank, and filled and drank, until her supply was exhausted too. On account of the field being near the house, we were careful not to let the stream of milk make a sound in the empty can, so left some milk in the can each time, to deaden the sound. However, the owners of the cows were safe in bed, and asleep. We wondered if they would think the cows were bewitched when they found they would give nothing next morning! CHAPTER XXII THE LONG ROAD TO FREEDOM When we had taken all the milk we could extract from the cows, we moved off quietly to the corner of the field farthest from the buildings, to get back to the road. We were going over the fence as gently as possible, when we saw two men whom we knew from their uniforms to be French prisoners. They were evidently escaping, like ourselves, but had been more fortunate than we, for they had packs on their backs. We tried to get their attention by calling to them, but the French word for "friend" did not come to us, only the German "Kamerad," and when they heard that, they took us for Germans and ran with all speed. We dared not pursue them, or even call, for fear of being heard; so had to see the two big packs, which no doubt had chocolate, sardines, bread, and cheese in them, disappear in the darkness. However, it may have been just as well--two escaping prisoners are enough, for safety. September 2d was a fine day, with several hours of sunshine. From where we had taken refuge in a high spruce thicket, we could look out across a wide heather moor, all in bloom and a glorious blaze of color, amethyst, purple, mauve, with the bright September sun pouring down upon it. Our spirits always rose when the sun came out, and sank again when the day grew dark. [Illustration: A Prison Post-Card from Friedrichsfeld bei Wesel / The group includes soldiers from Canada, Newfoundland, England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, France, Belgium, Italy, Russia, Serbia, and Roumania.] Since these experiences of battling bare-handed with the elements I can understand why primeval man fell into sun-worship, for on the caprice of the sun with its power to give or withhold, the happiness and well-being of the roofless traveller depends. We stayed closely in the dark shadows of the heavy evergreens that day, although just beyond was the golden sunlight with its warmth and comfort, for we were afraid to show ourselves in the open. That night we came upon a potato garden, and dug out some with our fingers, filling our pockets and our handkerchiefs with them. We had a good night, and shoved the miles behind us. We had promised ourselves a fire just at dawn, and the thought of it, and the potatoes we should bake, was wonderfully cheering. Just at the beginning of the dawn, in that gray, misty light, a fire can scarcely be seen, for the air is something the color of smoke, and there is enough light to hide the fire. At night the fire shows, and in the daylight, the smoke, but in the gray dawn it is not easy to see either. So on the morning of September 3d, we gathered dry sticks and made our first fire. There was a blue veil of haze on the horizon, and a ragged gray mist hung over the low places. The air was sweet with the autumn smell of fallen leaves and wood bark, and as we sat over our tiny fire, we almost forgot that we were in a world of enemies. The yellow beeches and the dark green spruces bent over us in friendliest fashion, and a small bird chased a hawk above the trees. Still, we were not beguiled by the friendliness of our surroundings to take any chances, and, instead of waiting for ashes or coal to roast our potatoes, we put them right on the fire. What if they were burnt on the outside? We scraped off part of the charcoal and ate the rest. We knew about charcoal tablets being good for digestion, and we believed ours could stand a little assistance, for green apples and new milk are not a highly recommended combination. We kept track of the number of potatoes we ate that morning. It was twenty-five! What we couldn't eat we put in our pockets, and held in our hands--for the warmth. That day, September 3d, was the brightest and warmest day we had. Toward evening we crept out to the edge of the wood to see what sort of country we were in--and found there was a village quite near us. But as we had heard not a sound all day, and as there was not a flutter around it now,--not a soul stirring or a cow-bell tinkling,--we thought it must be a deserted hamlet. The old and now almost indistinct paths through the wood where we sat seemed to tell of a departed people. We sat in one of these old paths, watching the shafts of sunlight which filtered through the woods as we waited for the dark. Then Ted began to fix the strips of cloth around his feet, and I lay down upon my back, across the path, looking up at the sky, which was shot over with mackerel-back clouds, giving promise of settled weather. Suddenly, around a bend in the path, came a man and a dog. The man carried a gun across his shoulder, and evidently had been shooting birds. I swung myself off the path and motioned to him to go by--for he had stopped in surprise. Ted did the same. Our gestures were polite--but I think had something suggestive in them too--almost commanding. He passed by, merely bidding us "good-evening," and remarking in German that Ted's feet were sore! He walked on, as a peaceable old fellow who had no desire to get into trouble, and although he must have seen the yellow stripe down the seams of our trousers, and the prison numbers on our tunics, he kept on going. We watched him through the trees, as far as we could see him, but only once did he turn and look back--and then only for a minute. He was not going toward the village, but we decided to keep away from it, anyway, and at nightfall we made a wide detour to avoid it. The night clouded up, too, and we pushed along with thankful hearts that the old man with the dog knew when to keep quiet. A rare piece of good luck came to us that night. We came to a settlement, evidently a new one, for the houses were of modern design, and the farm-buildings, too, were fresh and newly built. There was evidently a creamery somewhere near, and beside the road we found a can full of milk set out, to be gathered up in the morning. The cream had risen to the top of it, and with our toffee tin we helped ourselves. Later on, we found others, and helped ourselves again. It was a very satisfactory arrangement for us to have the refreshment booths scattered like this along the way. Then we ate some of the burnt potatoes and an apple or two, had a few drinks of cream from another can, and the night passed pleasantly. From the apple-trees beside the road we replenished our pockets, and felt this had been a good night. It was a good thing for us that the night had started so well, for along toward morning, probably two hours before daylight, we crossed a peat-bog. There was a road at first which helped us, but it ran into a pile of cut peat, drying for the winter. There were also other roads leading to peat-piles, but these were very misleading, and as the night was of inky blackness, with scarcely any breeze, it became harder and harder to keep our direction. Consulting the compass so often was depleting our match supply, and I tried to depend on the faint breath of a breeze which sometimes seemed to die away altogether. This bog, like all the others, had tufts of grass and knolls of varying size coming in the most unexpected places. Over these we stumbled, and fell, many times, and as we felt fairly safe from being heard, it was some relief to put into language what we thought of the country and all its people, past, present, and future. I believe we were especially explicit about the future! It was nearly morning when we got off the bog, and as the rain was falling we took refuge in a tumble-down hut which had probably been a cowherd's. We soon saw that it was a poor shelter, and when a woman came along and looked straight at us, we began to get gooseflesh! She actually smiled at us, and we tried to smile back reassuringly, but I am afraid there was a lack of mirth in our smiles which detracted from their charm. She walked away--stopped--looked back at us--and smiled again, and went on, nodding her head as if she knew something. We were rather afraid she did, and hastily decided to push on. We were afraid of the lady's patriotism, and determined to be moving. There was a thick-looking wood just ahead, and to it we went with all speed, taking with us two large gunnysacks which we found in the hut. They were stamped "Utrecht" and had the name of a dealer there. All that day we were afraid of the lady who smiled and nodded her head, but perhaps we wronged her in our thoughts, for the day passed without any disturbance. Probably she, too, like the old man with the dog, knew that silence does not often get one into trouble. That day we shaved, but, there being no stream near, we had to empty the rain-drops off the leaves into the top of the box which held Ted's shaving-stick. It took time, of course, but what was time to us? We had more time than anything else. Although we tried to reassure ourselves with the thought that there were probably no soldiers near, and that the civilians were not likely to do any searching, still we were too apprehensive to sleep, and started away at nightfall, with eyes that burned and ached from our long vigil. The night was cloudy at first, with sprinkling rain, but cleared up about midnight into a clear, cold autumn night. The cold kept me from getting sleepy, but when I got warm from walking my sleepiness grew overpowering. Ted was more wakeful than I, and took the lead, while I stumbled along behind, aching in every joint with sleepiness. The night was clear and starry, and Ted steered our course by the stars. No one who has gone through it needs to be told about the misery of sleepiness. I fought against it--I pulled open my eyes--I set my will with all the force I could command, but in spite of all I could do, my eyes would close and I would fall over, and in the fall would awaken and go on, only to fall again. At last we stopped and lay down, sorry to lose so much of the darkness, but the cold soon awakened us, and, chilled and shivering, with numb fingers, we struggled to our feet and went on. But when, with the walking, we were warmed again, with the warmth came the sleepiness. At dawn we crept into a thick bush, but the ground was damp and cold, and our sleepiness had left us. We ate some of our cold roast potatoes, and tried to sleep, for we dreaded to spend another night like the last one. In the afternoon the sun came out and warmed the air, so we had a fairly good sleep and started away at nightfall. The night was clear and starlight, so the peat-bog which we encountered did not bother us so much, for we could see the holes and ridges. After the bog, we came into a settlement, but the people were in villages and had their cows stabled, so there was no chance for thirsty and hungry travellers. To the north we could see the huge searchlights above Oldenburg, and we thought of the cells--and shuddered! But our hunger was making us cold again, and we determined to go into the next village we came to, to find some apples. The first one we came to was a large one, and compactly built. The night was lit by the stars, and therefore not quite so good for our purpose, but we had to have something. We cautiously entered a garden gate which some one had obligingly left open, but when we got in, we found that the trees were high, and apparently well looked-after, for not an apple could be found! We were only a few yards from the house, behind whose darkened windows the family slept, not knowing that the alien enemy were so near. We slipped out of the open gate--we could see now why it had been left open--and went into the next garden--with the same result. Every apple had been gathered. We started down the street again, walking cautiously on the grass, and slipping along as quickly as possible. We carried the sacks, which we had split open, over our shoulders, and as they were of a neutral shade, they were not so easily seen as our dark-blue suits would have been. Suddenly there was the sound of a door opening, ahead of us, on the other side of the street, and two soldiers came out! We lay flat on the street where we were, and "froze." The sacks which were wrapped about us helped to conceal us, or at least made us look less like men. The soldiers passed along the middle of the street, chatting and laughing; we could hear their spurs clanking! Coming out of the light had probably dulled their sight, and they did not see us. We lay there until their footsteps had died away. Then we got up, and got out! We were not hungry any more--at least we were so much more frightened than hungry that we only knew we were frightened, and we pushed our way on as fast as we could. That night was the first on which we had seen the moon. The shelter we found was another group of Christmas trees, and as we still had a couple of roast potatoes we ate them, and got a little sleep. The next night the villages kept getting in our way. When we tried to avoid one, we got into another, and in one we saw a light twinkling in an upstairs window, where some woman, probably, sat late at her work or watched by the bedside of a sick child. As usual, there were no street lamps, and I think the light inside was a coal-oil lamp! But not a dog barked, and we came safely out on a road which led in a westerly direction. In the morning, when the east began to redden, we got shelter in a thin wood, and, having found some potatoes outside of one of the villages, we determined to run the risk of having a fire to roast them. We didn't roast many, though, for the dawn came on too swiftly, and we had to extinguish our fire, for there was a farmhouse not a hundred yards away, and the people were beginning to stir. That day there were people working all around us, and one old chap, with a red shirt on, was so ambitious about getting his turnips lifted that I don't believe he even knocked off for noon. We thought he would never quit at night either. We called him the "work-hog!" In the afternoon, as we lay in the woods, an old man, a shepherd, came with a flock of white sheep which followed close behind him. The old man wore a velvet cloak, knee breeches, and buckles on his shoes, and he had a sheep dog with him--a small-sized tricolored, rough-haired collie. It was exactly like a picture! We were not in any mood to enjoy the beauty of it, for some of the sheep wandered through the wood, almost stepping on us, and when the shepherd came after them, he must have seen us. But the old man belonged to the peaceful past, and knew nothing of wars and prisoners, so went out of the wood as quietly as he came. He was as innocent-looking as the sunshine, or the white clouds in the blue sky! Still, we were two suspicious men who trusted no one, and we thought it best to move. I took the potatoes in my sack, and Ted, to be ready for emergencies, provided a stout, knotted club for himself, and we stole out of the wood, being careful to keep it between us and the "work-hog," who never lifted his eyes--but still we took no chances, even on him! There was a better wood a short distance away, and to it we came. We saw nobody, and, coming into a dark cover, lit a fire, for we thought the smoke would not rise to the tops of the trees. On it we roasted our remaining potatoes, and we got a drink in a narrow, trickling stream. We started again, at dark, and before long came to a railway, which, according to our map, was the line which runs parallel to the river Ems. We knew we were coming near the Ems, and at the thought of it, drew a long breath. It seemed a long time since we had stood on its bank before and heard the sounds from across the Holland border. We kept going all night, avoiding the roads, and about three o'clock reached the river. There it was!--a much smaller river than when we had last seen it, but plenty large enough yet to fill us with apprehension. We found a good hiding-place before daylight, and then went back to a potato-field we had passed, and put about a pailful in our sacks before settling down for the day in the wood. Just before dawn we made our fire and roasted the potatoes. They tasted fine, and as the day was warm and bright, we began to feel more cheerful. That day we heard the deep-booming whistles of steamboats, and the shriller notes of the canal-boats. Although we knew the river boats were passing up and down just below us, we restrained our curiosity and stayed closely hidden. Just before it got dark we crept to the edge of the high ground overlooking the river. The other side of the river was flat, and seemed to be settled. I knew from a map I had seen that there was a canal a short distance beyond the river, and that it, too, would have to be crossed. Looking down to the water's edge, we saw a fence enclosing some pasture land, and were glad to see another gate, for we wanted a raft for our clothes, and we thought this would do. It was a heavy brute of a gate. We could hardly launch it. Perhaps we were getting weaker--that may have been the reason it seemed so heavy. Anyway, when we got it to the water's edge, we had to rest before undertaking to swim the river. The current was not so strong as we had feared, and we reached the other side in safety. We did not pull up the gate, but let it go drifting down the stream. Perhaps this also is accounted for by the fact that we were getting weaker: also, we considered that we were harder pressed for time than the German farmer--he could make another gate. After we had dressed and had walked for about an hour, we came to the canal. Unfortunately for our purpose, the night was clear and the stars were out in thousands, and, to make matters worse, the young moon, just a crescent, but still capable of giving some light, came out. We had been longer than we expected on our journey, and now, at the most critical time of it, when there was the greatest need of caution, we had moonlight nights to face! Still, every night was getting worse than the last, so we must go forward with all speed. The canal was about sixty feet wide, and I felt certain it would be guarded, for it was so near the border. We went to the edge, and looked across--and then up and down--to see if we could find any trace of a guard; everything was quiet. We knew it was a time for great haste. We went back quickly and undressed. I grabbed my bundle and let myself cautiously into the water, taking care not to make the slightest splash. When I reached the other side, I threw my clothes on the sand and came back far Ted--he was waiting for me. I took his clothes, and together we swam across! We got quietly out of the water. I picked up my own bundle, and we started for the trees on the other side of the road. There was an excavation there where sand had been taken out. Seeing it, we slipped into it noiselessly. We were not a moment too soon, for when we stood still and listened, we heard the regular footsteps of a man, and in twenty seconds the patrol marched by! Then we dressed and got out of our fortunate hiding-place, and went on. We still had a couple of hours before daylight, but the danger was growing greater every minute, for we knew we were approaching the border. At that thought our hearts beat wild with hope. The border would be guarded--there was nothing surer--any minute we might be challenged. We had talked it over, and were determined to make a dash for it if that happened. The patrol would shoot, but there was a chance he might not shoot straight; he would hardly get us both! Soon we came to a marsh, with an edge of peat, and as we advanced we saw the peat was disappearing, and it did not look good ahead. The moonlight showed us a grassy mat, level as the top of a lake, and without a shrub or tree to indicate a solid bottom. It was evidently a quaking bog, a hidden lake, and only the fear behind us drove us on. It swayed beneath our feet, falling as we stepped on it fully a foot, and rising again behind us. There would be little danger of guards here, for the place would be considered impassable--and maybe it was--we should see! Our feet were light--fear gave them wings--and we raced over the bending, swaying, springing surface! The moon was not bright enough for us to pick our steps--there was no picking, anyway--it was a matter of speed! At every step the grass mat went below the surface of the water, and we could feel it rising over our boot-tops--cold and horrible. If we had hesitated a second, I know we should have gone through; but we had every reason for haste. Behind us was the enemy--cruel, merciless, hateful--with their stolid faces and their black cells. Under us--was death. Before us--was freedom--home--and the ones we love! At the other side there was more peat, some of it cut and piled. We were puffing hard from our exertions, but were afraid to rest a second. The border must be near! In a few minutes after leaving the bog we came to a small canal, which surprised me--there had been no other canal indicated on any map I had seen. It puzzled me for a minute; then a great joy swept over me! The maps I had seen were maps of Germany. This canal must be in Holland! But I did not say this to Ted, for I wasn't sure. We undressed again--the third time that night--and swam the canal, and, dressing again, went on. Soon we found a finely settled country, with roads which improved as we went on, all the time. There were no trees, but the darkness still held, and we kept going. Toward morning we took refuge in a thicket, and spent the day. That day was September 9th, and although we thought we were in Holland, we were not sure enough to come out and show ourselves. So we lay low, and ate the green apples that we had found on a tree between the river and the canal the night before. We slept a little, though too excited to sleep much. Beside the thicket where we were hidden, a boy worked in a field with a fine team of horses, ploughing stubble. We tried to listen to what he said to his team, to see if there was any change from the German "Burrrrrrsh," but he was a silent youth, and so far as we could make out, said never a word all day. So we could not prove it by him! But the good horses gave us hope--horses were scarce in Germany! At dusk we started out again, and kept going straight west, for one fear still tormented us. Our maps showed us that one part of Germany projects into Holland, and for this reason we kept straight west, to avoid all danger of running into it; for the uncomfortable thought would come that to escape from Germany and then walk into it again would make us feel foolish--not to mention other emotions. It seemed to be a fine country that we were going through, and the walking was easy, although we were not on a road. I had been telling Ted that the first railway we came to would be a single-tracked one, with dirt ballast, and then we should be sure we were in Holland. I had seen this railroad on the map, and knew it was a few miles from the border. To me, this would be sufficient proof that we were safely out of Germany. Soon we saw a fringe of houses ahead, and we thought we were coming near a canal, for we were in the country of canals now, and the houses are built on their banks. There were lights in a few of the houses, for it was only about eleven o'clock, and some of the people were still up. The houses looked to be rather good ones, and they were built in a row. It was the backs of them we were approaching, which we did with extreme caution, for we had no desire to have some snarling dog discover us and give the alarm. So intent were we, watching the houses for any sign of life, that we did not see what was just before us until we had walked up to it. Then we saw-- It was a railroad, single-tracked, with dirt ballast! Without a word, Ted and I shook hands! We were in Holland! CHAPTER XXIII OUT Immediately we set out to find a road. There would be no more skulking through fields for us. We were free again, entitled to all the privileges of road and bridge. We soon found a good wagon-road leading to a bridge over the canal. Across the bridge we boldly went, caring nothing for the houses at our right and left, whose windows were lighted and whose dogs may have been awake for all we cared. It seemed wonderful to be able to walk right in the middle of the road again! Ted said he wanted to sing, but I advised him to curb the desire. We were a little hazy as to the treatment accorded prisoners by a neutral country. We still kept west, thinking of the bulge in the German boundary to the south of us. The road was smooth and hard, and we felt so good that we seemed to be able to go as fast as we liked. Fatigue and hunger were forgotten. A man on a bicycle rode past us and shouted a greeting to us, to which we replied with a good, honest English "Good-night," instead of the sullen grunt we had hitherto been using to hide our nationality. Cows were plentiful that night, and we got apples, too, from the orchards near the road. The only thing that troubled us was that our road had turned southwest, and we were afraid that it might lead us into the little strip of Germany. However, we went on a short distance. Then we came to a place where there were many canals, some of them very large, and the straggling houses seemed to indicate a town. Afterwards we knew it was the town called Nieuwstadskanaal. We took a poor road, leading west, and followed it over a heather moor, which changed after a mile or two into a peat-bog with piles of peat recently cut. We kept on going, until about five o'clock in the morning we came to a house. It looked desolate and unoccupied, and when we got close to it we found that it had been badly damaged by fire. But it made a good shelter for us, and we went into what had been the living-room, and lay down and slept. The floor was even and dry; it was the best bed we had had for twenty nights, and, relieved as we were from the fear of detection, we slept for hours. * * * When we awakened, the sun was pouring in at the curtainless windows, and we were as hungry as bears. "Now for a potato-feed," Ted said, looking out of the window at a fine field of potatoes across the road. The field had been reclaimed from the peat-bog, and some of the potatoes had already been dug and put into pits. In looking around for material to light a fire, I saw scraps of newspapers, which I examined closely and found they were Dutch papers, one bearing the name of "Odoorn" and the other "Nieuwstadskanaal." This supported us in our belief that we were in Holland. We got potatoes from the field and roasted them in the fire which we built in the fireplace. A young Hollander, fired with curiosity, came to the door and looked in at us. We hailed him with delight and asked him to come right in, and be one of us! He came in rather gingerly, looking at us wide-eyed, and we were sorry to find he could not speak English. There were certain things we wanted to know! We were drying our matches by the fire, for they had become rather damp, and our supply was getting low. Also our tobacco was done. So we said, "Tabac," showing him our empty pipes, and from the pocket of his coat he brought out a pouch, and we filled our pipes. I don't know whether he knew we had been prisoners or not. He drifted out in a few minutes, but I think he told others about us, for after we had had our smoke, and had gone to the canal to fix up, we found some interested spectators. At the canal we washed, shaved, cleaned our teeth, combed our hair, and went as far as we could in getting ready to see people. Ted had his Canadian soldier's tunic, with the regular prisoner's dark-blue trousers such as the British Red Cross supplies. His tunic was torn in several places and his hair was unkempt and in need of cutting. He had cut the heels out of his boots, several days before, because they hurt him. I had the regular prisoner's suit, dark-blue cloth, and had cut off the yellow stripe which had been sewed down the legs of the trousers; I had also cut off my prison number. My boots had held well, and there was not even a hole in my socks. My hair was getting shaggy, and I suppose we were both looking fairly tough. Our clothes were wrinkled and crushed and dirty. * * * There was one older man who watched us, with many exclamations of friendliness, who, when we had concluded our efforts, made us understand that he wanted us to come with him to have something to eat. He could speak no English, but he made us understand. We went back to the deserted house, gathered up our things, and went with him. Two young fellows came along, too, and we were taken to a canal-boat near by. The woman who waited on the breakfast table in the canal-boat, and served us with rye-bread, margarine, and coffee, gave us hard looks, which made us think her heart was still in the fatherland. Conversation was naturally difficult, because no one of them could speak English, but we began to ask about Rotterdam, for we knew that that would be the port from which we should sail, and we were anxious to know how to get there. One of the young men, a fine-looking fellow with a frank, pleasing countenance, said something and made gestures, which made us think he would take us there in his boat. We started out with him and his companion, not sorry to leave the sour-faced lady who glared at us, and walked along the road beside the canal. We were on the outskirts of Odoorn, a town whose chief industry is the shipping of peat. It being Sunday, nobody was working, and the people, especially the children, came out to see us. The young man took us to one of the houses and introduced us to his father and mother, who welcomed us kindly and wanted us to have something to eat. But we declined. We were then taken by him along the road, and the crowd of children that followed us seemed to be growing bigger every minute. Our friend, anxious apparently to do the proper thing, took out his mouth-organ and played "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"--and it certainly hit the spot with us. He conducted us to the home of the gendarme--and for a minute our old fear of being interned came back to us! The gendarme was plainly bored--he had been having a Sunday-afternoon sleep, and had not finished it. He yawned as he spoke. The young man talked to him very earnestly, and at last he invited us in. Up to this time we had not heard a word of English. The gendarme's wife, a nice-looking, well-dressed woman, brought in a tray and gave us tea, and little cakes with seeds on them, and soon a young man who could speak English came in to act as interpreter. He began to question us, but we soon turned the conversation by questioning him. We asked him if there was any danger of our being interned? He told us we could be interned if we liked, but we hastened to assure him we should not like it. Then he said we could stay in Holland and work, but again we declined. We wanted to go to England, we said. He tried to dissuade us. Why go to England? That would mean going back into the army. Holland was the best and safest place! We insisted that we wanted to go to England, and he warned us that if we wanted to change our minds we must do it now; because we couldn't change after we had "signed the paper." We were still sure we wanted to go! The gendarme then went upstairs and came down in his uniform and took us out with him. We didn't know where he was taking us, but supposed it was to some place to make arrangements for our passage to England. When we came out of the house we found some women gathered there waiting for us, and a very poorly dressed woman, with a fine face, stepped up and gave us a small sum of money, which she had evidently collected for us. We thanked her warmly, and with sincere gratitude. Then we set out across country about four miles to Borger, where we were taken to the Burgomaster's house. The Burgomaster's house was one of the best in the little town, and when we went in, we found there a young man, evidently calling on the daughter of the house, and he could speak English. We were taken downtown to the Burgomaster's office, and official papers were made out, and we signed them. This was what the gendarme's interpreter had been telling us, about not being able to change our minds after we had signed the paper! The Burgomaster evidently told the gendarme to take us to the hotel and have us fed, and by this time, after our walk, we were quite ready for something. When we offered them money for our meal--which was a good one--it was politely refused. We were then taken to the home of one of the Borgen gendarmes where we stayed for the night. His name was H. Letema. We ate with the family and were treated with great kindness. The white bread and honey which we had for tea were a great treat to us. One of the other gendarmes gave Ted a pair of socks, and he was able to discard the strips of underwear. We had a bed made of straw, with good blankets, and it seemed like luxury to us. The next morning Mr. Letema gave us each a postal-card addressed to himself, and asked us to write back telling him when we had safely reached England. Then another gendarme walked with us to Assen, which seemed to be a sort of police headquarters. We stayed there all day. In the afternoon a Belgian girl came to see us, and although I tried hard to understand what she said, she talked so fast I could not follow her, although I knew a little French. She brought us some cigars, and we could see she wanted to show us her friendliness. When she went away, I deeply regretted my ignorance of the French language. But the Belgian girl came back in a little while, accompanied by a Holland woman who could speak English, and then we found out about her. She had fled from Antwerp at the time of the bombardment, and was supporting herself by needlework at Assen, where she was the only Belgian person, and I suppose she was tired of "neutrals" and wanted to see us because we were of the Allies. She urged us to tell her what she could do for us, and we asked her for some postal-cards, so we could tell our friends that we had escaped. She sent them to us by her friend the interpreter, who also gave us some English books and a box of cigars. That night a young gendarme took us upstairs to his room, which was nicely decorated with flags and pennants, and he told us the Germans could never conquer Holland, for they would cut the dykes--as they had done before. He showed us the picture of his fiancée, and proudly exhibited the ring she had given him. The next day we were taken by another gendarme to Rotterdam by train, passing through Utrecht and in sight of the Zuider Zee. Arriving there, we were taken to the alien officer, who questioned us and wrote down what we told him. Then the gendarme took us to the British Consul, and left us there. The Consul shook hands with us and congratulated us on our escape, and put us in charge of a Vice-Consul, who was a Hollander. We stayed at the "Seaman's Rest," which was in the same building as the British Consulate. There we met two Americans, who were very friendly and greatly interested in our escape. They encouraged us to talk about the prison-camps, and of what we had seen in Germany, but it was not long until we became suspicious and careful in our answers. One of them had an American passport, which seemed to let him have the freedom of the city; the other one had no passport, and complained that he could not get one, and it was causing him no end of inconvenience, for he found it impossible to get a job at his trade, which was that of "trimmer" on a vessel. He went every day to the docks, looking for a job, and acquired considerable information about ships and their time of sailing. At night, he and his friend were together, and the knowledge was no doubt turned over. Mr. Neilson, Superintendent of the Sailors' Institute, very kindly invited us to go with him to The Hague, to see the Peace Temple, and it was then that we made bold to ask for some spending money. The Vice-Consul, the Hollander, was a thrift-fiend so far as other people were concerned, and it was only after Mr. Neilson had presented our claim, and we had used all the arguments we could think of, that we got about two dollars each. Our clothes--too--had not yet been replaced with new ones, and we felt very shabby in our soiled uniforms. We mentioned this to the Vice-Consul, and told him that we believed the Canadian Government would stand by us to the extent of a new suit of clothes. He murmured something about the expenses being very heavy at this time. We ventured to remind him that the money would be repaid--Canada was still doing business! The next day our American friends invited us to go to a picture show with them. We went, but at the door a gorgeously uniformed gentleman, who looked like a cross between a butler and an admiral, turned us back--that is, Ted and me. We had no collars on! The public had to be protected--he was sorry, but these were his orders. Then we sought the Vice-Consul and told him if he did not get us decent clothes, we should go to the Consul. The next morning we got the clothes! * * * On the sixth night we sailed from Rotterdam, and the next morning, in a hazy dawn, we sighted, with glad hearts, the misty shores of England. As we sailed up the Tyne, we saw war shops being built, and women among the workmen, looking very neat and smart in their working uniforms. They seemed to know their business, too, and moved about with a speed and energy which indicated an earnest purpose. Here was another factor which Germany had not counted on--the women of the Empire! Germany knew exactly how many troops, how many guns, how many ships, how much ammunition England had; but they did not know--never could know--the spirit of the English people! They saw a country which seethed with discontent--Hyde Park agitators who railed at everything British, women who set fire to empty buildings, and destroyed mail-boxes as a protest against unfair social conditions--and they made the mistake of thinking that these discontented citizens were traitors who would be glad of the chance to stab their country to the heart. They knew that the average English found golf and cricket much more interesting than foreign affairs, so they were not quite prepared for that rush of men to the recruiting offices at the first call for volunteers! Englishmen may abuse their own country, but it is a different matter when the enemy is at the door. So they came,--the farmer, the clerk, the bank boy, the teacher, the student, the professional man, the writer, the crossing-sweeper, the cab-man,--high and low, rich and poor, old and young, they flocked to the offices, like the land-seekers in the West who form queues in front of the Homestead offices, to enter their land. I thought of these first recruits--the "contemptible little army"--who went over in those first terrible days, and, insufficiently equipped as they were, went up against the overwhelming hosts of Germany with their superior numbers and equipment that had been in preparation for forty years.... and how they held back the invaders--though they had but one shell to the Germans' hundred--by sheer force of courage and individual bravery... and with such losses. I thought of these men as I stepped on the wharf at Newcastle, and it seemed to me that every country lane in England and every city street was hallowed by the unseen presence of the glorious and unforgotten dead! CONCLUSION I have been at home for more than a year now, and cannot return to the front. Apparently the British Government have given their word to the neutral countries that prisoners who escape from Germany, and are assisted by the neutral countries, will not be allowed to return to the fighting line. So even if my shoulder were well again, I could not go back to fight. Ted and I parted in London, for I came back to Canada before he did. He has since rejoined his family in Toronto. I have heard from a number of the boys in Germany. Bromley tried to escape again, but was captured, and is now at a camp called Soltau. John Keith and Croak also tried, but failed. Little Joe, the Italian boy who enlisted with me at Trail, has been since exchanged--insane! Percy Weller, Sergeant Reid, and Hill, brother of the British Reservist who gave us our first training, have all been exchanged. * * * I am sorry that I cannot go back. Not that I like fighting--for I do not; but because I believe every man who is physically fit should have a hand in this great clean-up--every man is needed! From what I have seen of the German people, I believe they will resist stubbornly, and a war of exhaustion will be a long affair with a people so well trained and organized. The military class know well that if they are forced to make terms unfavorable to Germany, their power will be gone forever, and they would rather go down to defeat before the Allied nations than be overthrown by their own people. There is no doubt that the war was precipitated by the military class in Germany because the people were growing too powerful. So they might as well fight on, with a chance of victory, as to conclude an unsatisfactory peace and face a revolution. The German people have to be taught one thing before their real education can begin. They have to be made to see--and the Allied armies are making it plainer every day--that war is unprofitable; that their army, great though it is, may meet a greater; that heavy losses may come to their own country. They need to be reminded that he that liveth by the sword may die by the sword! The average German thinks that only through superior military strength can any good thing come to a nation. All their lives they have been taught that, and their hatred of England has been largely a result of their fear of England's superior strength. They cannot understand that England and the other Allies have no desire to dominate German affairs. They do not believe that there is an ethical side to this war. The Germans are pitifully dense to ethical values. They are not idealists or sentimentalists, and their imagination is not easily kindled. Added to this, they have separated themselves from religion. Less than two per cent of the men attend church, and if the extracts we read from the sermons preached in their churches is a fair sample of the teaching given there, the ninety-eight who stay at home are better off than the two who go! [Illustration: Post-Card sent by Private Bromley from the Prison-Camp of Soltau, Germany, in July, 1918 / The crosses mark the graves of prisoners who have died at this camp] All these things have helped to produce a type of mind that is not moved by argument or entreaty, a national character that has shown itself capable of deeds of grave dishonesty and of revolting cruelty; which cannot be forgotten--or allowed to go unpunished! But if their faith in the power of force can be broken--and it may be broken very soon--the end of the war will come suddenly. * * * The people at home are interested and speculative as to the returned soldiers' point of view. Personally, I believe that as the soldiers went away with diversity of opinions, so will they come home, though in a less degree. There will be a tendency to fusion in some respects. One will be in the matter of coöperation; the civilian's ideas are generally those of the individual--he brags about his rights and resents any restriction of them. He is strong on grand old traditions, and rejoices in any special privileges which have come to him. The soldier learns to share his comforts with the man next him; in the army each man depends on the other--and cannot do without him: there is no competition there, but only coöperation. If loss comes to one man, or misfortune, it affects the others. If one man is poorly trained, or uncontrolled, or foolish, all suffer. If a badly trained bomber loses his head, pulls the pin of his bomb, and lets it drop instead of throwing it, the whole platoon is endangered. In this way the soldier unconsciously absorbs some of the principles of, and can understand the reason for, discipline, and acquires a wholesome respect for the man who knows his job. He sees the reason for stringent orders in regard to health and sanitation. He does not like to get into a dirty bath himself, and so he leaves it clean for the next man. In other words, the soldier, consciously or unconsciously, has learned that he is a part of a great mass of people, and that his own safety, both commercially and socially, depends on the proper disciplining of the whole people. The returned soldier will take kindly to projects which tend to a better equalization of duties, responsibilities, and pleasures. He will be a great stickler for this; if he has to work, every one else must work too. He will be hard against special privileges. He will be strong in his insistence that our natural resources be nationalized. He will go after all lines of industry now in the hands of large corporations, and insist on national supervision if not actual ownership. In religion, he will not care anything about form. Denominationalism will bore him, but the vital element of religion, brotherly love and helping the other fellow, will attract him, wherever he finds it. He knows that religion--he believes in it. The political parties will never be able to catch him with their worn-out phrases. Politicians had better begin to remodel their speeches. The iniquities of the other party will not do. There must be a breaking-out of new roads--old things have passed away! The returned man will claim, above all things, honest dealing, and for this reason the tricky politicians who "put it over" in the pre-war days will not have so easy a time. "Guff" will not be well received. The leaders on the battle-field have been men who could look death in the face without flinching, so the political leaders at home must be men of heroism, who will travel the path of righteousness even though they see it leads by the way of the Cross! * * * There is a hard road ahead of us, a hard, steep road of sacrifice, and in it we must as a nation travel, although our feet are heavy and our eyes are dim. The war must be won; human liberty is worth the price--whatever the price may be! We do not travel as those who have no hope, for we know, though we cannot see it, that at the top of the mountain the sun is shining on a cleaner, fairer, better world. THE END 
42490	----	Gutenberg. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.) [Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other inconsistencies. Text that has been changed to correct an obvious error is noted at the end of this ebook.] OUTWITTING THE HUN [Illustration: LIEUT. PAT O'BRIEN, R. F. C.] OUTWITTING THE HUN _My Escape from a German Prison Camp_ BY LIEUT. PAT O'BRIEN _Royal Flying Corps_ ILLUSTRATED [Illustration] HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON OUTWITTING THE HUN Copyright, 1918, by Lieutenant Pat O'Brien Printed in the United States of America Published March, 1918 TO THE NORTH STAR WHOSE GUIDING LIGHT MARKED THE PATHWAY TO FREEDOM FOR A WEARY FUGITIVE, THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED IN HUMBLE GRATITUDE AND ABIDING FAITH CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE PREFACE xi I. THE FOLLY OF DESPAIR 1 II. I BECOME A FIGHTING-SCOUT 7 III. CAPTURED BY THE HUNS 21 IV. CLIPPED WINGS 34 V. THE PRISON-CAMP AT COURTRAI 53 VI. A LEAP FOR LIBERTY 77 VII. CRAWLING THROUGH GERMANY 88 VIII. NINE DAYS IN LUXEMBOURG 97 IX. I ENTER BELGIUM 112 X. EXPERIENCES IN BELGIUM 132 XI. I ENCOUNTER GERMAN SOLDIERS 145 XII. THE FORGED PASSPORT 159 XIII. FIVE DAYS IN AN EMPTY HOUSE 186 XIV. A NIGHT OF DISSIPATION 207 XV. OBSERVATIONS IN A BELGIAN CITY 219 XVI. I APPROACH THE FRONTIER 225 XVII. GETTING THROUGH THE LINES 236 XVIII. EXPERIENCES IN HOLLAND 250 XIX. I AM PRESENTED TO THE KING 273 XX. HOME AGAIN! 281 [Transcriber's Note: Illustrations were interleaved between pages in the original text. In this version, they have been moved to be between paragraphs. Page numbers below reflect the position of the illustration in the original text.] ILLUSTRATIONS LIEUT. PAT O'BRIEN, R. F. C. _Frontispiece_ THE AEROPLANE WHICH LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN USED IN HIS LAST BATTLE WITH THE HUNS WHEN HE WAS BROUGHT DOWN AND MADE PRISONER _Facing p._ 30 THE IDENTIFICATION DISK WORN BY LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN WHEN HE WAS CAPTURED BY THE HUNS. IT REVEALED TO THEM THAT HE WAS AN AMERICAN " 36 LIEUT. PAUL H. RANEY OF TORONTO AND LIEUT. PAT O'BRIEN " 50 MAILING-CARD SENT BY GERMAN GOVERNMENT TO PAT O'BRIEN'S SISTER, MRS. CLARA CLEGG OF MOMENCE, ILLINOIS " 60 OBVERSE SIDE OF CARD SHOWN ABOVE " 60 A GROUP OF PRISONERS OF WAR IN THE PRISON-CAMP AT COURTRAI, BELGIUM " 70 THE FORGED PASSPORT PREPARED IN A BELGIAN CITY TO AID LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN'S ESCAPE INTO HOLLAND, BUT WHICH WAS NEVER USED " 164 COPY OF TELEGRAM INVITING LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN TO MEET KING GEORGE " 270 COPY OF TELEGRAM SENT BY LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN IN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO MEET KING GEORGE " 270 PREFACE There is a common idea that the age of miracles is past. Perhaps it is, but if so, the change must have come about within the past few weeks--after I escaped into Holland. For if anything is certain in this life it is this: this book never would have been written but for the succession of miracles set forth in these pages. Miracles, luck, coincidence, Providence--it doesn't matter much what you call it--certainly played an important part in the series of hairbreadth escapes in which I figured during my short but eventful appearance in the great drama now being enacted across the seas. Without it, all my efforts and sufferings would have been quite unavailing. No one realizes this better than I do and I want to repeat it right here because elsewhere in these pages I may appear occasionally to overlook or minimize it: without the help of Providence I would not be here to-day. But this same Providence which brought me home safely, despite all the dangers which beset me, may work similar miracles for others, and it is in the hope of encouraging other poor devils who may find themselves in situations as hopeless apparently as mine oftentimes were that this book is written. When this cruel war is over--which I trust may be sooner than I expect it to be--I hope I shall have an opportunity to revisit the scenes of my adventures and to thank in person in an adequate manner every one who extended a helping hand to me when I was a wretched fugitive. All of them took great risks in befriending an escaped prisoner, and they did it without the slightest hope of reward. At the same time I hope I shall have a chance to pay my compliments to those who endeavored to take advantage of my distress. In the meanwhile, however, I can only express my thanks in this ineffective manner, trusting that in some mysterious way a copy of this book may fall into the hands of every one who befriended me. I hope particularly that every good Hollander who played the part of the Good Samaritan to me so bountifully after my escape from Belgium will see these pages and feel that I am absolutely sincere when I say that words cannot begin to express my sense of gratitude to the Dutch people. It is needless for me to add how deeply I feel for my fellow-prisoners in Germany who were less fortunate than I. Poor, poor fellows!--they are the real victims of the war. I hope that every one of them may soon be restored to that freedom whose value I never fully realized until after I had had to fight so hard to regain it. PAT O'BRIEN. MOMENCE, ILLINOIS, _January 14, 1918_. OUTWITTING THE HUN I THE FOLLY OF DESPAIR Less than nine months ago eighteen officers of the Royal Flying Corps, which had been training in Canada, left for England on the _Megantic_. If any of them was over twenty-five years of age, he had successfully concealed the fact, because they don't accept older men for the R. F. C. Nine of the eighteen were British subjects; the other nine were Americans, who, tired of waiting for their own country to take her place with the Allies, had joined the British colors in Canada. I was one of the latter. We were going to England to earn our "wings"--a qualification which must be won before a member of the R. F. C. is allowed to hunt the Huns on the western front. That was in May, 1917. By August 1st most of us were full-fledged pilots, actively engaged at various parts of the line in daily conflict with the enemy. By December 15th every man Jack of us who had met the enemy in France, with one exception, had appeared on the casualty list. The exception was H. K. Boysen, an American, who at last report was fighting on the Italian front, still unscathed. Whether his good fortune has stood by him up to this time I don't know, but if it has I would be very much surprised. Of the others five were killed in action--three Americans, one Canadian, and one Englishman. Three more were in all probability killed in action, although officially they are listed merely as "missing." One of these was an American, one a Canadian, and the third a Scotchman. Three more, two of them Americans, were seriously wounded. Another, a Canadian, is a prisoner in Germany. I know nothing of the others. What happened to me is narrated in these pages. I wish, instead, I could tell the story of each of my brave comrades, for not one of them was downed, I am sure, without upholding the best traditions of the R. F. C. Unfortunately, however, of the eighteen who sailed on the _Megantic_ last May, I happened to be the first to fall into the hands of the Huns, and what befell my comrades after that, with one exception, I know only second hand. The exception was the case of poor, brave Paul Raney--my closest chum--whose last battle I witnessed from my German prison--but that is a story I shall tell in its proper place. In one way, however, I think the story of my own "big adventure" and my miraculous escape may, perhaps, serve a purpose as useful as that of the heroic fate of my less fortunate comrades. Their story, it is true, might inspire others to deeds of heroism, but mine, I hope, will convey the equally valuable lesson of the folly of despair. Many were the times in the course of my struggles when it seemed absolutely useless to continue. In a hostile country, where discovery meant death, wounded, sick, famished, friendless, hundreds of miles from the nearest neutral territory the frontier of which was so closely guarded that even if I got there it seemed too much to hope that I could ever get through, what was the use of enduring further agony? And yet here I am, in the Land of Liberty--although in a somewhat obscure corner, the little town of Momence, Illinois, where I was born--not very much the worse for wear after all I've been through, and, as I write these words, not eight months have passed since my seventeen comrades and I sailed from Canada on the _Megantic_! Can it be possible that I was spared to convey a message of hope to others who are destined for similar trials? I am afraid there will be many of them. Years ago I heard of the epitaph which is said to have been found on a child's grave: If I was so soon to be done for, O Lord, what was I ever begun for? The way it has come to me since I returned from Europe is: If, O Lord, I was _not_ to be done for, What were my sufferings e'er begun for? Perhaps the answer lies in the suggestion I have made. At any rate, if this record of my adventures should prove instrumental in sustaining others who need encouragement, I shall not feel that my sufferings were in vain. It is hardly likely that any one will quite duplicate my experiences, but I haven't the slightest doubt that many will have to go through trials equally nerve-racking and suffer disappointments just as disheartening. It would be very far from the mark to imagine that the optimism which I am preaching now so glibly sustained me through all my troubles. On the contrary, I am free to confess that I frequently gave way to despair and often, for hours at a time, felt so dejected and discouraged that I really didn't care what happened to me. Indeed, I rather hoped that something _would_ happen to put an end to my misery. But, despite all my despondency and hopelessness, the worst never happened, and I can't help thinking that my salvation must have been designed to show the way to others. II I BECOME A FIGHTING-SCOUT I started flying, in Chicago, in 1912. I was then eighteen years old, but I had had a hankering for the air ever since I can remember. As a youngster I followed the exploits of the Wrights with the greatest interest, although I must confess I sometimes hoped that they wouldn't really conquer the air until I had had a whack at it myself. I got more whacks than I was looking for later on. Needless to say, my parents were very much opposed to my risking my life at what was undoubtedly at that time one of the most hazardous "pastimes" a young fellow could select, and every time I had a smash-up or some other mishap I was ordered never to go near an aviation field again. So I went out to California. There another fellow and I built our own machine, which we flew in various parts of the state. In the early part of 1916, when trouble was brewing in Mexico, I joined the American Flying Corps. I was sent to San Diego, where the army flying school is located, and spent about eight months there, but as I was anxious to get into active service and there didn't seem much chance of America ever getting into the war, I resigned and, crossing over to Canada, joined the Royal Flying Corps at Victoria, B. C. I was sent to Camp Borden, Toronto, first to receive instruction and later to instruct. While a cadet I made the first loop ever made by a cadet in Canada, and after I had performed the stunt I half expected to be kicked out of the service for it. Apparently, however, they considered the source and let it go at that. Later on I had the satisfaction of introducing the loop as part of the regular course of instruction for cadets in the R. F. C., and I want to say right here that Camp Borden has turned out some of the best fliers that have ever gone to France. In May, 1917, I and seventeen other Canadian fliers left for England on the _Megantic_, where we were to qualify for service in France. Our squadron consisted of nine Americans, C. C. Robinson, H. A. Miller, F. S. McClurg, A. A. Allen, E. B. Garnett, H. K. Boysen, H. A. Smeeton, A. Taylor, and myself; and nine Britishers, Paul H. Raney, J. R. Park, C. Nelmes, C. R. Moore, T. L. Atkinson, F. C. Conry, A. Muir, E. A. L. F. Smith, and A. C. Jones. Within a few weeks after our arrival in England all of us had won our "wings"--the insignia worn on the left breast by every pilot on the western front. We were all sent to a place in France known as the Pool Pilots' Mess. Here men gather from all the training squadrons in Canada and England and await assignments to the particular squadron of which they are to become members. The Pool Pilots' Mess is situated a few miles back of the lines. Whenever a pilot is shot down or killed the Pool Pilots' Mess is notified to send another to take his place. There are so many casualties every day in the R. F. C. at one point of the front or another that the demand for new pilots is quite active, but when a fellow is itching to get into the fight as badly as I and my friends were I must confess that we got a little impatient, although we realized that every time a new man was called it meant that some one else had, in all probability, been killed, wounded, or captured. One morning an order came in for a scout pilot, and one of my friends was assigned. I can tell you the rest of us were as envious of him as if it were the last chance any of us were ever going to have to get to the front. As it was, however, hardly more than three hours had elapsed before another wire was received at the Mess and I was ordered to follow my friend. I afterward learned that as soon as he arrived at the squadron he had prevailed upon the commanding officer of the squadron to wire for me. At the Pool Pilots' Mess it was the custom of the officers to wear "shorts"--breeches that are about eight inches long, like the Boy Scouts wear, leaving a space of about eight inches of open country between the top of the puttees and the end of the "shorts." The Australians wore them in Salonica and at the Dardanelles. When the order came in for me, I had these "shorts" on, and I didn't have time to change into other clothes. Indeed, I was in such a sweat to get to the front that if I had been in my pajamas I think I would have gone that way. As it was, it was raining and I threw an overcoat over me, jumped into the machine, and we made record time to the aerodrome to which I had been ordered to report. As I alighted from the automobile my overcoat blew open and displayed my manly form attired in "shorts" instead of in the regulation flying breeches, and the sight aroused considerable commotion in camp. "Must be a Yankee!" I overheard one officer say to another as I approached. "No one but a Yank would have the cheek to show up that way, you know!" But they laughed good-naturedly as I came up to them and welcomed me to the squadron, and I was soon very much at home. My squadron was one of four stationed at an aerodrome about eighteen miles back of the Ypres line. There were eighteen pilots in our squadron, which was a scout-squadron, scout-machines carrying but one man. A scout, sometimes called a fighting-scout, has no bomb-dropping or reconnoitering to do. His duty is just to fight, or, as the order was given to me, "You are expected to pick fights and not wait until they come to you!" When bomb-droppers go out over the lines in the daytime, a scout-squadron usually convoys them. The bomb-droppers fly at about twelve thousand feet, the scouts a thousand feet or so above them to protect them. If at any time they should be attacked, it is the duty of the scouts to dive down and carry on the fight, the orders of the bomb-droppers being to go on dropping bombs and not to fight unless they have to. There is seldom a time that machines go out over the lines on this work in the daytime that they are not attacked at some time or other, and so the scouts usually have plenty of work to do. In addition to these attacks, however, the squadron is invariably under constant bombardment from the ground, but that doesn't worry us very much, as we know pretty well how to avoid being hit from that quarter. On my first flight, after joining the squadron, I was taken out over the lines to get a look at things, map out my location in case I was ever lost, locate the forests, lakes, and other landmarks, and get the general lay of the land. One thing that was impressed upon me very emphatically was the location of the hospitals, so that in case I was ever wounded and had the strength to pick my landing I could land as near as possible to a hospital. All these things a new pilot goes through during the first two or three days after joining a squadron. Our regular routine was two flights a day, each of two hours' duration. After doing our regular patrol, it was our privilege to go off on our own hook, if we wished, before going back to the squadron. I soon found out that my squadron was some hot squadron, our fliers being almost always assigned to special-duty work, such as shooting up trenches at a height of fifty feet from the ground! I received my baptism into this kind of work the third time I went out over the lines, and I would recommend it to any one who is hankering for excitement. You are not only apt to be attacked by hostile aircraft from above, but you are swept by machine-gun fire from below. I have seen some of our machines come back from this work sometimes so riddled with bullets that I wondered how they ever held together. Before we started out on one of these jobs we were mighty careful to see that our motors were in perfect condition, because they told us the "war-bread was bad in Germany." One morning, shortly after I joined the squadron, three of us started over the line on our own accord. We soon observed four enemy machines, two-seaters, coming toward us. This type of machine is used by the Huns for artillery work and bomb-dropping, and we knew they were on mischief bent. Each machine had a machine-gun in front, worked by the pilot, and the observer also had a gun with which he could spray all around. When we first noticed the Huns our machines were about six miles back of the German lines and we were lying high up in the sky, keeping the sun behind us, so that the enemy could not see us. We picked out three of the machines and dove down on them. I went right by the man I picked for myself and his observer in the rear seat kept pumping at me to beat the band. Not one of my shots took effect as I went right under him, but I turned and gave him another burst of bullets and down he went in a spinning nose dive, one of his wings going one way and one another. As I saw him crash to the ground I knew that I had got my first hostile aircraft. One of my comrades was equally successful, but the other two German machines got away. We chased them back until things got too hot for us by reason of the appearance of other German machines, and then we called it a day. This experience whetted my appetite for more of the same kind, and I did not have long to wait. It may be well to explain here just what a spinning nose dive is. A few years ago the spinning nose dive was considered one of the most dangerous things a pilot could attempt, and many men were killed getting into this spin and not knowing how to come out of it. In fact, lots of pilots thought that when once you got into a spinning nose dive there was no way of coming out of it. It is now used, however, in actual flying. The machines that are used in France are controlled in two ways, both by hands and by feet, the feet working the yoke or rudder bar which controls the rudder that steers the machine. The lateral controls and fore and aft, which cause the machine to rise or lower, are controlled by a contrivance called a "joy-stick." If, when flying in the air, a pilot should release his hold on this stick, it will gradually come back toward the pilot. In that position the machine will begin to climb. So if a pilot is shot and loses control of this "joy-stick" his machine begins to ascend, and climbs until the angle formed becomes too great for it to continue or the motor to pull the plane; for a fraction of a second it stops, and the motor then being the heaviest, it causes the nose of the machine to fall forward, pitching down at a terrific rate of speed and spinning at the same time. If the motor is still running, it naturally increases the speed much more than it would if the motor were shut off, and there is great danger that the wings will double up, causing the machine to break apart. Although spins are made with the motor on, you are dropping like a ball being dropped out of the sky and the velocity increases with the power of the motor. This spinning nose dive has been frequently used in "stunt" flying in recent years, but is now put to practical use by pilots in getting away from hostile machines, for when a man is spinning, it is almost impossible to hit him, and the man making the attack invariably thinks his enemy is going down to certain death in the spin. This is all right when a man is over his own territory, because he can right his machine and come out of it; but if it happens over German territory, the Huns would only follow him down, and when he came out of the spin they would be above him, having all the advantage, and would shoot him down with ease. It is a good way of getting down into a cloud, and is used very often by both sides, but it requires skill and courage by the pilot making it if he ever expects to come out alive. A spin being made by a pilot intentionally looks exactly like a spin that is made by a machine actually being shot down, so one never knows whether it is forced or intentional until the pilot either rights his machine and comes out of it or crashes to the ground. Another dive similar to this one is known as just the plain "dive." Assume, for instance, that a pilot flying at a height of several thousand feet is shot, loses control of his machine, and the nose of the plane starts down with the motor full on. He is going at a tremendous speed and in many instances is going so straight and swiftly that the speed is too great for the machine, because it was never constructed to withstand the enormous pressure forced against the wings, and they consequently crumple up. If, too, in an effort to straighten the machine, the elevators should become affected, as often happens in trying to bring a machine out of a dive, the strain is again too great on the wings, and there is the same disastrous result. Oftentimes, when the petrol-tank is punctured by a tracer-bullet from another machine in the air, the plane that is hit catches on fire and either gets into a spin or a straight dive and heads for the earth, hundreds of miles an hour, a mass of flame, looking like a brilliant comet in the sky. The spinning nose dive is used to greater advantage by the Germans than by our own pilots, for the reason that when a fight gets too hot for the German he will put his machine in a spin, and as the chances are nine out of ten that we are fighting over German territory, he simply spins down out of our range, straightens out before he reaches the ground, and goes on home to his aerodrome. It is useless to follow him down inside the German lines, for you would in all probability be shot down before you could attain sufficient altitude to cross the line again. It often happens that a pilot will be chasing another machine when suddenly he sees it start to spin. Perhaps they are fifteen or eighteen thousand feet in the air, and the hostile machine spins down for thousands of feet. He thinks he has hit the other machine and goes home happy that he has brought down another Hun. He reports the occurrence to the squadron, telling how he shot down his enemy; but when the rest of the squadron come in with their report, or some artillery observation balloon sends in a report, it develops that when a few hundred feet from the ground the supposed dead man in the spin has come out of the spin and gone merrily on his way for his own aerodrome. III CAPTURED BY THE HUNS I shall not easily forget the 17th of August, 1917. I killed two Huns in a double-seated machine in the morning, another in the evening, and then I was captured myself. I may have spent more eventful days in my life, but I can't recall any just now. That morning, in crossing the line on early morning patrol, I noticed two German balloons. I decided that as soon as my patrol was over I would go off on my own hook and see what a German balloon looked like at close quarters. These observation balloons are used by both sides in conjunction with the artillery. A man sits up in the balloon with a wireless apparatus and directs the firing of the guns. From his point of vantage he can follow the work of his own artillery with a remarkable degree of accuracy and at the same time he can observe the enemy's movements and report them. The Germans are very good at this work and they use a great number of these balloons. It was considered a very important part of our work to keep them out of the sky. There are two ways of going after a balloon in a machine. One of them is to cross the lines at a low altitude, flying so near the ground that the man with the anti-aircraft gun can't bother you. You fly along until you get to the level of the balloon, and if, in the mean time, they have not drawn the balloon down, you open fire on it and the bullets you use will set it on fire if they land. The other way is to fly over where you know the balloons to be, put your machine in a spin so that they can't hit you, get above them, spin over the balloon, and then open fire. In going back over the line you cross at a few hundred feet. This is one of the hardest jobs in the service. There is less danger in attacking an enemy's aircraft. Nevertheless, I had made up my mind either to get those balloons or make them descend, and I only hoped that they would stay on the job until I had a chance at them. When our two hours' duty was up, therefore, I dropped out of the formation as we crossed the lines and turned back again. I was at a height of fifteen thousand feet, considerably higher than the balloons. Shutting my motor off, I dropped down through the clouds, thinking to find the balloons at about five or six miles behind the German lines. Just as I came out of the cloud-banks I saw below me, about a thousand feet, a two-seater hostile machine doing artillery observation and directing the German guns. This was at a point about four miles behind the German lines. Evidently the German artillery saw me and put out ground signals to attract the Hun machine's attention, for I saw the observer quit his work and grab his gun, while the pilot stuck the nose of his machine straight down. But they were too late to escape me. I was diving toward them at a speed of probably two hundred miles an hour, shooting all the time as fast as possible. Their only chance lay in the possibility that the force of my dive might break my wings. I knew my danger in that direction, but as soon as I came out of my dive the Huns would have their chance to get me, and I knew I had to get them first and take a chance on my wings holding out. Fortunately, some of my first bullets found their mark and I was able to come out of my dive at about four thousand feet. They never came out of theirs! But right then came the hottest situation in the air I had experienced up to that time. The depth of my dive had brought me within reach of the machine-guns from the ground and they also put a "barrage" around me of shrapnel from anti-aircraft guns, and I had an opportunity to "ride the barrage," as they call it in the R. F. C. To make the situation more interesting, they began shooting "flaming onions" at me. "Flaming onions" are rockets shot from a rocket-gun. They are used to hit a machine when it is flying low and they are effective up to about five thousand feet. Sometimes they are shot up one after another in strings of about eight, and they are one of the hardest things to go through. If they hit the machine it is bound to catch fire and then the jig is up. All the time, too, I was being attacked by "Archie"--the anti-aircraft fire. I escaped the machine-guns and the "flaming onions," but "Archie" got me four or five times. Every time a bullet plugged me, or rather my machine, it made a loud bang, on account of the tension on the material covering the wings. None of their shots hurt me until I was about a mile from our lines, and then they hit my motor. Fortunately I still had altitude enough to drift on to our own side of the lines, for my motor was completely out of commission. They just raised the dickens with me all the time I was descending, and I began to think I would strike the ground before crossing the line, but there was a slight wind in my favor and it carried me two miles behind our lines. There the balloons I had gone out to get had the satisfaction of "pin-pointing" me. Through the directions which they were able to give to their artillery, they commenced shelling my machine where it lay. Their particular work is to direct the fire of their artillery, and they are used just as the artillery observation airplanes are. Usually two men are stationed in each balloon. They ascend to a height of several thousand feet about five miles behind their own lines and are equipped with wireless and signaling apparatus. They watch the burst of their own artillery, check up the position, get the range, and direct the next shot. When conditions are favorable they are able to direct the shots so accurately that it is a simple matter to destroy the object of their attack. It was such a balloon as this that got my position, marked me out, called for an artillery shot, and they commenced shelling my machine where it lay. If I had got the two balloons instead of the airplane, I probably would not have lost my machine, for he would in all probability have gone on home and not bothered about getting my range and causing the destruction of my machine. I landed in a part of the country that was literally covered with shell-holes. Fortunately my machine was not badly damaged by the forced landing. I leisurely got out, walked around it to see what the damage was, and concluded that it could be easily repaired. In fact, I thought, if I could find a space long enough between shell-holes to get a start before leaving the ground, that I would be able to fly on from there. I was still examining my plane and considering the matter of a few slight repairs, without any particular thought for my own safety in that unprotected spot, when a shell came whizzing through the air, knocked me to the ground, and landed a few feet away. It had no sooner struck than I made a run for cover and crawled into a shell-hole. I would have liked to have got farther away, but I didn't know where the next shell would burst, and I thought I was fairly safe there, so I squatted down and let them blaze away. The only damage I suffered was from the mud which splattered up in my face and over my clothes. That was my introduction to a shell-hole, and I resolved right there that the infantry could have all the shell-hole fighting they wanted, but it did not appeal to me, though they live in them through many a long night and I had only sought shelter there for a few minutes. After the Germans had completely demolished my machine and ceased firing I waited there a short time, fearing perhaps they might send over a lucky shot, hoping to get me, after all. But evidently they concluded enough shells had been wasted on one man. I crawled out cautiously, shook the mud off, and looked over in the direction where my machine had once been. There wasn't enough left for a decent souvenir, but nevertheless I got a few, such as they were, and, readily observing that nothing could be done with what was left, I made my way back to infantry headquarters, where I was able to telephone in a report. A little later one of our automobiles came out after me and took me back to our aerodrome. Most of my squadron thought I was lost beyond a doubt and never expected to see me again; but my friend, Paul Raney, had held out that I was all right, and, as I was afterward told, "Don't send for another pilot; that Irishman will be back if he has to walk." And he knew that the only thing that kept me from walking was the fact that our own automobile had been sent out to bring me home. I had lots to think about that day, and I had learned many things; one was not to have too much confidence in my own ability. One of the men in the squadron told me that I had better not take those chances; that it was going to be a long war and I would have plenty of opportunities to be killed without deliberately "wishing them on" myself. Later I was to learn the truth of his statement. That night my "flight"--each squadron is divided into three flights consisting of six men each--got ready to go out again. As I started to put on my tunic I noticed that I was not marked up for duty as usual. I asked the commanding officer, a major, what the reason for that was, and he replied that he thought I had done enough for one day. However, I knew that if I did not go, some one else from another "flight" would have to take my place, and I insisted upon going up with my patrol as usual, and the major reluctantly consented. Had he known what was in store for me I am sure he wouldn't have changed his mind so readily. As it was, we had only five machines for this patrol, anyway, because as we crossed the lines one of them had to drop out on account of motor trouble. Our patrol was up at 8 P.M., and up to within ten minutes of that hour it had been entirely uneventful. At 7.50 P.M., however, while we were flying at a height of sixteen thousand feet, we observed three other English machines which were about three thousand feet below us pick a fight with nine Hun machines. I knew right then that we were in for it, because I could see over toward the ocean a whole flock of Hun machines which evidently had escaped the attention of our scrappy comrades below us. So we dove down on those nine Huns. At first the fight was fairly even. There were eight of us to nine of them. But soon the other machines which I had seen in the distance, and which were flying even higher than we were, arrived on the scene, and when they, in turn, dove down on us, there was just twenty of them to our eight! [Illustration: THE AEROPLANE WHICH LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN USED IN HIS LAST BATTLE WITH THE HUNS WHEN HE WAS BROUGHT DOWN AND MADE PRISONER] Four of them singled me out. I was diving and they dove right down after me, shooting as they came. Their tracer-bullets were coming closer to me every moment. These tracer-bullets are balls of fire which enable the shooter to follow the course his bullets are taking and to correct his aim accordingly. They do no more harm to a pilot if he is hit than an ordinary bullet, but if they hit the petrol-tank, good night! When a machine catches fire in flight there is no way of putting it out. It takes less than a minute for the fabric to burn off the wings, and then the machine drops like an arrow, leaving a trail of smoke like a comet. As their tracer-bullets came closer and closer to me I realized that my chances of escape were nil. Their very next shot, I felt, must hit me. Once, some days before, when I was flying over the line I had watched a fight above me. A German machine was set on fire and dove down through our formation in flame on its way to the ground. The Hun was diving at such a sharp angle that both his wings came off, and as he passed within a few hundred feet of me I saw the look of horror upon his face. Now, when I expected any moment to suffer a similar fate, I could not help thinking of that poor Hun's last look of agony. I realized that my only chance lay in making an Immermann turn. This maneuver was invented by a German--one of the greatest who ever flew and who was killed in action some time ago. This turn, which I made successfully, brought one of their machines right in front of me, and as he sailed along barely ten yards away I had "the drop" on him, and he knew it. His white face and startled eyes I can still see. He knew beyond question that his last moment had come, because his position prevented his taking aim at me, while my gun pointed straight at him. My first tracer-bullet passed within a yard of his head, the second looked as if it hit his shoulder, the third struck him in the neck, and then I let him have the whole works and he went down in a spinning nose dive. All this time the three other Hun machines were shooting away at me. I could hear the bullets striking my machine one after another. I hadn't the slightest idea that I could ever beat off those three Huns, but there was nothing for me to do but fight, and my hands were full. In fighting, your machine is dropping, dropping all the time. I glanced at my instruments and my altitude was between eight and nine thousand feet. While I was still looking at the instruments the whole blamed works disappeared. A burst of bullets went into the instrument board and blew it to smithereens, another bullet went through my upper lip, came out of the roof of my mouth and lodged in my throat, and the next thing I knew was when I came to in a German hospital the following morning at five o'clock, German time. I was a prisoner of war! IV CLIPPED WINGS The hospital in which I found myself on the morning after my capture was a private house made of brick, very low and dirty, and not at all adapted for use as a hospital. It had evidently been used but a few days, on account of the big push that was taking place at that time of the year, and in all probability would be abandoned as soon as they had found a better place. In all, the house contained four rooms and a stable, which was by far the largest of all. Although I never looked into this "wing" of the hospital, I was told that it, too, was filled with patients, lying on beds of straw around on the ground. I do not know whether they, too, were officers or privates. The room in which I found myself contained eight beds, three of which were occupied by wounded German officers. The other rooms, I imagined, had about the same number of beds as mine. There were no Red Cross nurses in attendance, just orderlies, for this was only an emergency hospital and too near the firing-line for nurses. The orderlies were not old men nor very young boys, as I expected to find, but young men in the prime of life, who evidently had been medical students. One or two of them, I discovered, were able to speak English, but for some reason they would not talk. Perhaps they were forbidden by the officer in charge to do so. In addition to the bullet wound in my mouth, I had a swelling from my forehead to the back of my head almost as big as my shoe--and that is saying considerable. I couldn't move an inch without suffering intense pain, and when the doctor told me that I had no bones broken I wondered how a fellow would feel who had. German officers visited me that morning and told me that my machine went down in a spinning nose dive from a height of between eight and nine thousand feet, and they had the surprise of their lives when they discovered that I had not been dashed to pieces. They had to cut me out of my machine, which was riddled with shots and shattered to bits. A German doctor removed the bullet from my throat, and the first thing he said to me when I came to was, "You are an American!" There was no use denying it, because the metal identification disk on my wrist bore the inscription, "Pat O'Brien, U. S. A. Royal Flying Corps." Although I was suffering intense agony, the doctor, who spoke perfect English, insisted upon conversing with me. "You may be all right as a sportsman," he declared, "but you are a damned murderer just the same for being here. You Americans who got into this thing before America came into the war are no better than common murderers and you ought to be treated the same way!" The wound in my mouth made it impossible for me to answer him, and I was suffering too much pain to be hurt very much by anything he could say. [Illustration: THE IDENTIFICATION DISK WORN BY LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN WHEN HE WAS CAPTURED BY THE HUNS. IT REVEALED TO THEM THAT HE WAS AN AMERICAN] He asked me if I would like an apple! I could just as easily have eaten a brick. When he got no answers out of me he walked away disgustedly. "You don't have to worry any more," he declared, as a parting shot; "for you the war is over!" I was given a little broth later in the day, and as I began to collect my thoughts I wondered what had happened to my comrades in the battle which had resulted so disastrously to me. As I began to realize my plight I worried less about my physical condition than the fact that, as the doctor had pointed out, for me the war was practically over. I had been in it but a short time, and now I would be a prisoner for the duration of the war! The next day some German flying officers visited me, and I must say they treated me with great consideration. They told me of the man I had brought down. They said he was a Bavarian and a fairly good pilot. They gave me his hat as a souvenir and complimented me on the fight I had put up. My helmet, which was of soft leather, was split from front to back by a bullet from a machine-gun and they examined it with great interest. When they brought me my uniform I found that the star of my rank which had been on my right shoulder-strap had been shot off clean. The one on my left shoulder-strap they asked me for as a souvenir, as also my R. F. C. badges, which I gave them. They allowed me to keep my "wings," which I wore on my left breast, because they were aware that that is the proudest possession of a British flying officer. I think I am right in saying that the only chivalry in this war on the German side of the trenches has been displayed by the officers of the German Flying Corps, which comprises the pick of Germany. They pointed out to me that I and my comrades were fighting purely for the love of it, whereas they were fighting in defense of their country, but still, they said, they admired us for our sportsmanship. I had a notion to ask them if dropping bombs on London and killing so many innocent people was in defense of their country, but I was in no position or condition to pick a quarrel at that time. That same day a German officer was brought into the hospital and put in the bunk next to mine. Of course, I casually looked at him, but did not pay any particular attention to him at that time. He lay there for three or four hours before I did take a real good look at him. I was positive that he could not speak English, and naturally I did not say anything to him. Once when I looked over in his direction his eyes were on me and to my surprise he said, very sarcastically, "What the hell are you looking at?" and then smiled. At this time I was just beginning to say a few words, my wound having made talking difficult, but I said enough to let him know what I was doing there and how I happened to be there. Evidently he had heard my story from some of the others, though, because he said it was too bad I had not broken my neck; that he did not have much sympathy with the Flying Corps, anyway. He asked me what part of America I came from, and I told him "California." After a few more questions he learned that I hailed from San Francisco, and then added to my distress by saying, "How would you like to have a good juicy steak right out of the Hofbräu?" Naturally, I told him it would "hit the spot," but I hardly thought my mouth was in shape just then to eat it. I immediately asked, of course, what he knew about the Hofbräu, and he replied, "I was connected with the place a good many years, and I ought to know all about it." After that this German officer and I became rather chummy--that is, as far as I could be chummy with an enemy, and we whiled away a good many long hours talking about the days we had spent in San Francisco, and frequently in the conversation one of us would mention some prominent Californian, or some little incident occurring there, with which we were both familiar. He told me when war was declared he was, of course, intensely patriotic and thought the only thing for him to do was to go back and aid in the defense of his country. He found that he could not go directly from San Francisco because the water was too well guarded by the English, so he boarded a boat for South America. There he obtained a forged passport and in the guise of a Montevidean took passage for New York and from there to England. He passed through England without any difficulty on his forged passport, but concluded not to risk going to Holland, for fear of exciting too much suspicion, so went down through the Strait of Gibraltar to Italy, which was neutral at that time, up to Austria, and thence to Germany. He said when they put in at Gibraltar, after leaving England, there were two suspects taken off the ship, men that he was sure were neutral subjects, but much to his relief his own passport and credentials were examined and passed O. K. The Hun spoke of his voyage from America to England as being exceptionally pleasant, and said he had had a fine time because he associated with the English passengers on board, his fluent English readily admitting him to several spirited arguments on the subject of the war which he keenly enjoyed. One little incident he related revealed the remarkable tact which our enemy displayed in his associations at sea, which no doubt resulted advantageously for him. As he expressed it, he "made a hit" one evening when the crowd had assembled for a little music by suggesting that they sing "God Save the King." Thereafter his popularity was assured and the desired effect accomplished, for very soon a French officer came up to him and said, "It's too bad that England and ourselves haven't men in our army like you." It was too bad, he agreed, in telling me about it, because he was confident he could have done a whole lot more for Germany if he had been in the English army. In spite of his apparent loyalty, however, the man didn't seem very enthusiastic over the war and frankly admitted one day that the old political battles waged in California were much more to his liking than the battles he had gone through over here. On second thought he laughed as though it were a good joke, but he evidently intended me to infer that he had taken a keen interest in politics in San Francisco. When my "chummy enemy" first started his conversation with me the German doctor in charge reprimanded him for talking to me, but he paid no attention to the doctor, showing that some real Americanism had soaked into his system while he had been in the U. S. A. I asked him one day what he thought the German people would do after the war; if he thought they would make Germany a republic, and, much to my surprise, he said, very bitterly, "If I had my way about it, I would make her a republic to-day and hang the damned Kaiser in the bargain." And yet he was considered an excellent soldier. I concluded, however, that he must have been a German Socialist, though he never told me so. On one occasion I asked him for his name, but he said that I would probably never see him again and it didn't matter what his name was. I did not know whether he meant that the Germans would starve me out or just what was on his mind, for at that time I am sure he did not figure on dying. The first two or three days I was in the hospital I thought surely he would be up and gone long before I was, but blood poisoning set in about that time and just a few hours before I left for Courtrai he died. One of those days, while my wound was still very troublesome, I was given an apple; whether it was just to torment me, knowing that I could not eat it, or whether for some other reason, I do not know. But, anyway, a German flying officer there had several in his pockets and gave me a nice one. Of course, there was no chance of my eating it, so when the officer had gone and I discovered this San Francisco fellow looking at it rather longingly I picked it up, intending to toss it over to him. But he shook his head and said, "If this was San Francisco, I would take it, but I cannot take it from you here." I was never able to understand just why he refused the apple, for he was usually sociable and a good fellow to talk to, but apparently he could not forget that I was his enemy. However, that did not stop one of the orderlies from eating the apple. One practice about the hospital which impressed me particularly was that if a German soldier did not stand much chance of recovering sufficiently to take his place again in the war, the doctors did not exert themselves to see that he got well. But if a man had a fairly good chance of recovering and they thought he might be of some further use, everything that medical skill could possibly do was done for him. I don't know whether this was done under orders or whether the doctors just followed their own inclinations in such cases. My teeth had been badly jarred up from the shot, and I hoped that I might have a chance to have them fixed when I reached Courtrai, the prison where I was to be taken. So I asked the doctor if it would be possible for me to have this work done there, but he very curtly told me that though there were several dentists at Courtrai, they were busy enough fixing the teeth of their own men without bothering about mine. He also added that I would not have to worry about my teeth; that I wouldn't be getting so much food that they would be put out of commission by working overtime. I wanted to tell him that from the way things looked he would not be wearing his out very soon, either. My condition improved during the next two days and on the fourth day of my captivity I was well enough to write a brief message to my squadron reporting that I was a prisoner of war and "feeling fine," although, as a matter of fact, I was never so depressed in my life. I realized, however, that if the message reached my comrades, it would be relayed to my mother in Momence, Illinois, and I did not want to worry her more than was absolutely necessary. It was enough for her to know that I was a prisoner. She did not have to know that I was wounded. I had hopes that my message would be carried over the lines and dropped by one of the German flying officers. That is a courtesy which is usually practised on both sides. I recalled how patiently we had waited in our aerodrome for news of our men who had failed to return, and I could picture my squadron speculating on my fate. That is one of the saddest things connected with service in the R. F. C. You don't care much what happens to you, but the constant casualties among your friends is very depressing. You go out with your "flight" and get into a muss. You get scattered and when your formation is broken up you finally wing your way home alone. Perhaps you are the first to land. Soon another machine shows in the sky, then another, and you patiently wait for the rest to appear. Within an hour, perhaps, all have shown up save one, and you begin to speculate and wonder what has happened to him. Has he lost his way? Has he landed at some other aerodrome? Did the Huns get him? When darkness comes you realize that, at any rate, he won't be back that night, and you hope for a telephone-call from him telling of his whereabouts. If the night passes without sign or word from him he is reported as missing, and then you watch for his casualty to appear in the war-office lists. One day, perhaps a month later, a message is dropped over the line by the German Flying Corps with a list of pilots captured or killed by the Huns, and then, for the first time, you know definitely why it was your comrade failed to return the day he last went over the line with his squadron. I was still musing over this melancholy phase of the scout's life when an orderly told me there was a beautiful battle going on in the air, and he volunteered to help me outside the hospital that I might witness it, and I readily accepted his assistance. That afternoon I saw one of the gamest fights I ever expect to witness. There were six of our machines against perhaps sixteen Huns. From the type of the British machines I knew that they might possibly be from my own aerodrome. Two of our machines had been apparently picked out by six of the Huns and were bearing the brunt of the fight. The contest seemed to me to be so unequal that victory for our men was hardly to be thought of, and yet at one time they so completely outmaneuvered the Huns that I thought their superior skill might save the day for them, despite the fact that they were so hopelessly outnumbered. One thing I was sure of: they would never give in. Of course it would have been a comparatively simple matter for our men, when they saw how things were going against them, to have turned their noses down, landed behind the German lines, and given themselves up as prisoners, but that is not the way of the R. F. C. A battle of this kind seldom lasts many minutes, although every second seems like an hour to those who participate in it and even onlookers suffer more thrills in the course of the struggle than they would ordinarily experience in a lifetime. It is apparent even to a novice that the loser's fate is death. Of course the Germans around the hospital were all watching and rooting for their comrades, but the English, too, had one sympathizer in that group who made no effort to stifle his admiration for the bravery his comrades were displaying. The end came suddenly. Four machines crashed to earth almost simultaneously. It was an even break--two of theirs and two of ours. The others apparently returned to their respective lines. The wound in my mouth was bothering me considerably, but by means of a pencil and paper I requested one of the German officers to find out for me who the English officers were who had been shot down. A little later he returned and handed me a photograph taken from the body of one of the victims. It was a picture of Paul Raney, of Toronto, and myself, taken together! Poor Raney! He was the best friend I had and one of the best and gamest men who ever fought in France! It was he, I learned long after, who, when I was reported missing, had checked over all my belongings and sent them back to England with a signed memorandum--which is now in my possession. Poor fellow, he little realized then that but a day or two later he would be engaged in his last heroic battle, with me a helpless onlooker! The same German officer who brought me the photograph also drew a map for me of the exact spot where Raney was buried in Flanders. I guarded it carefully all through my subsequent adventures and finally turned it over to his father and mother when I visited them in Toronto to perform the hardest and saddest duty I have ever been called upon to execute--to confirm to them in person the tidings of poor Paul's death. The other British pilot who fell was also from my squadron and a man I knew well--Lieutenant Keith, of Australia. I had given him a picture of myself only a few hours before I started on my own disastrous flight. He was one of the star pilots of our squadron and had been in many a desperate battle before, but this time the odds were too great for him. He put up a wonderful fight and he gave as much as he took. [Illustration: LIEUT. PAUL H. RANEY OF TORONTO AND LIEUT. PAT O'BRIEN (Raney was killed in action before the eyes of O'Brien, who was a prisoner of war. This picture, found on the body of Raney when he fell behind the German lines, was handed to O'Brien to identify the victim.)] The next two days passed without incident and I was then taken to the Intelligence Department of the German Flying Corps, which was located about an hour from the hospital. There I was kept two days, during which time they put a thousand and one questions to me. While I was there I turned over to them the message I had written in the hospital and asked them to have one of their fliers drop it on our side of the line. They asked me where I would like it dropped, thinking perhaps I would give my aerodrome away, but when I smiled and shook my head they did not insist upon an answer. "I'll drop it over ----," declared one of them, naming my aerodrome, which revealed to me that their flying corps is as efficient as other branches of the service in the matter of obtaining valuable information. And right here I want to say that the more I came to know of the enemy the more keenly I realized what a difficult task we're going to have to lick him. In all my subsequent experience the fact that there is a heap of fight left in the Huns still was thoroughly brought home to me. We shall win the war eventually, if we don't slow up too soon in the mistaken idea that the Huns are ready to lie down. The flying officers who questioned me were extremely anxious to find out all they could about the part America is going to play in the war, but they evidently came to the conclusion that America hadn't taken me very deeply into her confidence, judging from the information they got, or failed to get, from me. At any rate, they gave me up as a bad job and I was ordered to the officers' prison at Courtrai, Belgium. V THE PRISON-CAMP AT COURTRAI From the Intelligence Department I was conveyed to the officers' prison-camp at Courtrai in an automobile. It was about an hour's ride. My escort was one of the most famous flyers in the world, barring none. He was later killed in action, but I was told by an English airman who witnessed his last combat that he fought a game battle and died a hero's death. The prison, which had evidently been a civil prison of some kind before the war, was located right in the heart of Courtrai. The first building we approached was large, and in front of the archway, which formed the main entrance, was a sentry box. Here we were challenged by the sentry, who knocked on the door; the guard turned the key in the lock and I was admitted. We passed through the archway and directly into a courtyard, on which faced all of the prison buildings, the windows, of course, being heavily barred. After I had given my pedigree--my name, age, address, etc.--I was shown to a cell with bars on the windows overlooking this courtyard. I was promptly told that at night we were to occupy these rooms, but I had already surveyed the surroundings, taken account of the number of guards and the locked door outside, and concluded that my chances of getting away from some other place could be no worse than in that particular cell. As I had no hat, my helmet being the only thing I wore over the lines, I was compelled either to go bareheaded or wear the red cap of the Bavarian whom I had shot down on that memorable day. It can be imagined how I looked attired in a British uniform and a bright red cap. Wherever I was taken, my outfit aroused considerable curiosity among the Belgians and German soldiers. When I arrived at prison that day I still wore this cap, and as I was taken into the courtyard, my overcoat covering my uniform, all that the British officers who happened to be sunning themselves in the courtyard could see was the red cap. They afterward told me they wondered who the "big Hun" was with the bandage on his mouth. This cap I managed to keep with me, but was never allowed to wear it on the walks we took. I either went bareheaded or borrowed a cap from some other prisoner. At certain hours each day the prisoners were allowed to mingle in the courtyard, and on the first occasion of this kind I found that there were eleven officers imprisoned there besides myself. They had here interpreters who could speak all languages. One of them was a mere boy who had been born in Jersey City, New Jersey, and had spent all his life in America until the beginning of 1914. Then he moved with his folks to Germany, and when he became of military age the Huns forced him into the army. I think if the truth were known he would much rather have been fighting for America than against her. I found that most of the prisoners remained at Courtrai only two or three days. From there they were invariably taken to prisons in the interior of Germany. Whether it was because I was an American or because I was a flier, I don't know, but this rule was not followed in my case. I remained there two weeks. During that period, Courtrai was constantly bombed by our airmen. Not a single day or night passed without one or more air raids. In the two weeks I was there I counted twenty-one of them. The town suffered a great deal of damage. Evidently our people were aware that the Germans had a lot of troops concentrated in this town, and, besides, the headquarters staff was stationed there. The Kaiser himself visited Courtrai while I was in the prison, I was told by one of the interpreters, but he didn't call on me and, for obvious reasons, I couldn't call on him. The courtyard was not a very popular place during air raids. Several times when our airmen raided that section in the daytime I went out and watched the machines and the shrapnel bursting all around; but the Germans did not crowd out there, for their own anti-aircraft guns were hammering away to keep our planes as high in the sky as possible, and shells were likely to fall in the prison yard any moment. Of course, I watched these battles at my own risk. Many nights from my prison window I watched with peculiar interest the air raids carried on, and it was a wonderful sight with the German searchlights playing on the sky, the "flaming onions" fired high and the burst of the anti-aircraft guns, but rather an uncomfortable sensation when I realized that perhaps the very next minute a bomb might be dropped on the building in which I was a prisoner. But perhaps all of this was better than no excitement at all, for prison life soon became very monotonous. One of the hardest things I had to endure throughout the two weeks I spent there was the sight of the Hun machines flying over Courtrai, knowing that perhaps I never would have another chance to fly, and I used to sit by the hour watching the German machines maneuvering over the prison, as they had an aerodrome not far away, and every afternoon the students--I took them for students because their flying was very poor--appeared over the town. One certain Hun seemed to find particular satisfaction in flying right down over the prison nightly, for my special discomfort and benefit it seemed, as if he knew an airman imprisoned there was vainly longing to try his wings again over their lines. But I used to console myself by saying, "Never mind, old boy; there was never a bird whose wings could not be clipped if they got him just right, and your turn will come some day." One night there was an exceptionally heavy air raid going on. A number of German officers came into my room, and they all seemed very much frightened. I jokingly remarked that it would be fine if our airmen hit the old prison--the percentage would be very satisfactory--one English officer and about ten German ones. They didn't seem to appreciate the joke, however, and, indeed, they were apparently too much alarmed at what was going on overhead to laugh even at their own jokes. Although these night raids seemed to take all the starch out of the Germans while they were going on, the officers were usually as brave as lions the next day and spoke contemptuously of the raid of the night before. I saw thousands of soldiers in Courtrai, and although they did not impress me as having very good or abundant food, they were fairly well clothed. I do not mean to imply that conditions pointed to an early end of the war. On the contrary, from what I was able to observe on that point, unless the Huns have an absolute crop failure, they can, in my opinion, go on for years! The idea of our being able to win the war by starving them out strikes me as ridiculous. This is a war that must be won by _fighting_, and the sooner we realize that fact the sooner it will be over. Rising-hour in the prison was seven o'clock. Breakfast came at eight. This consisted of a cup of coffee and nothing else. If the prisoner had the foresight to save some bread from the previous day, he had bread for breakfast also, but that never happened in my case. Sometimes we had two cups of coffee--that is, near-coffee. It was really chicory or some cereal preparation. We had no milk or sugar. For lunch they gave us boiled sugar-beets or some other vegetable, and once in a while some kind of pickled meat, but that happened very seldom. We also received a third of a loaf of bread--war-bread. This war-bread was as heavy as a brick, black, and sour. It was supposed to last us from noon one day to noon the next. Except for some soup, this was the whole lunch menu. Dinner came at 5.30 P.M., when we sometimes had a little jam made out of sugar-beets, and a preparation called tea which you had to shake vigorously or it settled in the bottom of the cup and then about all you had was hot water. This "tea" was a sad blow to the Englishmen. If it hadn't been called tea, they wouldn't have felt so badly about it, perhaps, but it was adding insult to injury to call that stuff "tea" which, with them, is almost a national institution. Sometimes with this meal they gave us butter instead of jam, and once in a while we had some kind of canned meat. This comprised the usual run of eatables for the day--I can eat more than that for breakfast! In the days that were to come, however, I was to fare considerably worse. [Illustration: MAILING-CARD SENT BY GERMAN GOVERNMENT TO PAT O'BRIEN'S SISTER, MRS. CLARA CLEGG OF MOMENCE, ILLINOIS] [Illustration: OBVERSE SIDE OF CARD SHOWN ABOVE] We were allowed to send out and buy a few things, but as most of the prisoners were without funds, this was but an empty privilege. Once I took advantage of the privilege to send my shoes to a Belgian shoemaker to be half-soled. They charged me twenty marks--five dollars! Once in a while a Belgian Ladies' Relief Society visited the prison and brought us handkerchiefs, American soap--which sells at about one dollar and fifty cents a bar in Belgium--tooth-brushes, and other little articles, all of which were American-made, but whether they were supplied by the American Relief Committee or not I don't know. At any rate, these gifts were mighty useful and were very much appreciated. One day I offered a button off my uniform to one of these Belgian ladies as a souvenir, but a German guard saw me and I was never allowed to go near the visitors afterward. The sanitary conditions in this prison-camp were excellent as a general proposition. One night, however, I discovered that I had been captured by "cooties." This was a novel experience to me and one that I would have been very willing to have missed, because in the Flying Corps our aerodromes are a number of miles back of the lines and we have good billets, and our acquaintance with such things as "cooties" and other unwelcome visitors is very limited. When I discovered my condition I made a holler and roused the guard, and right then I got another example of German efficiency. This guard seemed to be even more perturbed about my complaint than I was myself, evidently fearing that he would be blamed for my condition. The commandant was summoned, and I could see that he was very angry. Some one undoubtedly got a severe reprimand for it. I was taken out of my cell by a guard with a rifle and conducted about a quarter of a mile from the prison to an old factory building which had been converted into an elaborate fumigating plant. There I was given a pickle bath in some kind of solution, and while I was absorbing it my clothes, bedclothes, and whatever else had been in my cell were being put through another fumigating process. While I was waiting for my things to dry--it took, perhaps, half an hour--I had a chance to observe about one hundred other victims of "cooties"--German soldiers who had become infested in the trenches. We were all nude, of course, but apparently it was not difficult for them to recognize me as a foreigner even without my uniform on, for none of them made any attempt to talk to me, although they all were very busy talking _about_ me. I could not understand what they were saying, but I know I was the butt of most of their jokes, and they made no effort to conceal the fact that I was the subject of their conversation. When I got back to my cell I found that it had been thoroughly fumigated, and from that time on I had no further trouble with "cooties" or other visitors of the same kind. As we were not allowed to write anything but prison cards, writing was out of the question; and as we had no reading-matter to speak of, reading was nil. We had nothing to do to pass away the time, so consequently cards became our only diversion, for we did, fortunately, have some of those. There wasn't very much money, as a rule, in circulation, and I think for once in my life I held most of that, not due to any particular ability on my part in the game, but I happened to have several hundred francs in my pockets when shot down. But we held a lottery there once a day, and I don't believe there was ever another lottery held that was watched with quite such intense interest as that. The drawing was always held the day before the prize was to be awarded, so we always knew the day before who was the lucky man. There was as much speculation as to who would win the prize as if it had been the finest treasure in the world. The great prize was one-third of a loaf of bread. Through some arrangement which I never quite figured out, it happened that among the eight or ten officers who were there with me there was always one-third of a loaf of bread over. There was just one way of getting that bread, and that was to draw lots. Consequently that was what started the lottery. I believe if a man had ever been inclined to cheat he would have been sorely tempted in this instance, but the game was played absolutely square, and if a man had been caught cheating, the chances are that he would have been shunned by the rest of the officers as long as he was in prison. I was fortunate enough to win the prize twice. One man--I think he was the smallest eater in the camp--won it on three successive days, but it was well for him that his luck deserted him on the fourth day, for he probably would have been handled rather roughly by the rest of the crowd, who were growing suspicious. But we handled the drawing ourselves and knew there was nothing crooked about it, so he was spared. We were allowed to buy pears, and, being small and very hard, they were used as the stakes in many a game. But the interest in these little games was as keen as if the stakes had been piles of money instead of two or three half-starved pears. No man was ever so reckless, however, in all the betting, as to wager his own rations. By the most scheming and sacrificing I ever did in my life I managed to hoard two pieces of bread (grudgingly spared at the time from my daily rations), but I was preparing for the day when I should escape--if I ever should. It was not a sacrifice easily made, either, but instead of eating bread I ate pears until I finally got one piece of bread ahead; and when I could force myself to stick to the pear diet again I saved the other piece from that day's allowance, and in days to come I had cause to credit myself fully for the foresight. Whenever a new prisoner came in and his German hosts had satisfied themselves as to his life history and taken down all the details--that is, all he would give them--he was immediately surrounded by his fellow-prisoners, who were eager for any bit of news or information he could possibly give them, and as a rule he was glad to tell us because, if he had been in the hands of the Huns for any length of time, he had seen very few English officers. The conditions of this prison were bad enough when a man was in normally good health, but it was barbarous to subject a wounded soldier to the hardships and discomforts of the place. However, this was the fate of a poor private we discovered there one day in terrific pain, suffering from shrapnel in his stomach and back. All of us officers asked to have him sent to a hospital, but the doctors curtly refused, saying it was against orders. So the poor creature went on suffering from day to day and was still there when I left, another victim of German cruelty. At one time in this prison-camp there were a French marine, a French flying officer, and two Belgian soldiers, and of the United Kingdom one from Canada, two from England, three from Ireland, a couple from Scotland, one from Wales, a man from South Africa, one from Algeria, and a New-Zealander, the last being from my own squadron, a man whom I thought had been killed, and he was equally surprised, when brought into the prison, to find me there. In addition there were a Chinaman and myself from the U. S. A. It was quite a cosmopolitan group, and as one typical Irishman said, "Sure, and we have every nation that's worth mentioning, including the darn Germans, with us whites." Of course, this was not translated to the Germans, nor was it even spoken in their hearing, or we probably would not have had quite so cosmopolitan a bunch. Each man in the prison was ready to uphold his native country in any argument that could possibly be started, and it goes without saying that I never took a back seat in any of them with my praise for America, with the Canadian and Chinaman chiming in on my side. But they were friendly arguments; we were all in the same boat and that was no place for quarreling. Every other morning, the weather allowing, we were taken to a large swimming-pool and were allowed to have a bath. There were two pools, one for the German officers and one for the men. Although we were officers, we had to use the pool occupied by the men. While we were in swimming a German guard with a rifle across his knees sat at each comer of the pool and watched us closely as we dressed and undressed. English interpreters accompanied us on all of these trips, so at no time could we talk without their knowing what was going on. Whenever we were taken out of the prison for any purpose they always paraded us through the most crowded streets--evidently to give the populace an idea that they were getting lots of prisoners. The German soldiers we passed on these occasions made no effort to hide their smiles and sneers. The Belgian people were apparently very curious to see us, and they used to turn out in large numbers whenever the word was passed that we were out. At times the German guards would strike the women and children who crowded too close to us. One day I smiled and spoke to a pretty Belgian girl, and when she replied a German made a run for her. Luckily she stepped into the house before he reached her or I am afraid my salutation would have resulted seriously for her and I would have been powerless to have assisted her. Whenever we passed a Belgian home or other building which had been wrecked by bombs dropped by our airmen our guards made us stop a moment or two while they passed sneering remarks among themselves. One of the most interesting souvenirs I have of my imprisonment at Courtrai is a photograph of a group of us taken in the prison courtyard. The picture was made by one of the guards, who sold copies of it to those of us who were able to pay his price--one mark apiece. As we faced the camera, I suppose we all tried to look our happiest, but the majority of us, I am afraid, were too sick at heart to raise a smile even for this occasion. One of our Hun guards is shown in the picture seated at the table. I am standing directly behind him, attired in my flying tunic, which they allowed me to wear all the time I was in prison, as is the usual custom with prisoners of war. Three of the British officers shown in the picture, in the foreground, are clad in "shorts." Through all my subsequent adventures I was able to retain a print of this interesting picture, and although when I gaze at it now it only serves to increase my gratification at my ultimate escape, it fills me with regret to think that my fellow-prisoners were not so fortunate. All of them, by this time, are undoubtedly eating their hearts up in the prison-camps of interior Germany. Poor fellows! [Illustration: A GROUP OF PRISONERS OF WAR IN THE PRISON-CAMP AT COURTRAI, BELGIUM (Lieutenant O'Brien, in his R. F. C. flying-tunic, is standing in the center behind the German guard seated at the table. This picture was taken by one of the German guards and sold to Lieutenant O'Brien for one mark.)] Despite the scanty fare and the restrictions we were under in this prison, we did manage on one occasion to arrange a regular banquet. The planning which was necessary helped to pass the time. At this time there were eight of us. We decided that the principal thing we needed to make the affair a success was potatoes, and I conceived a plan to get them. Every other afternoon they took us for a walk in the country, and it occurred to me that it would be a comparatively simple matter for us to pretend to be tired and sit down when we came to the first potato-patch. It worked out nicely. When we came to the first potato-patch that afternoon we told our guards that we wanted to rest a bit and we were allowed to sit down. In the course of the next five minutes each of us managed to get a potato or two. Being Irish, I got six. When we got back to the prison I managed to steal a handkerchief full of sugar which, with some apples that we were allowed to purchase, we easily converted into a sort of jam. We now had potatoes and jam, but no bread. It happened that the Hun who had charge of the potatoes was a great musician. It was not very difficult to prevail upon him to play us some music, and while he went out to get his zither I went into the bread pantry and stole a loaf of bread. Most of us had saved some butter from the day before and we used it to fry our potatoes. By bribing one of the guards he bought some eggs for us. They cost twenty-five cents apiece, but we were determined to make this banquet a success, no matter what it cost. The cooking was done by the prison cook, whom, of course, we had to bribe. When the meal was ready to serve it consisted of scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, bread and jam, and a pitcher of beer which we were allowed to buy. That was the 29th of August. Had I known that it was to be the last real meal that I was to eat for many weeks I might have enjoyed it even more than I did, but it was certainly very good. We had cooked enough for eight, but while we were still eating another joined us. He was an English officer who had just been brought in on a stretcher. For seven days, he told us, he had lain in a shell-hole, wounded, and he was almost famished, and we were mighty glad to share our banquet with him. We called on each man for a speech, and one might have thought that we were at a first-class club meeting. A few days after that our party was broken up and some of the men I suppose I shall never see again. One of the souvenirs of my adventure is a check given me during this "banquet" by Lieut. James Henry Dickson, of the Tenth Royal Irish Fusileers, a fellow-prisoner. It was for twenty francs and was made payable to the order of "Mr. Pat O'Brien, 2nd Lieut." Poor Jim forgot to scratch out the "London" and substitute "Courtrai" on the date line, but its value as a souvenir is just as great. When he gave it to me he had no idea that I would have an opportunity so soon afterward to cash it in person, although I am quite sure that whatever financial reverses I may be destined to meet my want will never be great enough to induce me to realize on that check. There was one subject that was talked about in this prison whenever conversation lagged, and I suppose it is the same in the other prisons, too. What were the chances of escape? Every man seemed to have a different idea and one way I suppose was about as impracticable as another. None of us ever expected to get a chance to put our ideas into execution, but it was interesting speculation, and, anyway, one could never tell what opportunities might present themselves. One suggestion was that we disguise ourselves as women. "O'Brien would stand a better chance disguised as a horse!" declared another, referring to the fact that my height (I am six feet two inches) would make me more conspicuous as a woman than as a man. Another suggested that we steal a German Gotha--a type of aeroplane used for long-distance bombing. It is these machines which are used for bombing London. They are manned by three men, one sitting in front with a machine-gun, the pilot sitting behind him, and an observer sitting in the rear with another machine-gun. We figured that at a pinch perhaps seven or eight of us could make our escape in a single machine. They have two motors of very high horse-power, fly very high and make wonderful speed. But we had no chance to put this idea to the test. I worked out another plan by which I thought I might have a chance if I could ever get into one of the German aerodromes. I would conceal myself in one of the hangars, wait until one of the German machines started out, and as he taxied along the ground I would rush out, shout at the top of my voice, and point excitedly at his wheels. This, I figured, would cause the pilot to stop and get out to see what was wrong. By that time I would be up to him and as he stooped over to inspect the machine I could knock him senseless, jump into the machine, and be over the lines before the Huns could make up their minds just what had happened. It was a fine dream, but my chance was not to come that way. There were dozens of other ways which we considered. One man would be for endeavoring to make his way right through the lines. Another thought the safest plan would be to swim some river that crossed the lines. The idea of making one's way to Holland, a neutral country, occurred to every one, but the one great obstacle in that direction, we all realized, was the great barrier of barbed and electrically charged wire which guards every foot of the frontier between Belgium and Holland and which is closely watched by the German sentries. This barrier was a threefold affair. It consisted first of a barbed-wire wall six feet high. Six feet beyond that was a nine-foot wall of wire powerfully charged with electricity. To touch it meant electrocution. Beyond that, at a distance of six feet was another wall of barbed wire six feet high. Beyond the barrier lay Holland and liberty, but how to get there was a problem which none of us could solve and few of us ever expected to have a chance to try. Mine came sooner than I expected. VI A LEAP FOR LIBERTY I had been in prison at Courtrai nearly three weeks when, on the morning of September 9th, I and six other officers were told that we were to be transferred to a prison-camp in Germany. One of the guards told me during the day that we were destined for a reprisal camp in Strassburg. They were sending us there to keep our airmen from bombing the place. He explained that the English carried German officers on hospital-ships for a similar purpose, and he excused the German practice of torpedoing these vessels on the score that they also carried munitions! When I pointed out to him that France would hardly be sending munitions to England, he lost interest in the argument. Some days before I had made up my mind that it would be a very good thing to get hold of a map of Germany which I knew was in the possession of one of the German interpreters, because I realized that if ever the opportunity came to make my escape such a map might be of the greatest assistance to me. With the idea of stealing this map, accordingly, a lieutenant and I got in front of this interpreter's window one day and engaged in a very hot argument as to whether Heidelberg was on the Rhine or not, and we argued back and forth so vigorously that the German came out of his room, map in hand, to settle it. After the matter was entirely settled to our satisfaction he went back into his room and I watched where he put the map. When, therefore, I learned that I was on my way to Germany I realized that it was more important than ever for me to get that map, and, with the help of my friend, we got the interpreter out of his room on some pretext or another, and while he was gone I confiscated the map from the book in which he kept it and concealed it in my sock underneath my legging. As I had anticipated, it later proved of the utmost value to me. I got it none too soon, for half an hour later we were on our way to Ghent. Our party consisted of five British officers and one French officer. At Ghent, where we had to wait for several hours for another train to take us direct to the prison in Germany, two other prisoners were added to our party. In the interval we were locked in a room at a hotel, a guard sitting at the door with a rifle on his knee. It would have done my heart good for the rest of my life if I could have got away then and fooled that Hun, he was so cocksure. Later we were marched to the train that was to convey us to Germany. It consisted of some twelve coaches, eleven of them containing troops going home on leave, and the twelfth reserved for us. We were placed in a fourth-class compartment, with old, hard, wooden seats, a filthy floor, and no lights save a candle placed there by a guard. There were eight of us prisoners and four guards. As we sat in the coach we were an object of curiosity to the crowd who gathered at the station. "Hope you have a nice trip!" one of them shouted, sarcastically. "Drop me a line when you get to Berlin, will you?" shouted another in broken English. "When shall we see you again?" asked a third. "Remember me to your friends, will you? You'll find plenty where you're going!" shouted another. The German officers made no effort to repress the crowd; in fact, they joined in the general laughter which followed every sally. I called to a German officer who was passing our window. "You're an officer, aren't you?" I asked, respectfully enough. "Yes. What of it?" he rejoined. "Well, in England," I said, "we let your officers who are prisoners ride first-class. Can't you fix it so that we can be similarly treated, or be transferred at least to a second-class compartment?" "If I had my way," he replied, "you'd ride with the hogs!" Then he turned to the crowd and told them of my request and how he had answered me, and they all laughed hilariously. This got me pretty hot. "That would be a damned sight better than riding with the Germans!" I yelled after him, but if he considered that a good joke, too, he didn't pass it on to the crowd. Some months later when I had the honor of telling my story to King George he thought this incident was one of the best jokes he had ever heard. I don't believe he ever laughed harder in his life. Before our train pulled out our guards had to present their arms for inspection, and their rifles were loaded in our presence to let us know that they meant business. From the moment the train started on its way to Germany the thought kept coming to my head that unless I could make my escape before we reached that reprisal camp I might as well make up my mind that, as far as I was concerned, the war was over. It occurred to me that if the eight of us in that car could jump up at a given signal and seize those four Hun guards by surprise, we'd have a splendid chance of besting them and jumping off the train when it first slowed down, but when I passed the idea on to my comrades they turned it down. Even if the plan had worked out as gloriously as I had pictured, they pointed out, the fact that so many of us had escaped would almost inevitably result in our recapture. The Huns would have scoured Belgium till they had got us and then we would all be shot. Perhaps they were right. Nevertheless, I was determined that, no matter what the others decided to do, I was going to make one bid for freedom, come what might. As we passed through village after village in Belgium and I realized that we were getting nearer and nearer to that dreaded reprisal camp, I concluded that my one and only chance of getting free before we reached it was through the window! I would have to go through that window while the train was going full speed, because if I waited until it had slowed up or stopped entirely, it would be a simple matter for the guards to overtake or shoot me. I opened the window. The guard who sat opposite me--so close that his feet touched mine and the stock of his gun which he held between his knees occasionally struck my foot--made no objection, imagining, no doubt, that I found the car too warm or that the smoke, with which the compartment was filled, annoyed me. As I opened the window the noise the train was making as it thundered along grew louder. It seemed to say: "You're a fool if you do; you're a fool if you don't! You're a fool if you do; you're a fool if you don't!" And I said to myself, "The 'no's' have it," and closed down the window again. As soon as the window was closed the noise of the train naturally subsided and its speed seemed to diminish, and my plan appealed to me stronger than ever. I knew the guard in front of me didn't understand a word of English, and so, in a quiet tone of voice, I confided to the English officer who sat next me what I planned to do. "For God's sake, Pat, chuck it!" he urged. "Don't be a lunatic! This railroad is double-tracked and rock-ballasted and the other track is on your side. You stand every chance in the world of knocking your brains out against the rails, or hitting a bridge or a whistling post, and, if you escape those, you will probably be hit by another train on the other track. You haven't one chance in a thousand to make it!" There was a good deal of logic in what he said, but I figured that, once I was in that reprisal camp, I might never have even one chance in a thousand to escape, and the idea of remaining a prisoner of war indefinitely went against my grain. I resolved to take my chance now even at the ride of breaking my neck. The car was full of smoke. I looked across at the guard. He was rather an old man, going home on leave, and he seemed to be dreaming of what was in store for him rather than paying any particular attention to me. Once in a while I had smiled at him and I figured that he hadn't the slightest idea of what was going through my mind all the time we had been traveling. I began to cough as though my throat were badly irritated by the smoke, and then I opened the window again. This time the guard looked up and showed his disapproval, but did not say anything. It was then four o'clock in the morning and would soon be light. I knew I had to do it right then or never, as there would be no chance to escape in the daytime. I had on a trench coat that I had used as a flying-coat and wore a knapsack which I had constructed out of a gas-bag brought into Courtrai by a British prisoner. In this I had two pieces of bread, a piece of sausage, and a pair of flying-mittens. All of them had to go with me through the window. The train was now going at a rate of between thirty and thirty-five miles an hour, and again it seemed to admonish me, as it rattled along over the ties: "You're a fool if you do; you're a fool if you don't! You're a fool if you don't; you're a fool if you do! You're a fool if you don't--" I waited no longer. Standing up on the bench as if to put the bag on the rack, and taking hold of the rack with my left hand and a strap that hung from the top of the car with my right, I pulled myself up, shoved my feet and legs out of the window, and let go! There was a prayer on my lips as I went out and I expected a bullet between my shoulders, but it was all over in an instant. I landed on my left side and face, burying my face in the rock ballast, cutting it open and closing my left eye, skinning my hands and shins and straining my ankle. For a few moments I was completely knocked out, and if they shot at me through the window, in the first moments after my escape, I had no way of knowing. Of course, if they could have stopped the train right then, they could easily have recaptured me, but at the speed it was going and in the confusion which must have followed my escape, they probably didn't stop within half a mile from the spot where I lay. I came to within a few minutes, and when I examined myself and found no bones broken I didn't stop to worry about my cuts and bruises, but jumped up with the idea of putting as great a distance between me and that track as possible before daylight came. Still being dazed, I forgot all about the barbed-wire fence along the right-of-way and ran full tilt into it. Right there I lost one of my two precious pieces of bread, which fell out of my knapsack, but I could not stop to look for it then. The one thing that was uppermost in my mind was that for the moment I was free and it was up to me now to make the most of my liberty. VII CRAWLING THROUGH GERMANY The exact spot at which I made my desperate leap I don't know. Perhaps, after the war is over, some one on that train will be good enough to tell me, and then I may go back and look for the dent I must have made in the rock ballast. As I have said, I didn't stop very long that morning after I once regained my senses. I was bleeding profusely from the wounds caused by the fall, but I checked it somewhat with handkerchiefs I held to my face and I also held the tail of my coat so as to catch the blood as it fell and not leave telltale traces on the ground. Before I stopped I had gone about a mile. Then I took my course from the stars and found that I had been going just opposite to the direction I should be making, but I could not go back across the track there. Heading west, therefore, I kept this course for about two and a half hours, but as I was very weak from loss of blood I didn't cover very much ground in that time. Just before daylight I came to a canal which I knew I had to cross, and I swam it with everything I had on. This swim, which proved to be the first of a series that I was destined to make, taught me several things. In the first place, I had forgotten to remove my wrist-watch. This watch had been broken in my fall from the air, but I had had it repaired at Courtrai. In the leap from the train the crystal had been broken again, but it was still going and would probably have been of great service to me in my subsequent adventures, but the swim across the canal ruined it. Then, too, I had not thought to take my map out of my sock, and the water damaged that, too. Thereafter, whenever I had any swimming to do, I was careful to take such matters into consideration, and my usual practice was to make a bundle of all the things that would be damaged by water and tie it to my head. In this way I was able to keep them dry. It was now daylight and I knew that it would be suicidal for me to attempt to travel in the daytime. My British uniform would have been fatal to me. I decided to hide in the daytime and travel only at night. Not far from the canal I could see a heavily wooded piece of ground, and I made my way there. By this time I had discovered that my left ankle had been strained in my leap from the train, and when I got to the woods I was glad to lie down and rest. The wound in my mouth had been opened, too, when I jumped, and it would have been difficult for me to have swallowed had not the piece of bread, which was to serve for my breakfast, got wet when I swam the canal. I found a safe hiding-place in which to spend the day and I tried to dry some of my clothes, but a slight drizzling rainfall made that out of the question. I knew that I ought to sleep, as I planned to travel at night, but, sore as I was, caked with mud and blood, my clothing soaked through, and my hunger not nearly appeased, sleep was out of the question. This seemed to me about the longest day I had ever spent, but I was still to learn how long a day can really be and how much longer a night! When night came I dragged myself together and headed northeast. My clothing consisted of my Flying Corps uniform, two shirts, no underwear, leather leggings, heavy shoes, a good pair of wool socks, and a German cap. I had a wallet containing several hundred francs in paper money and various other papers. I also had a jack-knife which I had stolen one day from the property-room at Courtrai where all the personal effects taken from prisoners were kept. For a day or two I carried the knapsack, but as I had nothing to carry in it I discarded it. I traveled rapidly, considering my difficulties, and swam a couple of canals that night, covering in all perhaps ten miles before daylight. Then I located in some low bushes, lying there all day in my wet clothes and finishing my sausage for food. That was the last of my rations. That night I made perhaps the same distance, but became very hungry and thirsty before the night was over. For the next six days I still figured that I was in Germany, and I was living on nothing but cabbage, sugar-beets, and an occasional carrot, always in the raw state, just as I got them out of the fields. The water I drank was often very rank, as I had to get it from canals and pools. One night I lay in a cabbage-patch for an hour lapping the dew from the leaves with my tongue! During this period I realized that I must avoid meeting any one at all hazards. I was in the enemy's country and my uniform would have been a dead give-away. Any one who captured me or who gave information from which my capture resulted might have been sure of a handsome reward. I knew that it was necessary for me to make progress as fast as possible, but the main consideration was to keep out of sight, even if it took me a year to get to Holland, which was my objective. From my map, I estimated that I was about thirty-five miles from Strassburg when I made my leap from the train, and if I could travel in a straight line I had perhaps one hundred and fifty miles to travel. As it was, however, I was compelled to make many detours, and I figured that two hundred and fifty miles was nearer the extent of the journey ahead of me. In several parts of this country I had to travel through forests of young pine-trees about twelve feet high. They were very close together and looked almost as if they had been set out. They proved to be a serious obstacle to me, because I could not see the stars through them, and I was relying upon the heavens to guide me to freedom. I am not much of an astronomer, but I know the Pole Star when I see it. But for it I wouldn't be here to-day! I believe it rained every night and day while I was making my way through Germany to Luxembourg. My invariable program at this stage of my journey was to travel steadily all night until about six in the morning, when I would commence looking around for a place wherein to hide during the day. Low bushes or woods back from the road, as far as possible from the traveled pathway, usually served me for this purpose. Having found such a spot, I would drop down and try to sleep. My overcoat was my only covering, and that was usually soaked through either from the rain or from swimming. The only sleep I got during those days was from exhaustion, and it usually came to me toward dusk when it was time for me to start again. It was a mighty fortunate thing for me that I was not a smoker. Somehow I have never used tobacco in any form and I was now fully repaid for whatever pleasure I had foregone in the past as a result of my habits in that particular, because my sufferings would certainly have been intensified now if in addition to lack of food and rest I had had to endure a craving for tobacco. About the sixth night I was so drowsy and exhausted when the time came for me to be on the move that I was very much tempted to sleep through the night. I knew, however, that that would be a bad precedent to establish and I wouldn't give in. I plugged wearily along and about eleven o'clock, after I had covered perhaps four miles, I sat down to rest for a moment on a shock of brush which was sheltered from the drizzle somewhat by other shocks which were stacked there. It was daylight when I awoke, and I found myself right in a German's backyard. You can imagine that I lost no time getting out of that neighborhood, and I made up my mind right then that I would never give way to that "tired feeling" again. In the daytime, in my hiding-place, wherever it happened to be, I had plenty of opportunity to study my map, and before very long I knew it almost by heart. Unfortunately, however, it did not show all the rivers and canals which I encountered, and sometimes it fooled me completely. It must have been about the ninth night that I crossed into Luxembourg, but while this principality is officially neutral, it offered me no safer a haven than Belgium would. The Huns have violated the neutrality of both and discovery would have been followed by the same consequences as capture in Germany proper. In the nine days I had covered perhaps seventy-five miles and I was that much nearer liberty, but the lack of proper food, the constant wearing of wet clothes, and the loss of sleep and rest had reduced me to a very much weakened condition. I doubted very much whether I would be able to continue, but I plugged along. VIII NINE DAYS IN LUXEMBOURG I was now heading northwest and I thought that by keeping that course I would get out of Luxembourg and into Belgium, where I expected to be a little better off, because the people in Luxembourg were practically the same as Germans. One of the experiences I had in Luxembourg which I shall never forget occurred the first day that I spent there. I had traveled all night and I was feeling very weak. I came to a small wood with plenty of low underbrush, and I picked out a thick clump of bushes which was not in line with any paths, crawled in, and lay down to spend the day. The sun could just reach me through an opening in the trees above, and I took off all my clothes except my shirt and hung them on the bushes to dry in the sun. As the sun moved I moved the clothes around correspondingly, because, tired as I was, I could take only cat-naps. That afternoon I awoke from one of these naps with a start. There were voices not a dozen feet from me! My first impulse was to jump to my feet and sell my life as dearly as I could, but on second thoughts I decided to look before I leaped. Peeping through the underbrush, I could just discern two men calmly chopping down a tree and conversing as they worked. I thanked my lucky stars that I had not jumped up on my first impulse, for I was apparently quite safe as long as I lay where I was. It then occurred to me that if the tree upon which they were working should happen to fall in my direction it would crush me to death! It was tall enough to reach me and big enough to kill me if it landed in my direction, and as I could see only the heads of the men who were chopping it down, I was unable to tell which way they planned to have it fall. There was this much in my favor: the chances of the tree falling in just my direction were not very great and there was more than an even chance that the men would be wise enough to fell it so that it would not, because if it landed in the bushes the task of trimming the branches off the trunk would be so much harder. But, even without this feeling of security, there was really nothing else I could do but wait and see what fate had in store for me. I lay there watching the top of the tree for more than an hour. Time and again I saw it sway and fancied it was coming in my direction, and it was all I could do to keep my place, but a moment later I would hear the crash of the men's axes and I knew that my imagination had played me a trick. I was musing on the sorry plight I was in--weak, nearly starving to death, a refugee in a hostile country and waiting patiently to see which way a tree was going to fall--when there came a loud crack and I saw the top of the tree sway and fall almost opposite to the place where I lay! I had guessed right. Later I heard some children's voices, and again peering through the underbrush, I saw that they had brought the men their lunch. You can't realize how I felt to see them eating their lunch so near at hand and to know that, hungry as I was, I could have none of it. I was greatly tempted to go boldly up to them and take a chance of getting a share, but I did not know whether they were Germans or not, and I had gone through too much to risk my liberty even for food. I swallowed my hunger instead. Shortly afterward it began to rain, and about four o'clock the men left. I crawled out as fast as I could, and scurried around looking for crumbs, but found none, and when darkness came I went on my way once more. That night I came to a river, and as it was the first time my clothes had been dry for a long time, I thought I would try to keep them that way as long as possible. I accordingly took off all my things and made them into two bundles, planning to carry one load across and then swim back for the other. The river was quite wide, but I am a fairly good swimmer, and I figured I could rest awhile after the first trip before going back for the second bundle. The first swim was uneventful. When I landed on the other side I drank till my thirst was quenched, and then swam back. After resting awhile I started across a third time, with my shoes and several other things firmly tied to my head. Just about ten feet from the opposite bank one of the shoes worked its way loose and sank in about eight feet of water. There was nothing to do but finish the trip and then go back and dive for the missing shoe, as I could not go on with a single shoe. Diving in my weakened condition was considerable strain, but I had to have that shoe, and I kept at it for nearly an hour before I eventually found it, and I was pretty nearly all in by that time. That was the last time I ever took my shoes off, for my feet were becoming so swollen that I figured if I took my shoes off I might be unable to get them on again. This stunt of crossing the river and diving for the lost shoe had consumed about three hours, and after resting some fifteen minutes I went on my way again. I had hardly gone a mile when I came to another river, about the same size as the one I had just crossed. I walked along the bank awhile, thinking that I might be lucky enough to find a boat or a bridge, but after walking about half an hour I received one of those disappointments which "come once in a lifetime." I found that this river was the one I had just swum! I had swum it on the bend and was still on the wrong side! Had I made only a short detour in the first place, I would have avoided all the annoyance of the past three hours and saved my strength and time. I was never so mad in my life at myself as I was to think that I had not paid more attention to the course of the stream before I undertook to cross it, but, as a matter of fact, there was really no way of telling. The river was not shown on my map at all. Now I _had_ to cross it, whereas before I could have turned it. I walked boldly into the water, not bothering to take my clothes off this time, nor did I ever bother to take them off afterward when swimming canals or rivers. I found it was impossible to keep them dry, anyway, and so I might just as well swim in them and save time. All the next day I spent in a forest, to which my night's travel had brought me about five o'clock in the morning. I kept on my way through the woods until daylight came, and then, thinking the place would afford fairly good concealment, I concluded to rest until night. The prospects of even a good sleep were dismal, however, for about the time the sun's face should have appeared a drizzling rain began and I gave up my search for a dry spot which would serve as a bed. Some of the leaves were beginning to fall, but of course there were not enough of them to have formed a covering for the ground, and the dampness seemed to have penetrated everywhere. I wandered around through the woods for two or three hours, looking for shelter, but without any success, for, though the trees were large, the forest was not dense and there was practically no brush or shrubbery. Consequently, one could get a fairly clear view for some distance, and I knew it would be unwise to drop off to sleep just any place, or some one would surely happen onto me. Once I came very near the edge of the woods and heard voices of men driving by in a wagon, but I couldn't make out just what they were, and instinct told me I had better not come out of the woods, so I turned back. Here and there small artificial ditches had been dug, which at a dry season might have cradled a weary fugitive, but now they, too, were filled with water. Once I singled out a good big tree with large branches and thought I might climb into it and go to sleep, but the longer I looked at it the more I realized that it would require more energy than I had in my present weak and exhausted condition, so I didn't attempt that. Finally I chose a spot that looked a bit drier than the rest, concluded to take a chance on being discovered, and threw myself down for a nap. I was extremely nervous, though, throughout that whole day and would scarcely get settled into a comfortable position and doze off for a few minutes when, startled by some sound in the woods, I would suddenly waken. After what seemed like a year or more, night finally came, and with it a "dud" sky, low-hanging clouds, and still more rain. There was not a star in the sky, of course, and that made it very bad, because without the aid of the stars I had absolutely no way of knowing in which direction I was going. It was just a case of taking a chance. I probably would have been better off if I had simply picked out a place and stayed there until the weather improved, but naturally I was impatient to be on my way when each day without food only lessened my strength and my ultimate chances of reaching the frontier. So I left the woods and struck off in the direction which I thought was north. I hadn't been at all sure of my bearings the day before, and as it had rained the sun failed entirely to help me out; but I was almost sure I had the right direction, and trusted to luck. That night I found more rivers, canals, and swamps than I ever found in my life before, but I had the good fortune to stumble on to some celery, and after my diet of beets it surely was a treat. Perhaps it's unnecessary to add that I took on a good supply of celery, and for days I went along chewing celery like a cow would a cud. Along toward morning, when I supposed I had got in a fairly good lap of my journey--perhaps seven or eight miles--I began to recognize certain objects as familiar landmarks. At least, I thought I had seen them before, and as I traveled along I knew positively I had seen certain objects very recently. Off at my right--not over a quarter of a mile--I noticed some fairly good-sized woods, and thought I would go over there to hide that day, because it looked as though the sun was going to shine, and I hoped to get my clothes dry and perhaps get a decent sleep. I had this celery and a large beet, so I knew I would be able to live the day through. Finally, I made my way over to the woods. It was still too dark in among the trees to do much in the way of selecting my quarters for the day, and I could not go a step farther. So I waited on the edge of the forest until dawn and then set out to explore the place with a view to finding some nook where I might sleep. Imagine my disgust and discouragement, too, when, an hour or so later, I came upon the exact place where I had spent the day before, and I realized that all night long I had been circling the very woods I was trying to get away from. I think perhaps I had gone all of a quarter of a mile in the right direction, but then had lost my bearings entirely and daylight found me with nothing accomplished. The sun, however, did come out that day, and I welcomed its warm rays as they perhaps have never been welcomed before. I was very tired--just about all in--but I spent a better day in the woods than the previous one. That night the stars came out; I located my friend, the North Star, and tried to make up for lost time. But when one is making only seven or eight miles a day, or rather a night, one night lost means a whole lot, especially when each day keeps him from freedom. Such ill fortune and discouragements as this were harder to endure, I believe, than the actual hunger, and the accompanying worry naturally reduced my weight. At times I was furiously angry with myself for the mistakes I made and the foolish things I did, but I always tried to see something funny about the situation, whatever it might be, that relieved the strain a bit and helped to pass the time. I think if a man is overburdened with a sense of humor and wants to get rid of it, this trip I took would be an excellent remedy for it. Right at this time I would have welcomed anything for a companion; I believe even a snake would have been a godsend to me. With a name as Irish as mine, it is only natural that I looked for goats along the way, thinking that I might be able to milk them. There are very few cows in this country, and the opportunities for milking them fewer than the cows themselves, because they are housed in barns adjoining the homes and always alertly watched by their fortunate owners. I did hope that I might find a goat staked out some place in the fields, but in all my travels I never saw a goat or a pig, and only a few cows. Several times I searched nests for eggs, but somebody always had beaten me to it, as I never even found so much as a nest egg. There was no chance of getting away with any "bullying" stuff in Luxembourg, I knew, because the young men have not been forced into the army and are still at home, and as they are decidedly pro-German, it would have been pretty hard for me to demand anything in that part of the country. It was not like taking things away from old men and women or robbing people that could not stop me if they chose to do so. I thought at this time that I was suffering about the worst hardships any human being could ever be called upon to endure, but I was later to find out that the best of my journey was made along about this time. There were plenty of vegetables, even though they were raw, and these were much better than the things I was afterward compelled to eat or go without. We frequently hear of men who have lived for a certain number of days on their own resources in the woods just on a bet or to prove that the "back to nature" theory still has its merits and will still work. My advice to some of those nature-seekers is to, if in the future they wish to make a real good record, try the little countries of Luxembourg and Belgium, with a slice of Germany thrown in. I suppose that during this experience of mine I made many mistakes and traveled many unnecessary miles which one with a knowledge of woodsmanship might have avoided, and I failed to take advantage of many things which would have been quite apparent to one who knew. It must not be forgotten, however, that I did not undertake this adventure voluntarily. It was "wished on me." I simply had to make the most of the knowledge I had. At about this time blisters began to appear on my legs and my knees swelled. In addition I was pretty well convinced that I had lost the sight of my left eye. I hadn't seen a thing out of it since my leap from the train. When I imagine the villainous appearance I must have presented at this time--my unhealed wounds, eighteen days' growth of beard, and general haggard and unkempt visage--I think the fear I felt about meeting strangers was perhaps unwarranted. The chances are they would have been infinitely more scared than I! As it was, I was nearly out of Luxembourg before I really came face to face with any one. It was about six o'clock in the morning and I was traveling along a regular path. Just as I approached a cross-path I heard footsteps coming down it. I stopped short, stooped over, and pretended to be adjusting my shoe-lace, figuring that if the stranger turned into my path he would probably pass right by me. As luck would have it, he continued on his way and never noticed me at all. After that I frequently noticed groups of Luxembourg peasants in the distance, but I usually saw them first and managed to avoid them. About the eighteenth day after my leap from the train I crossed into Belgium. It had taken me just nine days to get through Luxembourg--a distance which a man could ordinarily cover in two, but, considering the handicaps under which I labored, I was very well satisfied with my progress. IX I ENTER BELGIUM I have said it was about the eighteenth day after my escape that I entered Belgium, but that is more or less guesswork. I was possibly well into that country before I realized that I had crossed the line. About the third day after I figured I was in Belgium I started to swim a canal just before daylight. I was then heading due north in the direction of the German lines. I was just about to wade into the canal when I heard a German yelling violently, and for the first time I knew I was being followed! I ran up the bank of the canal quite a distance and then swam to the opposite side, as I reasoned they would not be looking for me there. I found a sheltered clump of bushes in a swamp near the canal, and in the driest part that I could find I crawled in and made myself as comfortable as possible. The sun came up soon and kept me warm, and I planned to camp right there, food or no food, until the Huns got tired of searching for me. I think I heard them once or twice that day, and my heart nearly stopped on each occasion, but evidently they decided to look in some other direction and I was not further molested. At the same time I figured that it was absolutely necessary for me to change my course even at the expense of going somewhat out of my way. Certainly if I went north they would get me. I decided to go due west, and I kept in that direction for four days. As I was in a very weak condition, I did not cover more than five miles a night. I kept away from the roads and did all my journeying through fields, beet-patches, woods, swamps--anywhere, provided I was not likely to be seen and captured. Food was an important consideration to me, but it was secondary to concealment. At last I brought up at the Meuse River at a place between Namur and Huy, and it was here that I came nearest of all to giving up the struggle. The Meuse at this point is about half a mile wide--as wide as the Hudson River at West Point. Had I been in normal condition I wouldn't have hesitated a moment to swim across. San Diego Bay, California, is a mile and a half wide, and I had often swum across and back, and the San Joaquin, which is also a mile and a half wide, had never proved an obstacle to me. In the wretched shape in which I then was, however, the Meuse looked like the Atlantic Ocean to me. I looked for a boat, but could find none. I tried to get a piece of wood upon which I hoped to ferry across, but I was equally unsuccessful. Get across I must, and I decided there was nothing to do but swim it. It was then about three o'clock in the morning. I waded in and was soon in beyond my depth and had to swim. After about an hour of it I was very much exhausted and I doubted whether I could make the opposite bank, although it was not more than thirty or forty feet away. I choked and gasped and my arms and legs were completely fagged out. I sank a little and tried to touch bottom with my feet, but the water was still beyond my depth. There are times when every one will pray, and I was no exception. I prayed for strength to make those few wicked yards, and then, with all the will power I could summon, struck out for dear life. It seemed a lifetime before I finally felt the welcome mud of bottom and was able to drag myself up to the bank, but I got there. The bank was rather high, and I was shaking so violently that when I took hold of the grass to pull myself up, the grass shook out of my hands. I could not retain my grip. I was afraid I would faint then and there, but I kept pulling and crawling frantically up that infernal bank, and finally made it. Then, for the first time in my life, I fainted--fainted from utter exhaustion. It was now about four o'clock in the morning and I was entirely unprotected from observation. If any one had come along I would have been found lying there dead to the world. Possibly two hours passed before I regained consciousness, and then, no doubt, only because the rain was beating in my face. I knew that I had to get away, as it was broad daylight. Moreover, there was a towpath right there and any minute a boat might come along and find me. But it was equally dangerous for me to attempt to travel very far. Fortunately, I found some shrubbery near by, and I hid there all day, without food or drink. That night I made a little headway, but when day broke I had a dreadful fever and was delirious. I talked to myself and thereby increased my chances of capture. In my lucid intervals, when I realized that I had been talking, the thought sent a chill through me, because in the silent night even the slightest sound carries far across the Belgian country. I began to fear that another day of this would about finish me. I have a distinct recollection of a ridiculous conversation I carried on with an imaginary Pat O'Brien--a sort of duplicate of myself. I argued with him as I marched drearily along, and he answered me back in kind, and when we disagreed I called upon my one constant friend, the North Star, to stand by me. "There you are, you old North Star!" I cried, aloud. "You want me to get to Holland, don't you? But this Pat O'Brien--this Pat O'Brien who calls himself a soldier--he's got a yellow streak--North Star--and he says it can't be done! He wants me to quit--to lie down here for the Huns to find me and take me back to Courtrai--after all you've done, North Star, to lead me to liberty. Won't you make this coward leave me, North Star? I don't want to follow him--I just want to follow you--because you--you are taking me away from the Huns and this Pat O'Brien--this fellow who keeps after me all the time and leans on my neck and wants me to lie down--this yellow Pat O'Brien wants me to go back to the Huns!" After a spell of foolish chatter like that my senses would come back to me for a while and I would trudge along without a word until the fever came on me again. I knew that I had to have food because I was about on my last legs. I was very much tempted to lie down then and there and call it a heat. Things seemed to be getting worse for me the farther I went, and all the time I had before me the specter of that electric barrier between Belgium and Holland, even if I ever reached there alive. What was the use of further suffering when I would probably be captured in the end, anyway? Before giving up, however, I decided upon one bold move. I would approach one of the houses in the vicinity and get food there or die in the effort! I picked out a small house, because I figured there would be less likelihood of soldiers being billeted there. Then I wrapped a stone in my khaki handkerchief as a sort of camouflaged weapon, determined to kill the occupant of the house, German or Belgian, if that step were necessary in order to get food. I tried the well in the yard, but it would not work, and then I went up to the door and knocked. It was one o'clock in the morning. An old lady came to the window and looked out. She could not imagine what I was, probably, because I was still attired in that old overcoat. She gave a cry, and her husband and a boy came to the door. They could not speak English and I could not speak Flemish, but I pointed to my flying-coat and then to the sky and said "_fleger_" ("flier"), which I thought would tell them what I was. Whether they understood or were intimidated by my hard-looking appearance, I don't know, but certainly it would have to be a brave old man and boy who would start an argument with such a villainous-looking character as stood before them that night! I had not shaved for a month, my clothes were wet, torn, and dirty, my leggings were gone--they had got so heavy I had discarded them--my hair was matted, and my cheeks were flushed with fever. In my hand I carried the rock in my handkerchief, and I made no effort to conceal its presence or its mission. Anyway, they motioned me indoors and gave me my first hot meal in more than a month. True, it consisted only of warm potatoes. They had been previously cooked, but the old woman warmed them up in milk in one of the dirtiest kettles I had ever seen. I asked for bread, but she shook her head, although I think it must have been for lack of it rather than because she begrudged it to me. For if ever a man showed he was famished, I did that night. I swallowed those warm potatoes ravenously and I drank four glasses of water one after another. It was the best meal I had had since the "banquet" in the prison at Courtrai. The woman of the house was probably seventy-five years old and had evidently worn wooden shoes all her life, for she had a callous spot on the side of her foot the size of half a dollar, and it looked so hard that I doubt whether you could have driven a nail into it with a hammer. As I sat there drying myself--for I was in no hurry to leave the first human habitation I had entered in four weeks--I reflected on my unhappy lot and the unknown troubles and dangers that lay ahead of me. Here, for more than a month, I had been leading the life of a hunted animal--yes, worse than a hunted animal, for Nature clothes her less favored creatures more appropriately for the life they lead than I was clothed for mine--and there was not the slightest reason to hope that conditions would grow better. Perhaps the first warm food I had eaten for over a month had released unused springs of philosophy in me, as food sometimes does for a man. I pointed to my torn and water-soaked clothes and conveyed to them as best I could that I would be grateful for an old suit, but apparently they were too poor to have more than they actually needed themselves, and I rose to go. I had roused them out of bed, and I knew I ought not to keep them up longer than was absolutely necessary. As I approached the door I got a glance at myself in a mirror. I was the awfulest sight I had ever laid eyes on! The glimpse I got of myself startled me almost as much as if I had seen a dreaded German helmet! My left eye was fairly well healed by this time, and I was beginning to regain the sight of it, but my face was so haggard and my beard so long and unkempt that I looked like Santa Claus on a "bat." As they let me out of the door I pointed to the opposite direction to the one I intended taking and started off in the direction I had indicated. Later I changed my course completely to throw off any possible pursuit. The next day I was so worn out from exposure and exhaustion that I threw away my coat, thinking that the less weight I had to carry the better it would be for me, but when night came I regretted my mistake, because the nights were now getting colder. I thought at first it would be best for me to retrace my steps and look for the coat I had so thoughtlessly discarded, but I decided to go on without it. I then began to discard everything that I had in my pocket, finally throwing my wrist-watch into a canal. A wrist-watch does not add much weight, but when you plod along and have not eaten for a month it finally becomes rather heavy. The next thing I discarded was a pair of flying-mittens. These mittens I had got at Camp Borden, in Canada, and had become quite famous, as my friends termed them "snow-shoes." In fact, they were a ridiculous pair of mittens, but the best pair I ever had, and I really felt worse when I lost those mittens than anything else. I could not think of anybody else ever using them, so I dug a hole in the mud and buried them, and could not help but laugh at the thought of what my friends would say had they seen me burying my mittens, because they were a standing joke in Canada, England, and France. I had on two shirts, and as they were always both wet and didn't keep me warm, it was useless to wear both. One of these was a shirt that I had bought in France, the other an American army shirt. They were both khaki and one as apt to give me away as the other, so I discarded the French shirt. The American army shirt I brought back with me to England, and it is still in my possession. When I escaped from the train I still had that Bavarian cap of bright red in my pocket and wore it for many nights, but I took great care that no one saw it. It also had proved very useful when swimming rivers, for I carried my map and a few other belongings in it, and I had fully made up my mind to bring it home as a souvenir. But the farther I went the heavier my extra clothing became, so I was compelled to discard even the cap. I knew that it would be a telltale mark if I simply threw it away, so one night after swimming a river I dug a hole in the soft mud on the bank and buried it, too, with considerably less ceremony than my flying-mittens had received, perhaps; and that was the end of my Bavarian hat. My experience at the Belgian's house whetted my appetite for warm food, and I figured that what had been done once could be done again. Sooner or later I realized I would probably approach a Belgian and find a German instead, but in such a contingency I was determined to measure my strength against the Hun's if necessary to effect my escape. As it was, however, most of the Belgians to whom I applied for food gave it to me readily enough, and if some of them refused me it was only because they feared I might be a spy or that the Germans would shoot them if their action were subsequently found out. About the fifth day after I had entered Belgium I was spending the day as usual in a clump of bushes when I discerned in the distance what appeared to be something hanging on a line. All day long I strained my eyes trying to decide what it could be and arguing with myself that it might be something that I could add to my inadequate wardrobe, but the distance was so great that I could not identify it. I had a great fear that before night came it would probably be removed. As soon as darkness fell, however, I crawled out of my hiding-place and worked up to the line and got a pair of overalls for my industry. It was a mighty joyful night for me. That pair of overalls was the first bit of civilian clothes I had thus far picked up, with the exception of a civilian cap which I had found at the prison and concealed on my person and which I still had. The overalls were rather small and very short, but when I put them on I found that they hung down far enough to cover my breeches. It was perhaps three days later that I planned to search another house for further clothes. Entering Belgian houses at night is anything but a safe proposition, because their families are large and sometimes as many as seven or eight sleep in a single room. The barn is usually connected with the house proper, and there was always the danger of disturbing some dumb animal, even if the inmates of the house were not aroused. Frequently I took a chance of searching a backyard at night in the hope of finding food scraps, but my success in that direction was so slight that I soon decided it wasn't worth the risk, and I continued to live on the raw vegetables that I could pick with safety in the fields and the occasional meal that I was able to get from the Belgian peasants in the daytime. Nevertheless, I was determined to get more in the way of clothing, and when night came I picked out a house that looked as though it might furnish me with what I wanted. It was a moonlight night, and if I could get in the barn I would have a fair chance of finding my way around by the moonlight which would enter the windows. The barn adjoined the main part of the house, but I groped around very carefully and soon I touched something hanging on a peg. I didn't know what it was, but I confiscated it and carried it out into the fields. There in the moonlight I examined my booty and found it was an old coat. It was too short as an overcoat and too long for an ordinary coat, but nevertheless I made use of it. It had probably been an overcoat for the Belgian who had worn it. Some days later I got a scarf from a Belgian peasant, and with this equipment I was able to conceal my uniform entirely. Later on, however, I decided that it was too dangerous to keep the uniform on anyway, and when night came I dug a hole and buried it. I never realized until I had to part with it just how much I thought of that uniform. It had been with me through many hard trials, and I felt as if I were abandoning a friend when I parted with it. I was tempted to keep the wings off the tunic, but thought that that would be a dangerous concession to sentiment in the event that I was ever captured. It was the only distinction I had left, as I had given the Royal Flying Corps badges and the stars of my rank to the German Flying Officers as souvenirs, but I felt that it was safer to discard it. As it finally turned out, through all my subsequent experiences my escape would never have been jeopardized had I kept my uniform, but, of course, I had no idea what was in store for me. There was one thing which surprised me very much as I journeyed through Belgium, and that was the scarcity of dogs. Apparently most of them have been taken by the Germans, and what are left are beasts of burden who are too tired at night to bark or bother intruders. This was a mighty good thing for me, for I would certainly have stirred them up in passing through backyards, as I sometimes did when I was making a short cut. One night as I came out of a yard it was so pitch dark I could not see ten feet ahead of me, and I was right in the back of a little village, although I did not know it. I crawled along, fearing I might come to a crossroads at which there would in all probability be a German sentry. My precaution served me in good stead, for I had come out in the main street of a village and within twenty feet of me, sitting on some bricks where they were building a little store, I could see the dim outline of a German spiked helmet! I could not cross the street and the only thing to do was to back-track. It meant making a long detour and losing two hours of precious time and effort, but there was no help for it, and I plodded wearily back, cursing the Huns at every step. The next night while crossing some fields I came to a road. It was one of the main roads of Belgium and was paved with cobblestones. On these roads you can hear a wagon or horse about a mile or two away. I listened intently before I moved ahead, and, hearing nothing, concluded that the way was clear. As I emerged from the field and got my first glimpse of the road I got the shock of my life! In either direction, as far as I could see, the road was lined with German soldiers! What they were doing in that part of Belgium I did not know, but you can be mighty sure I didn't spend any time trying to find out. Again it was necessary to change my course and lose a certain amount of ground, but by this time I had become fairly well reconciled to these reverses and they did not depress me as much as they had at first. At this period of my adventure if a day or a night passed without its thrill I began to feel almost disappointed, but such disappointments were rather rare. One evening as I was about to swim a canal about two hundred feet wide I suddenly noticed, about one hundred yards away, a canal-boat moored to the side. It was a sort of out-of-the-way place, and I wondered what the canal-boat had stopped for. I crawled up to see. As I neared the boat five men were leaving it, and I noticed them cross over into the fields. At a safe distance I followed them, and they had not gone very far before I saw what they were after. They were committing the common but heinous crime of stealing potatoes! Without the means to cook them, potatoes didn't interest me a bit, and I thought that the boat itself would probably yield me more than the potato-patch. Knowing that the canal hands would probably take their time in the fields, I climbed up the stern of the boat leisurely and without any particular pains to conceal myself. Just as my head appeared above the stern of the boat I saw, silhouetted against the sky, the dreaded outline of a German soldier--spiked helmet and all! A chill ran down my spine as I dropped to the bank of the canal and slunk away. Evidently the sentry had not seen me or, if he had, he had probably figured that I was one of the foraging party, but I realized that it wouldn't pay in future to take anything for granted. X EXPERIENCES IN BELGIUM I think that one of the worst things I had to contend with in my journey through Belgium was the number of small ditches. They intercepted me at every half-mile or so, sometimes more frequently. The canals and the big rivers I could swim. Of course, I got soaked to the skin every time I did it, but I was becoming hardened to that. These little ditches, however, were too narrow to swim and too wide to jump. They had perhaps two feet of water in them and three feet of mud, and it was almost invariably a case of wading through. Some of them, no doubt, I could have jumped if I had been in decent shape, but with a bad ankle and in the weakened condition in which I was, it was almost out of the question. One night I came to a ditch about eight or nine feet wide. I thought I was strong enough to jump it, and it was worth trying, as the discomfort I suffered after wading these ditches was considerable. Taking a long run, I jumped as hard as I could, but I missed it by four or five inches and landed in about two feet of water and three feet more of mud. Getting out of that mess was quite a job. The water was too dirty and too scanty to enable me to wash off the mud with which I was covered and it was too wet to scrape off. I just had to wait until it dried and scrape it off then. In many sections of Belgium through which I had to pass I encountered large areas of swamp and marshy ground, and, rather than waste the time involved in looking for better underfooting--which I might not have found, anyway--I used to plod right through the mud. Apart from the discomfort of this method of traveling and the slow time I made, there was an added danger to me in the fact that the "squash-squash" noise which I made might easily be overheard by Belgians and Germans and give my position away. Nobody would cross a swamp or marsh in that part of the country unless he was trying to get away from somebody, and I realized my danger, but could not get around it. It was a common sight in Belgium to see a small donkey and a common, ordinary milch cow hitched together, pulling a wagon. When I first observed the unusual combination I thought it was a donkey and ox or bull, but closer inspection revealed to me that cows were being used for the purpose. From what I was able to observe, there must be very few horses left in Belgium except those owned by the Germans. Cows and donkeys are now doing the work formerly done by horses and mules. Altogether I spent nearly eight weeks wandering through Belgium and in all that time I don't believe I saw more than half a dozen horses in the possession of the native population. One of the scarcest things in Germany, apparently, is rubber, for I noticed that their motor trucks, or lorries, unlike our own, had no rubber tires. Instead, heavy iron bands were employed. I could hear them come rumbling along the stone roads for miles before they reached the spot where I happened to be in hiding. When I saw these military roads in Belgium for the first time, with their heavy cobblestones that looked as if they would last for centuries, I realized at once why it was that the Germans had been able to make such a rapid advance into Belgium at the start of the war. I noticed that the Belgians used dogs to a considerable extent to pull their carts, and I thought many times that if I could have stolen one of those dogs it would have made a very good companion for me, and might, if the occasion arose, help me out in a fight. But I had no way of feeding it and the animal would probably have starved to death. I could live on vegetables which I could always depend upon finding in the fields, but a dog couldn't, and so I gave up the idea. The knack of making fire with two pieces of dry wood I had often read about, but I had never put it to a test, and for various reasons I concluded that it would be unsafe for me to build a fire even if I had matches. In the first place, there was no absolute need for it. I didn't have anything to cook, nor utensils to cook it in even if I had. While the air was getting to be rather cool at night, I was usually on the go at the time and didn't notice it. In the daytime, when I was resting or sleeping, the sun was usually out. To have borrowed matches from a Belgian peasant would have been feasible, but when I was willing to take the chance of approaching any one it was just as easy to ask for food as matches. In the second place, it would have been extremely dangerous to have built a fire even if I had needed it. You can't build a fire in Belgium, which is the most thickly populated country in Europe, without every one knowing it, and I was far from anxious to advertise my whereabouts. The villages in the part of Belgium through which I was making my course were so close together that there was hardly ever an hour passed without my hearing some clock strike. Every village has its clock. Many times I could hear the clocks striking in two villages at the same time. But the hour had very little interest to me. My program was to travel as fast as I could from sunset to sunrise and pay no attention to the hours in between, and in the daytime I had only two things to worry about: keep concealed and get as much sleep as possible. The cabbage that I got in Belgium consisted of the small heads that the peasants had not cut. All the strength had concentrated in these little heads and they would be as bitter as gall. I would have to be pretty hungry to-day before I could ever eat cabbage again, and the same observation applies to carrots, turnips, and sugar-beets--especially sugar-beets. It is rather a remarkable thing that to-day even the smell of turnips, raw or cooked, makes me sick, and yet a few short months ago my life depended upon them. Night after night, as I searched for food, I was always in hopes that I might come upon some tomatoes or celery--vegetables which I really liked, but with the exception of once, when I found some celery, I was never so fortunate. I ate so much of the celery the night I came upon it that I was sick for two days thereafter, but I carried several bunches away with me and used to chew on it as I walked along. Of course, I kept my eyes open all the time for fruit trees, but apparently it was too late in the year for fruit, as all that I ever was able to find were two pears which I got out of a tree. That was one of my red-letter days, but I was never able to repeat it. In the brooks and ponds that I passed I often noticed fish of different kinds. That was either in the early morning, just before I turned in for the day, or on moonlight nights when the water seemed as clear in spots as in the daytime. It occurred to me that it would be a simple matter to rig a hook and line and catch some of the fish, but I had no means of cooking them and it was useless to fish for the sake of it. One night in Belgium my course took me through a desolate stretch of country which seemed to be absolutely uncultivated. I must have covered twelve miles during the night without passing a single farm or cultivated field. My stock of turnips which I had plucked the night before was gone and I planned, of course, to get enough to carry me through the following day. The North Star was shining brightly that night and there was absolutely nothing to prevent my steering an absolutely direct course for Holland and liberty, but my path seemed to lie through arid pastures. Far to the east or to the west I could hear faintly the striking of village bells, and I knew that if I changed my course I would undoubtedly strike farms and vegetables, but the North Star seemed to plead with me to follow it, and I would not turn aside. When daylight came the consequence was I was empty-handed, and I had to find a hiding-place for the day. I thought I would approach the first peasant I came to and ask for food, but that day I had misgivings--a hunch--that I would get into trouble if I did, and I decided to go without food altogether for that day. It was a foolish thing to do, I found, because I not only suffered greatly from hunger all that day, but it interfered with my sleep. I would drop off to sleep for half an hour, perhaps, and during that time I would dream that I was free, back home, living a life of comparative ease, and then I would wake up with a start and catch a glimpse of the bushes surrounding me, feel the hard ground beneath me and the hunger pangs gnawing at my insides, and then I would realize how far from home I really was, and I would lie there and wonder whether I would ever really see my home again. Then I would fall asleep again and dream this time, perhaps, of the days I spent in Courtrai, of my leap from the train window, of the Bavarian pilot whom I sent to eternity in my last air-fight, of my tracer-bullets getting closer and closer to his head, and then I would wake up again with a start and thank the Lord that I was only dreaming it all again instead of living through it! That night I got an early start because I knew I had to have food, and I decided that, rather than look for vegetables, I would take a chance and apply to the first Belgian peasant I came to. It was about eight o'clock when I came to a small house. I had picked up a heavy stone and had bound it in my handkerchief, and I was resolved to use it as a weapon if it became necessary. After all I had gone through I was resolved to win my liberty eventually at whatever cost. As it happened, I found that night the first real friend I had encountered in all my traveling. When I knocked timidly on the door it was opened by a Belgian peasant, about fifty years of age. He asked me in Flemish what I wanted, but I shook my head and, pointing to my ears and mouth, intimated that I was deaf and dumb, and then I opened and closed my teeth several times to show him that I wanted food. He showed me inside and sat me at the table. He apparently lived alone, for his ill-furnished room had but one chair, and the plate and knife and fork he put before me seemed to be all he had. He brought me some cold potatoes and several slices of stale bread, and he warmed me some milk on a small oil-stove. I ate ravenously, and all the time I was engaged I knew that he was eying me closely. Before I was half through he came over to me, touched me on the shoulder, and, stooping over so that his lips almost touched my ear, he said, in broken English, "You are an Englishman--I know it--and you can hear and talk if you wish. Am I not right?" There was a smile on his face and a friendly attitude about him that told me instinctively that he could be trusted, and I replied, "You have guessed right--only I am an American, not an Englishman." He looked at me pityingly and filled my cup again with warm milk. His kindness and apparent willingness to help me almost overcame me, and I felt like warning him of the consequences he would suffer if the Huns discovered he had befriended me. I had heard that twenty Belgians had been shot for helping Belgians to escape into Holland, and I hated to think what might happen to this Good Samaritan if the Huns ever knew that he had helped an escaped American prisoner. After my meal was finished I told him in as simple language as I could command of some of the experiences I had gone through, and I outlined my future plans. "You will never be able to get to Holland," he declared, "without a passport. The nearer you get to the frontier the more German soldiers you will encounter, and without a passport you will be a marked man." I asked him to suggest a way by which I could overcome this difficulty. He thought for several moments and studied me closely all the time--perhaps endeavoring to make absolutely sure that I was not a German spy--and then, apparently deciding in my favor, told me what he thought it was best for me to do. "If you will call on this man," mentioning the name of a Belgian in ----, a city through which I had to pass, he advised, "you will be able to make arrangements with him to secure a passport, and he will do everything he can to get you out of Belgium." He told me where the man in question could be found and gave me some useful directions to continue my journey, and then he led me to the door. I thanked him a thousand times and wanted to pay him for his kindness and help, but he would accept nothing. He did give me his name, and you may be sure I shall never forget it, but to mention it here might, of course, result in serious consequences for him. When the war is over, however, or the Germans are thrown out of Belgium, I shall make it my duty to find that kind Belgian, if to do it I have to go through again all that I have suffered already. XI I ENCOUNTER GERMAN SOLDIERS What the Belgian had told me about the need of a passport gave me fresh cause for worry. Suppose I should run into a German sentry before I succeeded in getting one? I decided that until I reached the big city which the Belgian had mentioned--and which I cannot name for fear of identifying some of the people there who befriended me--I would proceed with the utmost precaution. Since I had discarded my uniform and had obtained civilian clothes I had not been quite as careful as I was at first. While I had done my traveling at night, I had not gone into hiding so early in the morning as before, and I had sometimes started again before it was quite dark, relying upon the fact that I would probably be mistaken for a Belgian on his way to or from work, as the case might be. From now on, I resolved, however, I would take no more chances. That evening I came to a river perhaps seventy-five yards wide, and I was getting ready to swim it when I thought I would walk a little way to find, if possible, a better place to get to the river from the bank. I had not walked more than a few hundred feet when I saw a boat. It was the first time I had seen a boat in all my experiences. It was firmly chained, but as the stakes were sunk in the soft bank it was not much of a job to pull them out. I got in, drank to my heart's content, shoved over to the other side, got out, drove a stake into the ground, and moored the boat. It would have been a simple matter to have drifted down the river, but the river was not shown on my map and I had no idea where it might lead me. Very reluctantly, therefore, I had to abandon the boat and proceed on foot. I made several miles that night and before daylight found a safe place in which to hide for the day. From my hiding-place I could see through the bushes a heavy thick wood only a short distance away. I decided that I would start earlier than usual, hurry over to the wood, and perhaps in that way I could cover two or three miles in the daytime and gain just so much time. Traveling through the wood would be comparatively safe. There was a railroad going through the wood, but I did not figure that that would make it any the less safe. About three o'clock that afternoon, therefore, I emerged from my hiding-place and hurried into the wood. After proceeding for half a mile or so I came to the railroad. I took a sharp look in both directions and, seeing no signs of trains or soldiers, I walked boldly over the tracks and continued on my way. I soon came upon a clearing and knew that some one must be living in the vicinity. As I turned a group of trees I saw a small house and in the distance an old man working in a garden. I decided to enter the house and ask for food, figuring the woman would probably be old and would be no match for me even if she proved hostile. The old woman who came to the door in response to my knock was older even than I had expected. If she wasn't close to a hundred years, I miss my guess very much. She could not speak English and I could not speak Flemish, of course, but, nevertheless, I made her understand that I wanted something to eat. She came out of the door and hollered for her husband in a shrill voice that would have done credit to a girl of eighteen. The old man came in from his garden and between the two of them they managed to get the idea that I was hungry, and they gave me a piece of bread--a very small piece--which was quite a treat. The house they lived in consisted of just two rooms--the kitchen and a bedroom. The kitchen was perhaps fourteen feet square, eight feet of one side of it being taken up by an enormous fireplace. What was in the bedroom I had no way of telling, as I did not dare to be too inquisitive. I made the old couple understand that I would like to stay in their house all night, but the old man shook his head. I bade them good-by and disappeared into the woods, leaving them to speculate as to the strange foreigner they had entertained. From the greater density of the population in the section through which I was now passing I realized that I must be in the outskirts of the big city which the Belgian had mentioned and where I was to procure a passport. Village after village intercepted me, and, although I tried to skirt them wherever possible, I realized that I would never make much progress if I continued that course. To gain a mile I would sometimes have to make a detour of two or three. I decided that I would try my luck in going straight through the next village I came to. As I approached it I passed numbers of peasants who were ambling along the road. I was afraid to mingle with them because it was impossible for me to talk to them and it was dangerous to arouse suspicion even among the Belgians. For all I knew, one of them might be treacherous enough to deliver me to the Germans in return for the reward he might be sure of receiving. About nine o'clock that evening I came to a point where ahead of me on the right was a Belgian police station--I knew it from its red lights--and on the other side of the street were two German soldiers in uniform leaning against a bicycle. Here was a problem which called for instant decision. If I turned back, the suspicion of the soldiers would be instantly aroused, and if I crossed the road so as not to pass so closely to them, they might be equally suspicious. I decided to march bravely by the Huns, bluff my way through, and trust to Providence. If anybody imagines, however, that I was at all comfortable as I approached those soldiers, he must think that I am a much braver man than I claim to be. My heart beat so loud I was afraid they would hear it. Every step I took brought me so much nearer to what might prove to be the end of all my hopes. It was a nerve-racking ordeal. I was now within a few feet of them. Another step and-- They didn't turn a hair! I passed right by them--heard what they were saying, although, of course, I didn't understand it, and went right on. I can't say I didn't walk a little faster as I left them behind, but I tried to maintain an even gait so as not to give them any idea of the inward exultation I was experiencing. No words can explain, however, how relieved I really felt--to know that I had successfully passed through the first of a series of similar tests which I realized were in store for me--although I did not know then how soon I was to be confronted with the second. As it was, however, the incident gave me a world of confidence. It demonstrated to me that there was nothing in my appearance, at any rate, to attract the attention of the German soldiers. Apparently I looked like a Belgian peasant, and if I could only work things so that I would never have to answer questions and thus give away my nationality, I figured I would be tolerably safe. As I marched along I felt so happy I couldn't help humming the air of one of the new patriotic songs that we used to sing at the aerodrome back of Ypres. In this happy fame of mind I covered the next three miles in about an hour, and then I came to another little village. My usual course would have been to go around it--through fields, backyards, woods, or whatever else lay in my way--but I had gained so much time by going through the last village instead of detouring around it, and my appearance seemed to be so unsuspicious, that I decided to try the same stunt again. I stopped humming and kept very much on the alert, but, apart from that, I walked boldly through the main street without any feeling of alarm. I had proceeded perhaps a mile along the main street when I noticed ahead of me three German soldiers standing at the curb. Again my heart started to beat fast, I must confess, but I was not nearly so scared as I had been an hour or so before. I walked ahead, determined to follow my previous procedure in every particular. I had got to about fifteen feet away from the soldiers when one of them stepped onto the sidewalk and shouted: "Halt!" My heart stopped beating fast--for a moment, I believe, it stopped beating altogether! I can't attempt to describe my feelings. The thought that the jig was up, that all I had gone through and all I had escaped would now avail me nothing, mingled with a feeling of disgust with myself because of the foolish risk I had taken in going through the village, combined to take all the starch out of me, and I could feel myself wilting as the soldier advanced to the spot where I stood rooted in my tracks. I had a bottle of water in one pocket and a piece of bread in the other, and as the Hun advanced to search me I held the bottle up in one hand and the piece of bread in the other so that he could see that was all I had. It occurred to me that he would "frisk" me--that is, feel me over for arms or other weapons, then place me under arrest and march me off to the guard-house. I had not the slightest idea but that I was captured, and there didn't seem to be much use in resisting, unarmed as I was and with two other German soldiers within a few feet of us. Like a flash it suddenly dawned on me, however, that for all this soldier could have known I was only a Belgian peasant and that his object in searching me, which he proceeded to do, was to ascertain whether I had committed the common "crime" of smuggling potatoes! The Belgians are allowed only a certain amount of potatoes, and it is against the laws laid down by the Huns to deal in vegetables of any kind except under the rigid supervision of the authorities. Nevertheless, it was one of the principal vocations of the average poor Belgian to buy potatoes out in the country from the peasants and then smuggle them into the large cities and sell them clandestinely at a high price. To stop this traffic in potatoes the German soldiers were in the habit of subjecting the Belgians to frequent search, and I was being held up by this soldier for no other reason than that he thought I might be a potato-smuggler! He felt of my outside clothes and pockets, and, finding no potatoes, seemed to be quite satisfied. Had he but known who I was he could have earned an iron cross! Or perhaps, in view of the fact that I had a heavy water-bottle in my uplifted hand, it might have turned out to be a _wooden_ cross! He said something in German, which, of course, I did not understand, and then some Belgian peasants came along and seemed to distract his attention. Perhaps he had said, "It's all right, you may go on," or he may have been talking to the others in Flemish, but, at any rate, observing that he was more interested in the others than he was in me at the moment, I put the bottle in my pocket and walked on. After I walked a few steps I took a furtive glance backward and noticed the soldier who had searched me rejoin his comrades at the curb and then stop another fellow who had come along, and then I disappeared in the darkness. I cannot say that the outcome of this adventure left me in the same confident frame of mind that followed the earlier one. It was true I had come out of it all right, but I could not help thinking what a terribly close shave I had. Suppose the soldier had questioned me? The ruse I had been following in my dealings with the Belgian peasants--pretending I was deaf and dumb--might possibly have worked here, too, but a soldier--a German soldier--might not so easily have been fooled. It was more than an even chance that it would at least have aroused his suspicions and resulted in further investigation. A search of my clothing would have revealed a dozen things which would have established my identity, and all my shamming of deafness would have availed me nothing. As I wandered along I knew that I was now approaching the big city which my Belgian friend had spoken of and which I would have to enter if I was to get the passport, and I realized now how essential it was to have something to enable me to get through the frequent examinations to which I expected to be subjected. While I was still debating in my mind whether it was going to be possible for me to enter the city that night, I saw in the distance what appeared to be an arc-light, and as I neared it that was what it turned out to be. Beneath the light I could make out the forms of three guards, and the thought of having to go through the same kind of ordeal that I had just experienced filled me with misgivings. Was it possible that I could be fortunate enough to get by again? As I slowed up a little, trying to make up my mind what was best to do, I was overtaken by a group of Belgian women who were shuffling along the road, and I decided to mingle with them and see if I couldn't convey the impression that I was one of their party. As we approached the arc-light the figures of those three soldiers with their spiked helmets loomed up before me like a regiment. I felt as if I were walking right into the jaws of death. Rather than go through what was in store for me I felt that I would infinitely prefer to be fighting again in the air with those four desperate Huns who had been the cause of my present plight; then, at least, I would have a chance to fight back, but now I had to risk my life and take what was coming to me without a chance to strike a blow in my own defense. I shall never forget my feelings as we came within the shaft of light projected by that great arc-light, nor the faces of those three guards as we passed by them. I didn't look directly at them, but out of the corner of my eye I didn't miss a detail. I held a handkerchief up to my face as we passed them, and endeavored to imitate the slouching gait of the Belgians as well as I could; and apparently it worked. We walked right by those guards and they paid absolutely no attention to us. If ever a fellow felt like going down on his knees and praying, I did at that moment, but it wouldn't have done to show my elation or gratitude in that conspicuous way. It was then well after eleven o'clock, and I knew it would be unsafe for me to attempt to find a lodging-place in the city, and the only thing for me to do was to locate the man whose name the Belgian had given me. He had given me a good description of the street and had directed me how to get there, and I followed his instructions closely. After walking the streets for about half an hour I came upon one of the landmarks my friend had described to me, and ten minutes afterward I was knocking at the door of the man who was to make it possible for me to reach Holland--and liberty. At least that was what I hoped. XII THE FORGED PASSPORT For obvious reasons I cannot describe the man to whom I applied for the passport, nor the house in which he lived. While, in view of what subsequently happened, I would not be very much concerned if he got into trouble for having dealt with me, I realize that the hardships he had endured in common with all the other inhabitants of that conquered city may possibly have distorted his ideas of right and justice, and I shall not deliberately bring further disaster on him by revealing his identity. This man--we will call him Huyliger, because that is as unlike his name as it is mine--was very kind to me on that memorable night when I aroused him from his sleep and in a few words of explanation told him of my plight. He invited me inside, prepared some food for me, and, putting on a dressing-gown, came and sat by me while I ate, listening with the greatest interest to the short account I gave him of my adventures. He could speak English fluently, and he interrupted me several times to express his sympathy for the sufferings I had endured. "O'Brien," he said, after I had concluded my story, "I am going to help you. It may take several days--perhaps as long as two weeks, but eventually we will provide the means to enable you to get into Holland!" I thanked him a thousand times and told him that I didn't know how I could possibly repay him. "Don't think of that," he replied; "the satisfaction of knowing that I have aided in placing one more victim of the Huns beyond their power to harm him will more than repay me for all the risk I shall run in helping you. You'd better turn in now, O'Brien, and in the morning I'll tell you what I plan to do." He showed me to a small room on the second floor, shook hands with me, and left me to prepare for the first real night's rest I had been able to take in nearly two months. As I removed my clothes and noticed that my knees were still swollen to twice their normal size, that my left ankle was black and blue from the wrench I had given it when I jumped from the train, and that my ribs showed through my skin, I realized what a lot I had been through. As a matter of fact, I could not have weighed more than one hundred and fifty pounds at that time, whereas I had tipped the scales at one hundred and ninety when I was with my squadron in France. I lost no time in getting into bed and still less in getting to sleep. I don't know what I dreamed of that night, but I had plenty of time to go through the experiences of my whole life, for when I was aroused by a knock on the door, and Huyliger came in, in response to my invitation to enter, he told me that it was nearly noon. I had slept for nearly twelve hours. I cannot say that the thought did not run through my head that perhaps, after all, I was living in a fool's paradise, and that when Huyliger reappeared it would be with a couple of German soldiers behind him, but I dismissed such misgivings summarily, realizing that I was doing Huyliger an injustice to let such things enter my head even for an instant. I had no right to doubt his sincerity, and it would do me no good to entertain such suspicions. If he was going to prove treacherous to me, I was powerless, anyway, to cope with him. In a few moments my host appeared with a tray containing my breakfast. I don't suppose I shall ever forget that meal. It consisted of a cup of coffee--real coffee, not the kind I had had at Courtrai--several slices of bread, some hot potatoes, and a dish of scrambled eggs. Every mouthful of that meal tasted like angel-food to me, and Huyliger sat on the edge of the bed and watched me enjoying the meal, at the same time outlining the plans he had made for my escape. In brief, the scheme was to conceal me in a convent until conditions were ripe for me to make my way to the border. In the mean while I was to be dressed in the garb of a priest, and when the time came for me to leave the city I was to pretend that I was a Spanish sailor, because I could speak a little Spanish, which I had picked up on the coast. To attempt to play the part of a Belgian would become increasingly difficult, he pointed out, and would bring inevitable disaster in the event that I was called upon to speak. Huyliger said I would be given sufficient money to bribe the German guards at the Dutch frontier, and he assured me that everything would work out according to schedule. "Yours is not the first case, O'Brien, we have handled successfully," he declared. "Only three weeks ago I heard from an English merchant who had escaped from a German detention camp and come to me for assistance, and whom I had been able to get through the lines. His message telling me of his safe arrival in Rotterdam came to me in an indirect way, of course, but the fact that the plans we had made carried through without mishap makes me feel that we ought to be able to do as much for you." I told Huyliger I was ready to follow his instructions and would do anything he suggested. "I want to rejoin my squadron as soon as I possibly can, of course," I told him, "but I realize that it will take a certain length of time for you to make the necessary arrangements, and I will be as patient as I can." The first thing to do, Huyliger told me, was to prepare a passport. He had a blank one and it was a comparatively simple matter to fill in the spaces, using a genuine passport which Huyliger possessed as a sample of the handwriting of the passport clerk. My occupation was entered as that of a sailor. My birthplace we gave as Spain, and we put my age at thirty. As a matter of fact, at that time I could easily have passed for thirty-five, but we figured that with proper food and a decent place to sleep in at night I would soon regain my normal appearance and the passport would have to serve me, perhaps, for several weeks to come. Filling in the blank spaces on the passport was, as I have said, a comparatively easy matter, but that did not begin to fill the bill. Every genuine passport bore an official rubber stamp, something like an elaborate postmark, and I was at a loss to know how to get over that difficulty. [Illustration: THE FORGED PASSPORT PREPARED IN A BELGIAN CITY TO AID LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN'S ESCAPE INTO HOLLAND, BUT WHICH WAS NEVER USED] Fortunately, however, Huyliger had half of a rubber stamp which had evidently been thrown away by the Germans, and he planned to construct the other half out of the cork from a wine bottle. He was very skilful with a penknife, and although he spoiled a score or more of corks before he succeeded in getting anything like the result he was after, the finished article was far better than our most sanguine expectations. Indeed, after we had pared it over here and there and removed whatever imperfections our repeated tests disclosed, we had a stamp which made an impression so closely resembling the original that, without a magnifying-glass, we were sure it would have been impossible to tell that it was a counterfeit. Huyliger procured a camera and took a photograph of me to paste on the passport in the place provided for that purpose, and we then had a passport which was entirely satisfactory to both of us and would, we hoped, prove equally so to our friends the Huns. It had taken two days to fix up the passport. In the mean while, Huyliger informed me that he had changed his plans about the convent, and that instead he would take me to an empty house where I could remain in safety until he told me it was advisable for me to proceed to the frontier. This was quite agreeable to me, as I had had some misgivings as to the kind of a priest I would make, and it seemed to me to be safer to remain aloof from every one in a deserted house than to have to mingle with people or come in contact with them even with the best of disguises. That night I accompanied Huyliger to a fashionable section of the city where the house in which I was to be concealed was located. This house turned out to be a four-story structure of brick. Huyliger told me that it had been occupied by a wealthy Belgian before the war, but since 1914 it had been uninhabited save for the occasional habitation of some refugee whom Huyliger was befriending. Huyliger had a key and let me in, but he did not enter the house with me, stating that he would visit me in the morning. I explored the place from top to bottom as well as I could without lights. The house was elaborately furnished, but, of course, the dust lay a quarter of an inch thick almost everywhere. It was a large house, containing some twenty rooms. There were two rooms in the basement, four on the first floor, four on the second, five on the third, and five on the top. In the days that were to come I was to have plenty of opportunity to familiarize myself with the contents of that house, but at the time I did not know it, and I was curious enough to want to know just what the house contained. Down in the basement there was a huge pantry, but it was absolutely bare, except of dust and dirt. A door which evidently led to a sub-basement attracted my attention, and I thought it might be a good idea to know just where it led in case it became necessary for me to elude searchers. In that cellar I found case after case of choice wine--Huyliger subsequently told me that there were eighteen hundred bottles of it. I was so happy at the turn my affairs had taken and in the rosy prospects which I now entertained that I was half inclined to indulge in a little celebration then and there. On second thoughts, however, I remembered the old warning of the folly of shouting before you are well out of the woods, and I decided that it would be just as well to postpone the festivities for a while and go to bed instead. In such an elaborately furnished house I had naturally conjured up ideas of a wonderfully large bed, with thick hair mattresses, downy quilts, and big soft pillows. Indeed, I debated for a while which particular bedroom I should honor with my presence that night. Judge of my disappointment, therefore, when, after visiting bedroom after bedroom, I discovered that there wasn't a bed in any one of them that was in a condition to sleep in. All the mattresses had been removed and the rooms were absolutely bare of everything in the way of wool, silk, or cotton fabrics. The Germans had apparently swept the house clean. There was nothing to do, therefore, but to make myself as comfortable as I could on the floor, but as I had grown accustomed by this time to sleeping under far less comfortable conditions I swallowed my disappointment as cheerfully as I could and lay down for the night. In the morning Huyliger appeared and brought me some breakfast, and after I had eaten it he asked me what connections I had in France or England from whom I could obtain money. I told him that I banked at Cox & Co., London, and that if he needed any money I would do anything I could to get it for him, although I did not know just how such things could be arranged. "Don't worry about that, O'Brien," he replied. "We'll find a way of getting at it, all right. What I want to know is how far you are prepared to go to compensate me for the risks I am taking and for the service I am rendering you." The change in the man's attitude stunned me. I could hardly believe my ears. "Of course, I shall pay you as well as I can for what you have done, Huyliger," I replied, trying to conceal as far as possible the disappointment his demand had occasioned me. "But don't you think that this is hardly the proper time or occasion to talk of compensation? All I have on me, as you know, is a few hundred francs, and that, of course, you are welcome to, and when I get back, if I ever do, I shall not easily forget the kindness you have shown me. I am sure you need have no concern about my showing my gratitude in a substantial way." "That's all right, O'Brien," he insisted, looking at me in a knowing sort of way. "You may take care of me afterward, and then again you may not. I'm not satisfied to wait. I want to be taken care of _now_!" "Well, what do you want me to do? How much do you expect in the way of compensation? How can I arrange to get it to you? I am willing to do anything that is reasonable." "I want ---- pounds!" he replied, and he named a figure that staggered me. If I had been Lord Kitchener instead of just an ordinary lieutenant in the R. F. C., he would hardly have asked a larger sum. Perhaps he thought I was. "Why, my dear man," I said, smilingly, thinking that perhaps he was joking, "you don't really mean that, do you?" "I certainly do, O'Brien, and what is more," he threatened, "I intend to get every cent I have asked, and you are going to help me get it!" He pulled out an order calling for the payment to him of the amount he had mentioned, and demanded that I sign it. I waved it aside. "Huyliger," I said, "you have helped me out so far, and perhaps you have the power to help me further. I appreciate what you have done for me, although now, I think, I see what your motive was, but I certainly don't intend to be blackmailed, and I tell you right now that I won't stand for it!" "Very well," he said. "It is just as you say. But before you make up your mind so obstinately I would advise you to think it over. I'll be back this evening." My first impulse, after the man had left, was to get out of that house just as soon as I could. I had the passport he had prepared for me, and I figured that even without further help from him I could now get to the border without very much difficulty, and when I got there I would have to use my own ingenuity to get through. It was evident, however, that Huyliger still had an idea that I might change my mind with regard to the payment he had demanded, and I decided that it would be foolish to do anything until he paid me a second visit. At the beginning of my dealings with Huyliger I had turned over to him some pictures, papers, and other things that I had on me when I entered his house, including my identification disk, and I was rather afraid that he might refuse to return them to me. All day long I remained in the house without a particle of food other than the breakfast Huyliger had brought to me. From the windows I could see plenty to interest me and help pass the time away, but of my experiences while in that house I shall tell in detail later on, confining my attention now to a narration of my dealings with Huyliger. That night he appeared, as he had promised. "Well, O'Brien," he asked, as he entered the room where I was awaiting him, "what do you say? Will you sign the order or not?" It had occurred to me during the day that the amount demanded was so fabulous that I might have signed the order without any danger of its ever being paid, but the idea of this man, who had claimed to be befriending me, endeavoring to make capital out of my plight galled me so that I was determined not to give in to him, whether I could do so in safety or not. "No, Huyliger," I replied. "I have decided to get along as best I can without any further assistance from you. I shall see that you are reasonably paid for what you have done, but I will not accept any further assistance from you at any price, and, what is more, I want you to return to me at once all the photographs and other papers and belongings of mine which I turned over to you a day or two ago!" "I'm sorry about that, O'Brien," he retorted, with a show of apparent sincerity, "but that is something I cannot do." "If you don't give me back those papers at once," I replied, hotly, "I will take steps to get them and damned quick, too!" "I don't know just what you could do, O'Brien," he declared, coolly, "but as a matter of fact the papers and pictures you refer to are out of the country. I could not give them back to you if I wanted to." Something told me the man was lying. "See here, Huyliger!" I threatened, advancing toward him, putting my hand on his shoulder and looking him straight in the eye, "I want those papers and I want them here before midnight to-night. If I don't get them, I shall sleep in this place just once more, and then, at eight o'clock to-morrow morning, I shall go to the German authorities, give myself up, show them the passport that you fixed up for me, tell them how I got it, and explain everything!" Huyliger paled. We had no lights in the house, but we were standing near a landing at the time and the moonlight was streaming through a stained-glass window. The Belgian turned on his heel and started to go down the stairs. "Mind you," I called after him, "I shall wait for you till the city clock strikes twelve, and if you don't show up with those papers by that time, the next time you will see me is when you confront me before the German authorities! I am a desperate man, Huyliger, and I mean every word I say!" He let himself out of the door and I sat on the top stair and wondered just what he would do. Would he try to steal a march on me and get in a first word to the authorities, so that my story would be discredited when I put it to them? Of course my threat to give myself up to the Huns was a pure bluff. While I had no desire to lose the papers which Huyliger had, and which included the map of the last resting-place of my poor chum Raney, I certainly had no intention of cutting off my nose to spite my chin by surrendering to the Germans. I would have been shot, as sure as fate, for, after all I had been able to observe behind the German lines, I would be regarded as a spy and treated as such. At the same time I thought I had detected a yellow streak in Huyliger, and I figured that he would not want to take the risk of my carrying out my threat, even though he believed there was but a small chance of my doing so. If I did, he would undoubtedly share my fate, and the pictures and papers he had of mine were really of no use to him, and I have never been able to ascertain why it was he wished to retain them unless they contained something--some information about me--which accounted for his complete change of attitude toward me in the first place, and he wanted the papers as evidence to account to his superiors or associates for his conduct toward me. When he first told me that the plan of placing me in a convent disguised as a priest had been abandoned he explained it by saying that the Cardinal had issued orders to the priests to help no more fugitives, and I have since wondered whether there was anything in my papers which had turned him against me and led him to forsake me after all he had promised to do for me. For perhaps two hours I sat on that staircase musing about the peculiar turn in my affairs, when the front door opened and Huyliger ascended the stairs. "I have brought you such of your belongings as I still had, O'Brien," he said, softly. "The rest, as I told you, I cannot give you. They are no longer in my possession." I looked through the little bunch he handed me. It included my identification disk, most of the papers I valued, and perhaps half of the photographs. "I don't know what your object is in retaining the rest of my pictures, Huyliger," I replied, "but, as a matter of fact, the ones that are missing were only of sentimental value to me, and you are welcome to them if you want them. We'll call it a heat." I don't know whether he understood the idiom, but he sat down on the stairs just below me and cogitated for a few moments. "O'Brien," he started, finally, "I'm sorry things have gone the way they have. I feel sorry for you and I would really like to help you. I don't suppose you will believe me, but the matter of the order which I asked you to sign was not of my doing. However, we won't go into that. The proposition was made to you and you turned it down, and that's an end of it. At the same time, I hate to leave you to your own resources and I'm going to make one more suggestion to you for your own good. I have another plan to get you into Holland, and if you will go with me to another house I will introduce you to a man who I think will be in a position to help you." "How many millions of pounds will he want for his trouble?" I asked, sarcastically. "You can arrange that when you see him. Will you go?" I suspected there was something fishy about the proposition, but I felt that I could take care of myself and decided to see the thing through. I knew Huyliger would not dare to deliver me to the authorities because of the fact that I had the telltale passport, which would be his death-knell as well as my own. Accordingly I said I would be quite willing to go with him whenever he was ready, and he suggested that we go the next evening. I pointed out to him that I was entirely without food and asked him whether he could not arrange to bring or send me something to eat while I remained in the house. "I'm sorry, O'Brien," he replied, "but I'm afraid you'll have to get along as best you can. When I brought you your breakfast this morning I took a desperate chance. If I had been discovered by one of the German soldiers entering this house with food in my possession, I would not only have paid the penalty myself, but you would have been discovered, too. It is too dangerous a proposition. Why don't you go out by yourself and buy your food at the stores? That would give you confidence, and you'll need plenty of it when you continue your journey to the border." There was a good deal of truth in what he said, and I really could not blame him for not wanting to take any chances to help me, in view of the relations between us. "Very well," I said; "I've gone without food for many hours at a time before and I suppose I shall be able to do so again. I shall look for you to-morrow evening." The next evening he came and I accompanied him to another house not very far from the one in which I had been staying and not unlike it in appearance. It, too, was a substantial dwelling-house which had been untenanted since the beginning, save perhaps for such occasional visits as Huyliger and his associates made to it. Huyliger let himself in and conducted me to a room on the second floor, where he introduced me to two men. One, I could readily see by the resemblance, was his own brother. The other was a stranger. Very briefly they explained to me that they had procured another passport for me--a genuine one--which would prove far more effective in helping to get me to the frontier than the counterfeit one they had manufactured for me. I think I saw through their game right at the start, but I listened patiently to what they had to say. "Of course, you will have to return to us the passport we gave you before we can give you the real one," said Huyliger's brother. "I haven't the slightest objection," I replied, "if the new passport is all you claim for it. Will you let me see it?" There was considerable hesitation on the part of Huyliger's brother and the other chap at this. "Why, I don't think that's necessary at all, Mr. O'Brien," said the former. "You give us the old passport and we will be very glad to give you the new one for it. Isn't that fair enough?" "It may be fair enough, my friends," I retorted, seeing that it was useless to conceal further the fact that I was fully aware of their whole plan and why I had been brought to this house. "It may be fair enough, my friends," I said, "but you will get the passport that I have here," patting my side and indicating my inside breast pocket, "only off my dead body!" I suppose the three of them could have made short work of me then and there if they had wanted to go the limit, and no one would ever have been the wiser, but I had gone through so much and I was feeling so mean toward the whole world just at that moment that I was determined to sell my life as dearly as possible. "I have that passport here," I repeated, "and I'm going to keep it. If you gentlemen think you can take it from me, you are welcome to try!" To tell the truth, I was spoiling for a fight and I half wished they would start something. The man who had lived in the house had evidently been a collector of ancient pottery, for the walls were lined with great pieces of earthenware which had every earmark of possessing great value. They certainly possessed great weight. I figured that if the worst came to the worst that pottery would come in mighty handy. A single blow with one of those big vases would put a man out as neatly as possible, and as there was lots of pottery and only three men I believed I had an excellent chance of holding my own in the combat which I had invited. I had already picked out in my mind what I was going to use, and I got up, stood with my back to the wall, and told them that if they ever figured on getting the passport, then would be their best chance. Apparently they realized that I meant business and they immediately began to expostulate at the attitude I was taking. One of the men spoke excellent English. In fact, he told me that he could speak five languages, and if he could lie in the others as well I know he did in my own tongue, he was not only an accomplished linguist, but a most versatile liar into the bargain. They argued and expostulated with me for some time. "My dear fellow," said the linguist, "it is not that we want to deprive you of the passport. Good Heavens! if it will aid you in getting out of the country, I wish you could have six just like it. But for our own protection you owe it to us to proceed on your journey as best you can without it, because as long as you have it in your possession you jeopardize our lives, too. Don't you think it is fairer that you should risk your own safety rather than place the lives of three innocent men in danger?" "That may be as it is, my friends," I retorted, as I made my way to the door, "and I am glad you realize your danger. Keep it in mind, for in case any of you should happen to feel inclined to notify the German authorities that I am in this part of the country, think it over before you do so. Remember always that if the Germans get me, they get the passport, too, and if they get the passport, your lives won't be worth a damn! When I tell the history of that clever little piece of pasteboard I will implicate all three of you, and whomever else is working with you, and as I am an officer I rather think my word will be taken before yours. Good night!" The bluff evidently worked, because I was able to get out of the city without molestation from the Germans. I have never seen these men since. I hope I never shall, because I am afraid I might be tempted to do something for which I might afterward be sorry. I do not mean to imply that all Belgians are like this. I had evidently fallen into the hands of a gang who were endeavoring to make capital out of the misfortunes of those who were referred to them for help. In all countries there are bad as well as good, and in a country which has suffered so much as poor Belgium it is no wonder if some of the survivors have lost their sense of moral perspective. I know the average poor peasant in Belgium would divide his scanty rations with a needy fugitive sooner than a wealthy Belgian would dole out a morsel from his comparatively well-stocked larder. Perhaps the poor have less to lose than the rich if their generosity or charity is discovered by the Huns. There have been many Belgians shot for helping escaped prisoners and other fugitives, and it is not to be wondered at that they are willing to take as few chances as possible. A man with a family, especially, does not feel justified in helping a stranger when he knows that he and his whole family may be shot or sent to prison for their pains. Although I suffered much from the attitude of Huyliger and his associates, I suppose I ought to hold no grudge against them in view of the unenviable predicament which they are in themselves. XIII FIVE DAYS IN AN EMPTY HOUSE The five days I spent in that house seemed to me like five years. During all that time I had very little to eat--less, in fact, than I had been getting in the fields. I did not feel it so much, perhaps, because of the fact that I was no longer exposed to the other privations which had helped to make my condition so wretched. I now had a good place to sleep, at any rate, and I did not awake every half-hour or so as I had been accustomed to do in the fields and woods, and, of course, my hunger was not aggravated by the physical exertions which had been necessary before. Nevertheless, perhaps because I had more time now to think of the hunger pains which were gnawing at me all the time, I don't believe I was ever so miserable as I was at that period of my adventure. I felt so mean toward the world I would have committed murder, I think, with very little provocation. German soldiers were passing the house at all hours of the day. I watched them hour after hour from the keyhole of the door--to have shown myself at the window was out of the question because the house in which I was concealed was supposed to be untenanted. Because of the fact that I was unable to speak either Flemish or German I could not go out and buy food, although I still had the money with which to do it. That was one of the things that galled me--the thought that I had the wherewithal in my jeans to buy all the food I needed, and yet no way of getting it without endangering my liberty and life. At night, however, after it was dark, I would steal quietly out of the house to see what I could pick up in the way of food. By that time, of course, the stores were closed, but I scoured the streets, the alleys, and the byways for scraps of food, and occasionally got up courage enough to appeal to Belgian peasants whom I met on the streets, and in that way I managed to keep body and soul together. It was quite apparent to me, however, that I was worse off in the city than I had been in the fields, and I decided to get out of that house just as soon as I knew definitely that Huyliger had made up his mind to do nothing further for me. When I was not at the keyhole of the door I spent most of my day on the top floor in a room which looked out on the street. By keeping well away from the window I could see much of what was going on without being seen myself. In my restlessness I used to walk back and forth in that room, and I kept it up so constantly that I believe I must have worn a path on the floor. It was nine steps from one wall to the other, and as I had little else to amuse me I figured out one day, after I had been pacing up and down for several hours, just how much distance I would have covered on my way to Holland if my footsteps had been taking me in that direction instead of just up and down that old room. I was very much surprised that in three hours I crossed the room no less than five thousand times and the distance covered was between nine and ten miles. It was not very gratifying to realize that after walking all that distance I wasn't a step nearer my goal than when I started, but I had to do something while waiting for Huyliger to help me, and pacing up and down was a natural outlet for my restlessness. While looking out of that top-floor window one day I noticed a cat on a window-ledge of the house across the street. I had a piece of a broken mirror which I had picked up in the house and I used to amuse myself for an hour at a time shining it in the cat's eyes across the street. At first the animal was annoyed by the reflection and would move away, only to come back a few moments later. By and by, however, it seemed to get used to the glare and wouldn't budge, no matter how strong the sunlight was. Playing with the cat in this way was the means of my getting food a day or two later--at a time when I was so famished that I was ready to do almost anything to appease my hunger. It was about seven o'clock in the evening. I was expecting Huyliger at eight, but I hadn't the slightest hope that he would bring me food, as he had told me that he wouldn't take the risk of having food in his possession when calling on me. I was standing at the window in such a way that I could see what was going on in the street without being observed by those who passed by, when I noticed my friend the cat coming down the steps of the opposite house with something in his mouth. Without considering the risks I ran, I opened the front door, ran down the steps and across the street, and pounced on the cat before it could get away with its supper, for that, as I had imagined, was what I had seen in its mouth. It turned out to be a piece of stewed rabbit, which I confiscated eagerly and took back with me to the house. Perhaps I felt a little sorry for the cat, but I certainly had no other qualms about eating the animal's dinner. I was much too hungry to dwell upon niceties, and a piece of stewed rabbit was certainly too good for a cat to eat when a man was starving. I ate it and enjoyed it, and the incident suggested to me a way in which I might possibly obtain food again when all other avenues failed. From my place of concealment I frequently saw huge carts being pushed through the streets gathering potato peelings, refuse of cabbage, and similar food remnants which, in America, are considered garbage and destroyed. In Belgium they were using this "garbage" to make their bread out of, and while the idea may sound revolting to us, the fact is that the Germans have brought these things down to such a science that the bread they make in this way is really very good to eat. I know it would have been like cake to me when I was in need of food; indeed, I would have eaten the "garbage" direct, let alone the bread. Although, as I have said, I suffered greatly from hunger while occupying this house, there were one or two things I observed through the keyhole or from the windows which made me laugh, and some of the incidents that occurred during my voluntary imprisonment were really rather funny. From the keyhole I could see, for instance, a shop window on the other side of the street, several houses down the block. All day long German soldiers would be passing in front of the house, and I noticed that practically every one of them would stop in front of this store window and look in. Occasionally a soldier on duty bent would hurry past, but I think nine out of ten of them were sufficiently interested to spend at least a minute, and some of them three or four minutes, gazing at whatever was being exhibited in that window, although I noticed that it failed to attract the Belgians. I have a considerable streak of curiosity in me and I couldn't help wondering what it could be in that window which almost without exception seemed to interest German soldiers, but failed to hold the Belgians, and after conjuring my brains for a while on the problem I came to the conclusion that the shop must have been a book-shop and the window contained German magazines, which, naturally enough, would be of the greatest interest to the Germans, but of none to the Belgians. At any rate, I resolved that as soon as night came I would go out and investigate the window. When I got the answer I laughed so loud that I was afraid for the moment I must have attracted the attention of the neighbors, but I couldn't help it. The window was filled with huge quantities of sausage. The store was a butcher-shop, and one of the principal things they sold, apparently, was sausage. The display they made, although it consisted merely of quantities of sausage piled in the windows, certainly had plenty of "pulling" power. It "pulled" nine Germans out of ten out of their course and indirectly it "pulled" me right across the street. The idea of those Germans being so interested in that window display as to stand in front of the window for two, three, or four minutes at a time, however, certainly seemed funny to me, and when I got back to the house I sat at the keyhole again and found just as much interest as before in watching the Germans stop in their tracks when they reached the window, even though I was now aware what the attraction was. One of my chief occupations during those days was catching flies. I would catch a fly, put him in a spider's web--there were plenty of them in the old house--and sit down to wait for the spider to come and get him. But always I pictured myself in the same predicament and rescued the fly just as the spider was about to grab him. Several times when things were dull I was tempted to see the tragedy through, but perhaps the same Providence that guided me safely through all perils was guarding, too, the destiny of those flies, for I always weakened and the flies never did suffer from my lust for amusement. The house was well supplied with books--in fact, one of the choicest libraries I think I ever saw--but they were all written either in Flemish or in French. I could read no Flemish and very little French. I might have made a little headway with the latter, but the books all seemed too deep for me and I gave it up. There was one thing, though, that I did read and re-read from beginning to end--that was a New York _Herald_ which must have arrived just about the time war was declared. Several things in there interested me, and particularly the baseball scores, which I studied with as much care as a real fan possibly would an up-to-date score. I couldn't refrain from laughing when I came to an account of Zimmerman (of the Cubs) being benched for some spat with the umpire, and it afforded me just as much interest three years after it had happened--perhaps more--than some current item of worldwide interest had at the time. I rummaged the house many times from cellar to garret in my search for something to eat, but the harvest of three years of war had made any success along that line impossible. I was like the man out on the ocean in a boat and thirsty, with water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. I was tempted while in this city to go to church one Sunday, but my better judgment told me it would be a useless risk. Of course some one would surely say something to me, and I didn't know how many Germans would be there, or what might happen, so I gave up that idea. During all the time I was concealed in this house I saw but one automobile, and that was a German staff officer's. That same afternoon I had one of the frights of my young life. I had been gazing out of the keyhole as usual when I heard coming down the street the measured tread of German soldiers. It didn't sound like very many, but there was no doubt in my mind that German soldiers were marching down the street. I went up-stairs and peeked through the window, and sure enough a squad of German infantry was coming down the street, accompanying a military truck. I hadn't the slightest idea that they were coming after me, but still the possibilities of the situation gave me more or less alarm, and I considered how I could make my escape if by any chance I was the man they were after. The idea of hiding in the wine-cellar appealed to me as the most practical; there must have been plenty of places among the wine kegs and cases where a man could conceal himself, but, as a matter of fact, I did not believe that any such contingency would arise. The marching soldiers came nearer. I could hear them at the next house. In a moment I would see them pass the keyhole through which I was looking. "Halt!" At the word of command shouted by a junior officer the squad came to attention right in front of the house. I waited no longer. Running down the stairs, I flew down into the wine-cellar, and although it was almost pitch dark--the only light coming from a grating which led to the backyard--I soon found a satisfactory hiding-place in the extreme rear of the cellar. I had the presence of mind to leave the door of the wine-cellar ajar, figuring that if the soldiers found a closed door they would be more apt to search for a fugitive behind it than if the door were open. My decision to get away from the front door had been made and carried out none too soon, for I had only just located myself between two big wine-cases when I heard the tramp of soldiers' feet marching up the front steps, a crash at the front door, a few hasty words of command which I did not understand, and then the noise of scurrying feet from room to room and such a banging and hammering and smashing and crashing that I could not make out what was going on. If Huyliger had revealed my hiding-place to the Huns, as I was now confident he had, I felt that there was little prospect of their overlooking me. They would search the house from top to bottom and, if necessary, raze it to the ground before they would give up the search. To escape from the house through the backyard through the iron grating, which I had no doubt I could force, seemed to be a logical thing to do, but the chances were that the Huns had thrown a cordon around the entire block before the squad was sent to the house. The Germans do these things in an efficient manner always. They take nothing for granted. My one chance seemed to be to stand pat in the hope that the officer in charge might possibly come to the conclusion that he had arrived at the house too late--that the bird had flown. My position in that wine-cellar was anything but a comfortable one. Rats and mice were scurrying across the floor, and the smashing and crashing going on overhead was anything but promising. Evidently those soldiers imagined that I might be hiding in the walls, for it sounded as though they were tearing off the wainscoting, the picture-molding, and, in fact, everything that they could tear or pull apart. Before very long they would finish their search up-stairs and would come down to the basement. What they would do when they discovered the wine I had no idea. Perhaps they would let themselves loose on it and give me my chance. With a bottle of wine in each hand I figured I could put up a good fight in the dark, especially as I was becoming more and more accustomed to it and could begin to distinguish things here and there, whereas they would be as blind as bats in the sun when they entered the pitchy darkness of the cellar. Perhaps it was twenty minutes before I heard what sounded like my death-knell to me; the soldiers were coming down the cellar steps. I clutched a wine bottle in each hand and waited with bated breath. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! In a moment they would be in the cellar proper. I could almost hear my heart beating. The mice scurried across the floor by the scores, frightened, no doubt, by the vibration and noise made by the descending soldiers. Some of the creatures ran across me where I stood between the two wine-cases, but I was too much interested in bigger game to pay attention to mice. Tramp! Tramp! "Halt!" Again an order was given in German, and although I did not understand it, I am willing to bless every word of it, because it resulted in the soldiers turning right about face, marching up the stairs again, through the hall, and out of the front door and away! I could hardly believe my ears. It seemed almost too good to be true that they could have given up the search just as they were about to come on their quarry, but unless my ears deceived me that was what they had done. The possibility that the whole thing might be a German ruse did not escape me, and I remained in the cellar for nearly an hour after they had apparently departed before I ventured to move, listening intently in the mean while for the slightest sound which would reveal the presence of a sentry up-stairs. Not hearing a sound, I began to feel that they had indeed given up the hunt, for I did not believe that a German officer would be so considerate of his men as to try to trap me rather than carry the cellar by force if they had the slightest idea that I was there. I took off my shoes and crept softly and slowly to the cellar steps, and then step by step, placing my weight down gradually so as to prevent the steps from creaking, I climbed to the top. The sight that met my eyes as I glanced into the kitchen told me the whole story. The water faucets had been ripped from the sinks, the water pipes having been torn from the walls. Everything of brass or copper had been torn off, and gas fixtures, cooking utensils, and everything else which contain even only a small proportion of the metals the Germans so badly needed had been taken from the kitchen. I walked up-stairs now with more confidence, feeling tolerably assured that the soldiers hadn't been after me at all, but had been merely collecting metals and other materials which they expected an elaborate dwelling-house like the one in which I was concealed to yield. Later I heard that the Germans have taken practically every ounce of brass, copper, and wool they could lay their hands on in Belgium. Even the brass out of pianos has been ruthlessly removed, the serious damage done to valuable property by the removal of only an insignificant proportion of metal never being taken into consideration. I learned, too, that all dogs over fourteen inches high had been seized by the Germans. This furnished lots of speculation among the Belgians as to what use the Germans were putting the animals to, the general impression apparently being that they were being used for food. This, however, seemed much less likely to me than that they were being employed as despatch dogs in the trenches, the same as we use them on our side of the line. They might possibly kill the dogs and use their skins for leather and their carcasses for tallow, but I feel quite sure that the Huns are by no means so short of food that they have to eat dogs yet awhile. Indeed, I want to repeat here what I have mentioned before: if any one has the idea that this war can be won by _starving_ the Huns, he hasn't the slightest idea how well provided the Germans are in that respect. They have considered their food needs in connection with their resources for several years to come, and they have gone at it in such a methodical, systematic way, taking into consideration every possible contingency, that, provided there is not an absolute crop failure, there isn't the slightest doubt in my mind that they can last for years, and the worst of it is they are quite cocksure about it. It is true that the German soldiers want peace. As I watched them through the keyhole in the door I thought how unfavorably they compared with our men. They marched along the street without laughter, without joking, without singing. It was quite apparent that the war is telling on them. I don't believe I saw a single German soldier who didn't look as if he had lost his best friend--and he probably had. At the same time, there is a big difference--certainly a difference of several years--between wishing the war was over and giving up, and I don't believe the German rank and file any more than their leaders have the slightest idea at this time of giving up at all. But to return to my experiences while concealed in the house. After the visit of the soldiers, which left the house in a wretched condition, I decided that I would continue my journey toward the frontier, particularly as I had got all I could out of Huyliger, or rather he had got all he was going to get out of me. During my concealment in the house I made various sorties into the city at night, and I was beginning to feel more comfortable, even when German soldiers were about. Through the keyhole I had studied very closely the gait of the Belgians, the slovenly droop that characterized most of them, and their general appearance, and I felt that in my own dirty and unshaven condition I must have looked as much like the average poor Belgian as a man could. The only thing that was against me was my height. I was several inches taller than even the tallest Belgians. I had often thought that red hair would have gone well with my name, but now, of course, I was mighty glad that I was not so endowed, for red-haired Belgians are about as rare as German charity. There are many, no doubt, who will wonder why I did not get more help than I did at this time. It is easily answered. When a man is in hourly fear of his life and the country is full of spies, as Belgium certainly was, he is not going to help just any one that comes along seeking aid. One of the Germans' most successful ways of trapping the Belgians has been to pose as an English or French prisoner who has escaped; appeal to them for aid; implicate as many as possible, and then turn the whole German police force loose on them. As I look back now on those days I think it remarkable that I received as much help as I did, but when people are starving under the conditions now forced upon those unfortunate people it is a great temptation to surrender these escaped prisoners to German authorities and receive the handsome rewards offered for them--or for alien spies, as I was classed at that time. The passport which I had described me as a Spanish sailor, but I was very dubious about its value. If I could have spoken Spanish fluently it might have been worth something to me, but the few words I knew of the language would not have carried me very far if I had been confronted with a Spanish interpreter. I decided to use the passport only as a last resort, preferring to act the part of a deaf and dumb Belgian peasant as far as it would carry me. Before I finally left the house I had a remarkable experience which I shall remember as long as I live. XIV A NIGHT OF DISSIPATION During the first two days I spent with Huyliger after I had first arrived in the big city he had told me, among other things, of a moving-picture show in town which he said I might have a chance to see while there. "It is free every night in the week except Saturdays and Sundays," he said, "and once you are inside you would not be apt to be bothered by any one except when they come to take your order for something to drink. While there is no admission, patrons are expected to eat or drink while enjoying the pictures." A day or two later, while walking the streets at night in search of food, I had passed this place, and was very much tempted to go in and spend a few hours, particularly as it would perhaps give me an opportunity to buy something to eat, although I was at a loss to know how I was going to ask for what I wanted. While trying to make up my mind whether it was safe for me to go in, I walked half a block past the place, and when I turned back again and reached the entrance with my mind made up that I would take the chance I ran full tilt into a German officer who was just coming out! That settled all my hankerings for moving pictures that night. "Where you came from, my friend," I figured, "there must be more like you! I guess it is a good night for walking." The next day, however, in recalling the incident of the evening before, it seemed to me that I had been rather foolish. What I needed more than anything at that time was confidence. Before I could get to the frontier I would have to confront German soldiers many times, because there were more of them between this city and Holland than in any section of the country through which I had so far traveled. Safety in these contingencies would depend largely upon the calmness I displayed. It wouldn't do to get all excited at the mere sight of a spiked helmet. The Belgians, I had noticed, while careful to obey the orders of the Huns, showed no particular fear of them, and it seemed to me the sooner I cultivated the same feeling of indifference the better I would be able to carry off the part I was playing. For this reason, I made up my mind then and there that, officers or no officers, I would go to that show that night and sit it through, no matter what happened. While people may think that I had decided unwisely because of the unnecessary risk involved in the adventure, it occurred to me that perhaps, after all, that theater was about one of the safest places I could attend, because that was about the last place Germans would expect to find a fugitive English officer in, even if they were searching for one. As soon as evening came, therefore, I decided to go to the theater. I fixed myself up as well as possible. I had on a fairly decent pair of trousers which Huyliger had given me and I used a clean handkerchief as a collar. With my hair brushed up and my beard trimmed as neatly as possible with a pair of rusty scissors which I had found in the house, while my appearance was not exactly that of a Beau Brummel, I don't think I looked much worse than the average Belgian. In these days, the average Belgian is very poorly dressed at best. I can't say I had no misgivings as I made my way to the theater; certainly I was going there more for discipline than pleasure, but I had made up my mind and I was going to see it through. The entrance to the theater or beer-garden--for it was as much one as the other--was on the side of the building, and was reached by way of an alley which ran along the side. Near the door was a ticket-seller's booth, but as this was one of the free nights there was no one in the booth. I marched slowly down the alley, imitating as best I could the indifferent gait of the Belgians, and when I entered the theater I endeavored to act as though I had been there many times before. A hasty survey of the layout of the place was sufficient to enable me to select my seat. It was early and there were not more than half a dozen people in the place at that time, so that I had my choice. There was a raised platform, perhaps two feet high, all round the walls of the place, except at the end where the stage was located. On this platform tables were arranged, and there were tables on the floor proper as well. I decided promptly that the safest place for me was as far back as possible where I would not be in the line of vision of others in back of me. Accordingly, I slouched over to a table on the platform directly opposite the stage and I took the seat against the wall. The whole place was now in front of me. I could see everything that was going on and every one who came in, but no one, except those who sat at my own table, would notice me unless they deliberately turned around to look. The place began to fill up rapidly. Every second person who came in the door seemed to me to be a German soldier, but when they were seated at the tables and I got a chance later on to make a rough count, I found that in all there were not more than a hundred soldiers in the place and there must have been several hundred civilians. The first people to sit at my table were a Belgian and his wife. The Belgian sat next to me and his wife next to him. I was hoping that other civilians would occupy the remaining two seats at my table because I did not relish the idea of having to sit through the show with German soldiers within a few feet of me. That would certainly have spoiled my pleasure for the evening. Every uniform that came in the door gave me cause to worry until I was sure it was not coming in my direction. I don't suppose there was a single soldier who came in the door whom I didn't follow to his seat--with my eyes. Just before they lowered the lights two German officers came in the door. They stood there for a moment looking the place over. Then they made a bee-line in my direction, and I must confess my heart started to beat a little faster. I hoped that they would find another seat before they came to my vicinity, but they were getting nearer and nearer, and I realized with a sickening sensation that they were headed directly for the two seats at my table, and that was indeed the case. These two seats were in front of the table, facing the stage, and except when they would be eating or drinking their backs were toward me, and there was considerable consolation in that. From my seat I could have reached right over and touched one of them on his bald head. It would have been more than a touch, I am afraid, if I could have got away with it safely. As the officers seated themselves a waiter came to us with a printed bill of fare and a program. Fortunately, he waited on the others first, and I listened intently to their orders. The officers ordered some light wine, but my Belgian neighbor ordered "Bock" for himself and his wife, which was what I had decided to order, anyway, as that was the only thing I could say. Heaven knows I would far rather have ordered something to eat, but the bill of fare meant nothing to me, and I was afraid to take a chance at the pronunciation of the dishes it set forth. There were a number of drinks listed which I suppose I might safely enough have ordered. For instance, I noticed "Lemon Squash, 1.50," "Ginger Beer, 1-," "Sparkling Dry Ginger Ale, 1-," "Apollinaris, 1-," and "Schweppes Soda, 0.80," but it occurred to me that the mere fact that I selected something that was listed in English might attract attention to me and something in my pronunciation might give further cause for suspicion. It seemed better to parrot the Belgian and order "Bock," and that was what I decided to do. One item on the bill of fare tantalized me considerably. Although it was listed among the "Prizzen der dranken," which I took to mean "Prices of drinks," it sounded very much to me like something to eat, and Heaven knows I would rather have had one honest mouthful of food than all the drinks in the world. The item I refer to was "Dubbel Gersten de Flesch (Michaux)." A _double_ portion of anything would have been mighty welcome to me, but I would have been quite contented with a _single_ "Gersten"--whatever that might happen to be--if I had only had the courage to ask for it. To keep myself as composed as possible, I devoted a lot of attention to that bill of fare, and I think by the time the waiter came around I almost knew it by heart. One drink that almost made me laugh out loud was listed as "Lemonades Gazeuses," but I might just as well have introduced myself to the German officers by my right name and rank as to have attempted to pronounce it. When the waiter came to me, therefore, I said "Bock" as casually as I could, and felt somewhat relieved that I got through this part of the ordeal so easily. While the waiter was away I had a chance to examine the bill of fare, and I observed that a glass of beer cost eighty centimes. The smallest change I had was a two-mark paper bill. Apparently the German officers were similarly fixed, and when they offered their bill to the waiter he handed it back to them with a remark which I took to mean that he couldn't make change. Right there I was in a quandary. To offer him my bill after he had just told the officers he didn't have change would have seemed strange, and yet I couldn't explain to him that I was in the same boat and he would have to come to me again later. The only thing to do, therefore, was to offer him the bill as though I hadn't heard or noticed what had happened with the Germans, and I did so. He said the same thing to me as he had said to the officers, perhaps a little more sharply, and gave me back the bill. Later on he returned to the table with a handful of change and we closed the transaction. I gave him twenty-five centimes as a tip--I had never yet been in a place where it was necessary to talk to do that. During my first half-hour in that theater, to say I was on pins and needles is to express my feelings mildly. The truth of the matter is I was never so uneasy in my life. Every minute seemed like an hour, and I was on the point of getting up and leaving a dozen times. There were altogether too many soldiers in the place to suit me, and when the German officers seated themselves right at my table I thought that was about all I could stand. As it was, however, the lights went out shortly afterward and in the dark I felt considerably easier. After the first picture, when the lights went up again, I had regained my composure considerably and I took advantage of the opportunity to study the various types of people in the place. From my seat I had a splendid chance to see them all. At one table there was a German medical corps officer with three Red Cross nurses. That was the only time I had ever seen a German nurse, for when I was in the hospital I had seen only men orderlies. Nurses don't work so near the first-line trenches. The German soldiers at the different tables were very quiet and orderly. They drank Bock beer and conversed among themselves, but there was no hilarity or rough-housing of any kind. As I sat there, within an arm's reach of those German officers and realized what they would have given to know what a chance they had to capture an escaped British officer, I could hardly help smiling to myself, but when I thought of the big risk I was taking, more or less unnecessarily, I began to wonder whether I had not acted foolishly in undertaking it. Nevertheless, the evening passed off uneventfully, and when the show was over I mixed with the crowd and disappeared, feeling very proud of myself and with a good deal more confidence than I had enjoyed at the start. I had passed a night which will live in my life as long as I live. The bill of fare, program, and a "throw-away" bill advertising the name of the attraction which was to be presented the following week, which was handed to me as I came out, I still have and they are among the most valued souvenirs of my adventure. XV OBSERVATIONS IN A BELGIAN CITY One night, shortly before I left this city, our airmen raided the place. I didn't venture out of the house at the time, but the next night I thought I would go out and see what damage had been done. When it became dark I left the house, accordingly, and, mixing with the crowd, which consisted largely of Germans, I went from one place to another to see what our "strafing" had accomplished. Naturally I avoided speaking to any one. If a man or woman appeared about to speak to me, I just turned my head and looked or walked away in some other direction. I must have been taken for an unsociable sort of individual a good many times, and if I had encountered the same person twice I suppose my conduct might have aroused suspicion. I had a first-class observation of the damage that was really done by our bombs. One bomb had landed very near the main railroad station, and if it had been only thirty yards nearer would have completely demolished it. As the station was undoubtedly our airman's objective, I was very much impressed with the accuracy of his aim. It is by no means an easy thing to hit a building from the air when you are going at anywhere from fifty to one hundred miles an hour and are being shot at from beneath from a dozen different angles--unless, of course, you are taking one of those desperate chances and flying so low that you cannot very well miss your mark, and the Huns can't very well miss you, either! I walked by the station and mingled with the crowds which stood in the entrances. They paid no more attention to me than they did to real Belgians, and the fact that the lights were all out in this city at night made it impossible, anyway, for any one to get as good a look at me as if it had been light. During the time that I was in this city I suppose I wandered from one end of it to the other. In one place, where the German staff had its headquarters, a huge German flag hung from the window, and I think I would have given ten years of my life to have stolen it. Even if I could have pulled it down, however, it would have been impossible for me to have concealed it, and to have carried it away with me as a souvenir would have been out of the question. As I went along the street one night a lady standing on the comer stopped me and spoke to me. My first impulse, of course, was to answer her, explaining that I could not understand, but I stopped myself in time, pointed to my ears and mouth, and shook my head, indicating that I was deaf and dumb, and she nodded understandingly and walked on. Incidents of this kind were not unusual, and I was always in fear that the time would come when some inquisitive and suspicious German would encounter me and not be so easily satisfied. There are many things that I saw in this city which, for various reasons, it is impossible for me to relate until after the war is over. Some of them, I think, will create more surprise than the incidents I am free to reveal now. It used to amuse me, as I went along the streets of this town, looking in the shop windows, with German soldiers at my side looking at the same things, to think how close I was to them and they had no way of knowing. I was quite convinced that if I were discovered my fate would have been death, because I not only had the forged passport on me, but I had been so many days behind the German lines after I had escaped that they couldn't safely let me live with the information I possessed. One night I walked boldly across a park. I heard footsteps behind me and, turning around, saw two German soldiers. I slowed up a trifle to let them get ahead of me. It was rather dark and I got a chance to see what a wonderful uniform the German military authorities have picked out. The soldiers had not gone more than a few feet ahead of me when they disappeared in the darkness like one of those melting pictures on the moving-picture screen. As I wandered through the streets I frequently glanced in the café windows as I passed. German officers were usually dining there, but they didn't conduct themselves with anything like the light-heartedness which characterizes the Allied officers in London and Paris. I was rather surprised at this, because in this part of Belgium they were much freer than they would have been in Berlin, where, I understand, food is comparatively scarce and the restrictions are very rigid. As I have said, my own condition in this city was in some respects worse than it had been when I was making my way through the open country. While I had a place to sleep and my clothes were no longer constantly soaking, my opportunities for getting food were considerably less than they had been. Nearly all the time I was half famished, and I decided that I would get out of there at once, since I was entirely through with Huyliger. My physical condition was greatly improved. While the lack of food showed itself on me, I had regained some of my strength, my wounds were healed, my ankle was stronger, and, although my knees were still considerably enlarged, I felt that I was in better shape than I had been at any time since my leap from the train, and I was ready to go through whatever was in store for me. XVI I APPROACH THE FRONTIER To get out of the city it would be necessary to pass two guards. This I had learned in the course of my walks at night, having frequently traveled to the city limits with the idea of finding out just what conditions I would have to meet when the time came for me to leave. A German soldier's uniform, however, no longer worried me as it had at first. I had mingled with the Huns so much in the city that I began to feel that I was really a Belgian, and I assumed the indifference that the latter seemed to feel. I decided, therefore, to walk out of the city in the daytime when the sentries would be less apt to be on the watch. It worked splendidly. I was not held up a moment, the sentries evidently taking me for a Belgian peasant on his way to work. Traveling faster than I had ever done before since my escape, I was soon out in the open country, and the first Belgian I came to I approached for food. He gave me half his lunch and we sat down on the side of the road to eat it. Of course, he tried to talk to me, but I used the old ruse of pretending I was deaf and dumb and he was quite convinced that it was so. He made various efforts to talk to me in pantomime, but I could not make out what he was getting at, and I think he must have concluded that I was not only half-starved, deaf, and dumb, but "luny" into the bargain. When night came I looked around for a place to rest. I had decided to travel in the daytime as well as night, because I understood that I was only a few miles from the frontier, and I was naturally anxious to get there at the earliest possible moment, although I realized that there I would encounter the most hazardous part of my whole adventure. To get through that heavily guarded barbed and electrically charged barrier was a problem that I hated to think of, even, although the hours I spent endeavoring to devise some way of outwitting the Huns were many. It had occurred to me, for instance, that it would not be such a difficult matter to vault over the electric fence, which was only nine feet high. In college, I know, a ten-foot vault is considered a high-school boy's accomplishment, but there were two great difficulties in the way of this solution. In the first place, it would be no easy matter to get a pole of the right length, weight, and strength to serve the purpose. More particularly, however, the pole-vault idea seemed to be out of the question because of the fact that on either side of the electric fence, six feet from it, was a six-foot barbed-wire barrier. To vault safely over a nine-foot electrically charged fence was one thing, but to combine with it a twelve-foot broad vault was a feat which even a college athlete in the pink of condition would be apt to flunk. Indeed, I don't believe it is possible. Another plan that seemed half-way reasonable was to build a pair of stilts about twelve or fourteen feet high and walk over the barriers one by one. As a youngster I had acquired considerable skill in stilt-walking, and I have no doubt that with the proper equipment it would have been quite feasible to have walked out of Belgium as easily as possible in that way, but whether or not I was going to have a chance to construct the necessary stilts remained to be seen. There were a good many bicycles in use by the German soldiers in Belgium, and it had often occurred to me that if I could have stolen one, the tires would have made excellent gloves and insulated coverings for my feet in case it was necessary for me to attempt to climb over the electric fence bodily. But as I had never been able to steal a bicycle, this avenue of escape was closed to me. I decided to wait until I arrived at the barrier and then make up my mind how to proceed. To find a decent place to sleep that night I crawled under a barbed-wire fence, thinking it led into some field. As I passed under, one of the barbs caught in my coat, and in trying to pull myself free I shook the fence for several yards. Instantly there came out of the night the nerve-racking command, "Halt!" Again I feared I was done for. I crouched close down on the ground in the darkness, not knowing whether to take to my legs and trust to the Hun's missing me in the darkness if he fired, or stay right where I was. It was foggy as well as dark, and although I knew the sentry was only a few feet away from me I decided to stand, or rather lie still. I think my heart made almost as much noise as the rattling of the wire in the first place, but it was a tense few moments for me. I heard the German say a few words to himself, but didn't understand them, of course, and then he made a sound as if to call a dog, and I realized that his theory of the noise he had heard was that a dog had made its way through the fence. For perhaps five minutes I didn't stir, and then, figuring that the German had probably continued on his beat, I crept quietly under the wire again, this time being mighty careful to hug the ground so close that I wouldn't touch the wire, and made off in a different direction. Evidently the barbed-wire fence had been thrown around an ammunition-depot or something of the kind and it was not a field at all that I had tried to get into. I figured that other sentries were probably in the neighborhood and I proceeded very gingerly. After I had got about a mile away from this spot I came to a humble Belgian house, and I knocked at the door and applied for food in my usual way, pointing to my mouth to indicate I was hungry and to my ears and mouth to imply that I was deaf and dumb. The Belgian woman who lived in the house brought me a piece of bread and two cold potatoes, and as I sat there eating them she eyed me very keenly. I haven't the slightest doubt that she realized I was a fugitive. She lived so near the border that it was more than likely that other fugitives had come to her before, and for that reason I appreciated more fully the extent of the risk she ran, for no doubt the Germans were constantly watching the conduct of these Belgians who lived near the line. My theory that she realized that I was not a Belgian at all, but probably some English fugitive, was confirmed a moment later when, as I made ready to go, she touched me on the arm and indicated that I was to wait a moment. She went to a bureau and brought out two pieces of fancy Belgian lace, which she insisted upon my taking away, although at that particular moment I had as much use for Belgian lace as an elephant has for a safety-razor, but I was touched with her thoughtfulness and pressed her hand to show my gratitude. She would not accept the money I offered her. I carried that lace through my subsequent experiences, feeling that it would be a fine souvenir for my mother, although, as a matter of fact, if she had known that it was going to delay my final escape for even a single moment, as it did, I am quite sure she would rather I had never seen it. On one piece of lace was the Flemish word "_Charité_" and on the other the word "_Espérance_." At the time, I took these words to mean "Charity" and "Experience," and all I hoped was that I would get as much of the one as I was getting of the other before I finally got through. I learned subsequently that what the words really stood for was "Charity" and "Hope," and then I was sure that my kind Belgian friend had indeed realized my plight and that her thoughtful souvenir was intended to encourage me in the trials she must have known were before me. I didn't let the old Belgian lady know, because I did not want to alarm her unnecessarily, but that night I slept in her backyard, leaving early in the morning before it became light. Later in the day I applied at another house for food. It was occupied by a father and mother and ten children. I hesitated to ask them for food without offering to pay for it, as I realized what a task it must have been for them to support themselves without having to feed a hungry man. Accordingly, I gave the man a mark and then indicated that I wanted something to eat. They were just about to eat, themselves, apparently, and they let me partake of their meal, which consisted of a huge bowl of some kind of soup which I was unable to identify and which they served in ordinary wash-basins! I don't know that they ever used the basins to wash in as well, but whether they did or not did not worry me very much. The soup was good and I enjoyed it very much. All the time I was there I could see the father and the eldest son, a boy about seventeen, were extremely nervous. I had indicated to them that I was deaf and dumb, but if they believed me it didn't seem to make them any more comfortable. I lingered at the house for about an hour after the meal, and during that time a young man came to call on the eldest daughter, a young woman of perhaps eighteen. The caller eyed me very suspiciously, although I must have resembled anything but a British officer. They spoke in Flemish and I did not understand a word they said, but I think they were discussing my probable identity. During their conversation, I had a chance to look around the rooms. There were three altogether, two fairly large and one somewhat smaller, about fourteen feet long and six deep. In this smaller room there were two double-decked beds, which were apparently intended to house the whole family, although how the whole twelve of them could sleep in that one room will ever remain a mystery to me. From the kitchen you could walk directly into the cow-barn, where two cows were kept, and this, as I have pointed out before, is the usual construction of the poorer Belgian houses. I could not make out why the caller seemed to be so antagonistic to me, and yet I am sure he was arguing with the family against me. Perhaps the fact that I wasn't wearing wooden shoes--I doubt whether I could have obtained a pair big enough for me--had convinced him that I was not really a Belgian, because there was nothing about me otherwise which could have given him that idea. At that time--and I suppose it is true to-day--about ninety per cent. of the people in Belgium were wearing wooden shoes. Among the peasants I don't believe I ever saw any other kind of footwear, and they are more common there than they are in Holland. The Dutch wear them more as a matter of custom. In Belgium they are a dire necessity because of the lack of leather. I was told that during the coming year practically all the peasants and poorer people in Germany, too, will adopt wooden shoes for farm-work, as that is one direction in which wood can be substituted for leather without much loss. When the young man left I left shortly afterward, as I was not at all comfortable about what his intentions were regarding me. For all I knew, he might have gone to notify the German authorities that there was a strange man in the vicinity--more, perhaps, to protect his friends from suspicion of having aided me than to injure me. At any rate, I was not going to take any chances and I got out of that neighborhood as rapidly as I could. That night found me right on the frontier of Holland. XVII GETTING THROUGH THE LINES Waiting until it was quite dark, I made my way carefully through a field and eventually came to the much-dreaded barrier. It was all that I had heard about it. Every foot of the border-line between Belgium and Holland is protected in precisely the same manner. It is there to serve three purposes: first, to keep the Belgians from escaping into Holland; second, to keep enemies, like myself, from making their way to freedom; and, third, to prevent desertions on the part of Germans themselves. One look at it was enough to convince any one that it probably accomplished all three objects about as well as any contrivance could, and one look was all I got of it that night, for while I lay on my stomach gazing at the forbidding structure I heard the measured stride of a German sentry advancing toward me, and I crawled away as fast as I possibly could, determined to spend the night somewhere in the fields and make another and more careful survey the following night. The view I had obtained, however, was sufficient to convince me that the pole-vault idea was out of the question even if I had a pole and were a proficient pole-vaulter. The three fences covered a span of at least twelve feet, and to clear the last barbed-wire fence it would be necessary to vault not only at least ten feet high, but at least fourteen feet wide, with certain knowledge that to touch the electrically charged fence meant instant death. There would be no second chance if you came a cropper the first time. The stilt idea was also impracticable because of the lack of suitable timber and tools with which to construct the stilts. It seemed to me that the best thing to do was to travel up and down the line a bit in the hope that some spot might be discovered where conditions were more favorable, although I don't know just what I expected along those lines. It was mighty disheartening to realize that only a few feet away lay certain liberty and that the only thing that prevented me from reaching it were three confounded fences. I thought of my machine and wished that some kind fairy would set it in front of me for just one minute. I spent the night in a clump of bushes and kept in hiding most of the next day, only going abroad for an hour or two in the middle of the day to intercept some Belgian peasant and beg for food. The Belgians in this section were naturally very much afraid of the Germans, and I fared badly. In nearly every house German soldiers were quartered, and it was out of the question for me to apply for food in that direction. The proximity of the border made every one eye one another with more or less suspicion, and I soon came to the conclusion that the safest thing I could do was to live on raw vegetables, which I could steal from the fields at night as I had previously done. That night I made another survey of the barrier in that vicinity, but it looked just as hopeless as it had the night before, and I concluded that I only wasted time there. I spent the night wandering west, guided by the North Star, which had served me so faithfully in all my traveling. Every mile or two I would make my way carefully to the barrier to see if conditions were any better, but it seemed to be the same all along. I felt like a wild animal in a cage, with about as much chance of getting out. The section of the country in which I was now wandering was very heavily wooded and there was really no very great difficulty in keeping myself concealed, which I did all day long, striving all the time to think of some way in which I could circumvent that cursed barrier. The idea of a huge step-ladder occurred to me, but I searched hour after hour in vain for lumber or fallen trees out of which I could construct one. If I could only obtain something which would enable me to reach a point about nine feet in the air, it would be a comparatively simple matter to jump from that point over the electric fence. Then I thought that perhaps I could construct a simple ladder and lean it against one of the posts upon which the electric wires were strung, climb to the top and leap over, getting over the barbed-wire fences in the same way. This seemed to be the most likely plan, and all night long I sat constructing a ladder for this purpose. I was fortunate enough to find a number of fallen pine-trees from ten to twenty feet long. I selected two of them which seemed sufficiently strong and broke off all the branches, which I used as rungs, tying them to the poles with grass and strips from my handkerchief and shirt as best I could. It was not a very workmanlike-looking ladder when I finally got through with it. I leaned it against a tree to test it and it wabbled considerably. It was more like a rope ladder than a wooden one, but I strengthened it here and there and decided that it would probably serve the purpose. I kept the ladder in the woods all day and could hardly wait until dark to make the supreme test. If it proved successful, my troubles were over; within a few hours I would be in a neutral country out of all danger. If it failed--I dismissed the idea summarily. There was no use worrying about failure; the thing to do was to succeed. The few hours that were to pass before night came on seemed endless, but I utilized them to reinforce my ladder, tying the rungs more securely with long grass which I plucked in the woods. At last night came, and with my ladder in hand I made for the barrier. In front of it there was a cleared space of about one hundred yards, which had been prepared to make the work of the guards easier in watching it. I waited in the neighborhood until I heard the sentry pass the spot where I was in hiding, and then I hurried across the clearing, shoved my ladder under the barbed wire, and endeavored to follow it. My clothing caught in the wire, but I wrenched myself clear and crawled to the electric barrier. My plan was to place the ladder against one of the posts, climb up to the top, and then jump. There would be a fall of nine or ten feet, and I might possibly sprain my ankle or break my leg, but if that was all that stood between me and freedom I wasn't going to stop to consider it. I put my ear to the ground to listen for the coming of the sentry. There was not a sound. Eagerly but carefully I placed the ladder against the post and started up. Only a few feet separated me from liberty, and my heart beat fast. I had climbed perhaps three rungs of my ladder when I became aware of an unlooked-for difficulty. The ladder was slipping! Just as I took the next rung the ladder slipped, came in contact with the live wire, and the current passed through the wet sticks and into my body. There was a blue flash, my hold on the ladder relaxed, and I fell heavily to the ground unconscious! Of course, I had not received the full force of the current or I would not now be here. I must have remained unconscious for a few moments, but I came to just in time to hear the German guard coming, and the thought came to me that if I didn't get that ladder concealed at once, he would see it even though, fortunately for me, it was an unusually dark night. I pulled the ladder out of his path and lay down flat on the ground, not seven feet away from his beat. He passed so close that I could have pushed the ladder out and tripped him up. It occurred to me that I could have climbed back under the barbed-wire fence and waited for the sentry to return and then felled him with a blow on the head, as he had no idea, of course, that there was any one in the vicinity. I wouldn't have hesitated to take life, because my only thought now was to get into Holland, but I thought that as long as he didn't bother me perhaps the safest thing to do was not to bother him, but to continue my efforts during his periodic absences. His beat at this point was apparently fairly long and allowed me more time to work than I had hoped for. My mishap with the ladder had convinced me that escape in that way was not feasible. The shock that I had received had unnerved me and I was afraid to risk it again, particularly as I realized that I had fared more fortunately than I could hope to again if I met with a similar mishap. There was no way of making that ladder hold, and I gave up the idea of using it. I was now right in front of this electric barrier, and as I studied it I saw another way of getting by. If I couldn't get over it, what was the matter with getting under it? The bottom wire was only two inches from the ground, and, of course, I couldn't touch it, but my plan was to dig underneath it and then crawl through the hole in the ground. I had only my hands to dig with, but I went at it with a will, and fortunately the ground was not very hard. When I had dug about six inches, making a distance in all of eight inches from the lowest electric wire, I came to an underground wire. I knew enough about electricity to realize that this wire could not be charged, as it was in contact with the ground, but still there was not room between the live wire and this underground wire for me to crawl through, and I either had to go on digging deep enough under this wire to crawl under it or else pull it up. This underground wire was about as big around as a lead-pencil and there was no chance of breaking it. The jack-knife I had had at the start of my travels I had long since lost, and even if I had had something to hammer with, the noise would have made that method impracticable. I went on digging. When the total distance between the live wire and the bottom of the hole I had dug was thirty inches I took hold of the ground wire and pulled on it with all my strength. It wouldn't budge. It was stretched taut across the narrow ditch I had dug--about fourteen inches wide--and all my tugging didn't serve to loosen it. I was just about to give it up in despair when a staple gave way in the nearest post. This enabled me to pull the wire through the ground a little, and I renewed my efforts. After a moment or two of pulling as I had never pulled in my life before a staple on the next post gave way, and my work became easier. I had more leeway now and pulled and pulled again until in all eight staples had given way. Every time a staple gave way it sounded in my ears like the report of a gun, although I suppose it didn't really make very much noise. Nevertheless, each time I would put my ear to the ground to listen for the guard, and, not hearing him, went on with my work. By pulling on the wire I was now able to drag it through the ground enough to place it back from the fence and go on digging. The deeper I went the harder became the work, because by this time my finger-nails were broken and I was nervous--afraid every moment that I would touch the charged wire. I kept at it, however, with my mind constantly on the hole I was digging and the liberty which was almost within my reach. Finally I figured that I had enough space to crawl through and still leave a couple of inches between my back and the live wire. Before I went under that wire I noticed that the lace which the Belgian woman had given me as a souvenir made my pocket bulge, and lest it might be the innocent means of electrocuting me by touching the live wire, I took it out, rolled it up, and threw it over the barrier. Then I lay down on my stomach and crawled or rather writhed under the wire like a snake, with my feet first, and there wasn't any question of my hugging Mother Earth as closely as possible, because I realized that even to touch the wire above me with my back meant instant death. Anxious as I was to get on the other side, I didn't hurry this operation. I feared that there might be some little detail that I had overlooked, and I exercised the greatest possible care in going under, taking nothing for granted. When I finally got through and straightened up there were still several feet of Belgium between me and liberty, represented by the six feet which separated the electric barrier from the last barbed-wire fence, but before I went another step I went down on my knees and thanked God for my long series of escapes and especially for this last achievement, which seemed to me to be about all that was necessary to bring me freedom. Then I crawled under the barbed-wire fence and breathed the free air of Holland! I had no clear idea just where I was, and I didn't much care. I was out of the power of the Germans, and that was enough. I had walked perhaps a hundred yards when I remembered the lace I had thrown over the barrier, and, dangerous as I realized the undertaking to be, I determined to walk back and get it. This necessitated my going back on to Belgian soil again, but it seemed a shame to leave the lace there, and by exercising a little care I figured I could get it easily enough. When I came to the spot at which I had made my way under the barbed wire I put my ear to the ground and listened for the sentry. I heard him coming and lay prone on the ground till he had passed. The fact that he might observe the hole in the ground or the ladder occurred to me as I lay there, and it seemed like an age before he finally marched out of earshot. Then I went under the barbed wire again, retrieved the lace, and once again made my way to Dutch territory. It does not take long to describe the events just referred to, but the incidents themselves consumed several hours in all. To dig the hole must have taken me more than two hours, and I had to stop frequently to hide while the sentry passed. Many times, indeed, I thought I heard him coming and stopped my work, and then discovered that it was only my imagination. I certainly suffered enough that night to last me a lifetime. With a German guard on one side, death from electrocution on the other, and starvation staring me in the face, my plight was anything but a comfortable one. It was the 19th of November, 1917, when I got through the wires. I had made my leap from the train on September 9th. Altogether, therefore, just seventy-two days had elapsed since I escaped from the Huns. If I live to be as old as Methuselah, I never expect to live through another seventy-two days so crammed full of incident and hazard and lucky escapes. XVIII EXPERIENCES IN HOLLAND But I was not yet quite out of the woods. I now knew that I was in Holland, but just where I had no idea. I walked for about thirty minutes and came to a path leading to the right, and I had proceeded along it but a few hundred yards when I saw in front of me a fence exactly like the one I had crossed. "This is funny," I said to myself. "I didn't know the Dutch had a fence, too." I advanced to the fence and examined it closely, and judge of my astonishment when I saw beyond it a nine-foot fence apparently holding live wires exactly like the one which had nearly been the death of me! I had very little time to conjecture what it all meant, for just then I heard a guard coming. He was walking so fast that I was sure it was a Dutch sentry, as the Huns walk much more slowly. I was so bewildered, however, that I decided to take no chances, and as the road was fairly good I wandered down it and away from that mysterious fence. About half a mile down I could see the light of a sentry station, and I thought I would go there and tell my story to the sentries, realizing that as I was unarmed it was perfectly safe for me to announce myself to the Dutch authorities. I could be interned only if I entered Holland under arms. As I approached the sentry box I noticed three men in gray uniforms, the regulation Dutch color. I was on the verge of shouting to them when the thought struck me that there was just a chance I might be mistaken, as the German uniforms were the same color, and I had suffered too many privations and too many narrow escapes to lose all at this time. I had just turned off the road to go back into some bushes when out of the darkness I heard that dread German command: "Halt! Halt!" He didn't need to holler twice. I heard and heeded the first time. Then I heard another man come running up, and there was considerable talking, but whether they were Germans or Hollanders I was still uncertain. Evidently, however, he thought the noise must be a dog or the wind. Finally I heard one of them laugh and heard him walk back to the sentry station where the guard was billeted, and I crawled a little nearer to try to make out just what it all meant. I had begun to think it was all a nightmare. Between myself and the light in the sentry station I then noticed the stooping figure of a man bending over as if to conceal himself, and on his head was the spiked helmet of a German soldier! I knew then what another narrow escape I had had, for I am quite sure he would have shot me without ceremony if I had foolishly made myself known. I would have been buried at once and no one would have been any the wiser, even though, technically speaking, I was on neutral territory and immune from capture or attack. This new shock only served to bewilder me the more. I was completely lost. There seemed to be frontier behind me and frontier in front of me. Evidently, however, what had happened was that I had lost my sense of direction and had wandered in the arc of a circle, returning to the same fence that I had been so long in getting through. This solution of the mystery came to me suddenly, and I at once searched the landscape for something in the way of a landmark to guide me. For once my faithful friend, the North Star, had failed me. The sky was pitch black and there wasn't a star in the heavens. In the distance, at what appeared to be about three miles away, but which turned out to be six, I could discern the lights of a village, and I knew that it must be a Dutch village, as lights are not allowed in Belgium in that indiscriminate way. My course was now clear. I would make a bee-line for that village. Before I had gone very far I found myself in a marsh or swamp, and I turned back a little, hoping to find a better path. Finding none, I retraced my steps and kept straight ahead, determined to reach that village at all costs and to swerve neither to the right nor to the left until I got there. One moment I would be in water up to my knees and the next I would sink in clear up to my waist. I paid no attention to my condition. It was merely a repetition of what I had gone through many times before, but this time I had a definite goal, and, once I reached it, I knew my troubles would be over. It took me perhaps three hours to reach firm ground. The path I struck led to within half a mile of the village. I shall never forget that path; it was almost as welcome to my feet as the opposite bank of the Meuse had seemed. The first habitation I came to was a little workshop with a bright light shining outside. It must have been after midnight, but the people inside were apparently just quitting work. There were three men and two boys engaged in making wooden shoes. It wasn't necessary for me to explain to them that I was a refugee, even if I had been able to speak their language. I was caked with mud up to my shoulders, and I suppose my face must have recorded some of the experiences I had gone through that memorable night. "I want the British consul," I told them. Apparently they didn't understand, but one of them volunteered to conduct me to the village. They seemed to be only too anxious to do all they could for me; evidently they realized I was a British soldier. It was very late when my companion finally escorted me into the village, but he aroused some people he knew from their beds and they dressed and came down to feed me. The family consisted of an old lady and her husband and a son who was a soldier in the Dutch army. The cold shivers ran down my back while he sat beside me, because every now and again I caught a glimpse of his gray uniform and it resembled very much that of the German soldiers. Some of the neighbors, aroused by the commotion, got up to see what it was all about, and came in and watched while I ate the meal those good Dutch people prepared for me. Ordinarily, I suppose, I would have been embarrassed with so many people staring at me while I ate, as though I were some strange animal that had just been captured, but just then I was too famished to notice or care very much what other people did. There will always be a warm place in my heart for the Dutch people. I had heard lots of persons say that they were not inclined to help refugees, but my experience did not bear these reports out. They certainly did much more for me than I ever expected. I had a little German money left, but as the value of German money is only about half in Holland, I didn't have enough to pay the fare to Rotterdam, which was my next objective. It was due to the generosity of these people that I was able to reach the British consul as quickly as I did. Some day I hope to return to Holland and repay every single soul who played the part of Good Samaritan to me. With the money that these people gave me I was able to get a third-class ticket to Rotterdam, and I am glad that I didn't have enough to travel first-class, for I would have looked as much out of place in a first-class carriage as a Hun would appear in heaven. That night I slept in the house of my Dutch friends, where they fixed me up most comfortably. In the morning they gave me breakfast and then escorted me to the station. While I was waiting in the station a crowd gathered round me, and soon it seemed as if the whole town had turned out to get a look at me. It was very embarrassing, particularly as I could give them no information regarding the cause of my condition, although, of course, they all knew that I was a refugee from Belgium. As the train pulled out of the station the crowd gave a loud cheer, and the tears almost came to my eyes as I contrasted in my mind the conduct of this crowd and the one that had gathered at the station in Ghent when I had departed a prisoner en route for the reprisal camp. I breathed a sigh of relief as I thought of that reprisal camp and how fortunate I had really been, despite all my suffering, to have escaped it. Now, at any rate, I was a free man and I would soon be sending home the joyful news that I had made good my escape. At Einhoffen two Dutch officers got into the compartment with me. They looked at me with very much disfavor, not knowing, of course, that I was a British officer. My clothes were still pretty much in the condition they were when I crossed the border, although I had been able to scrape off some of the mud I had collected the night before. I had not shaved nor trimmed my beard for many days, and I must have presented a sorry appearance. I could hardly blame them for edging away from me. The trip from Einhoffen to Rotterdam passed without special incident. At various stations passengers would get into the compartment and, observing my unusual appearance, would endeavor to start a conversation with me. None of them spoke English, however, and they had to use their own imagination as to my identity. When I arrived at Rotterdam I asked a policeman who stood in front of the station where I could find the British consul, but I could not make him understand. I next applied to a taxicab driver. "English consul--British consul--American consul--French consul," I said, hoping that if he didn't understand one he might recognize another. He eyed me with suspicion and motioned me to get in and drove off. I had no idea where he was taking me, but after a quarter of an hour's ride he brought up in front of the British consulate. Never before was I so glad to see the Union Jack! I beckoned to the chauffeur to go with me up to the office, as I had no money with which to pay him, and when we got to the consulate I told them that if they would pay the taxi fare I would tell them who I was and how I happened to be there. They knew at once that I was an escaped prisoner and they readily paid the chauffeur and invited me to give some account of myself. They treated me most cordially and were intensely interested in the brief account I gave them of my adventures. Word was sent to the consul-general, and he immediately sent for me. When I went in he shook hands with me, greeting me very heartily and offering me a chair. He then sat down, screwed a monocle on his eye, and viewed me from top to toe. I could see that only good breeding kept him from laughing at the spectacle I presented. I could see he wanted to laugh in the worst way. "Go ahead and laugh!" I said. "You can't offend me the way I feel this blessed day!" And he needed no second invitation. Incidentally, it gave me a chance to laugh at him, for I was about as much amused as he was. After he had laughed himself about sick he got up and slapped me on the back and invited me to tell him my story. "Lieutenant," he said, when I had concluded, "you can have anything you want. I think your experiences entitle you to it." "Well, Consul," I replied, "I would like a bath, a shave, a hair-cut, and some civilized clothes about as badly as a man ever needed them, I suppose, but before that I would like to get a cable off to America to my mother, telling her that I am safe and on my way to England." The consul gave the necessary instructions, and I had the satisfaction of knowing before I left the office that the cable, with its good tidings, was on its way to America. Then he sent for one of the naval men who had been interned there since the beginning of the war and who was able to speak Dutch, and told him to take good care of me. After I had been bathed and shaved and had a hair-cut, I bought some new clothes and had something to eat, and I felt like a new man. As I walked through the streets of Rotterdam, breathing the air of freedom again and realizing that there was no longer any danger of being captured and taken back to prison, it was a wonderful sensation. I don't believe there will ever be a country that will appear in my eyes quite as good as Holland did then. I had to be somewhat careful, however, because Holland was full of German spies, and I knew they would be keen to learn all they possibly could about my escape and my adventures, so that the authorities in Belgium could mete out punishment to every one who was in any respect to blame for it. As I was in Rotterdam only a day, they didn't have very much opportunity to learn anything from me. The naval officer who accompanied me and acted as interpreter for me introduced me to many other soldiers and sailors who had escaped from Belgium when the Germans took Antwerp, and as they had arrived in Holland in uniform and under arms the laws of neutrality compelled their internment, and they had been there ever since. The life of a man who is interned in a neutral country, I learned, is anything but satisfactory. He gets one month a year to visit his home. If he lives in England, that is not so bad, but if he happens to live farther away, the time he has to spend with his folks is very short, as the month's leave does not take into consideration the time consumed in traveling to and from Holland. The possibility of escape from internment is always there, but the British authorities have an agreement with the Dutch government to send refugees back immediately. In this respect, therefore, the position of a man who is interned is worse than that of a prisoner who, if he does succeed in making his escape, is naturally received with open arms in his native land. Apart from this restraint, however, internment, with all its drawbacks, is a thousand times--yes, a million times better than being a prisoner of war in Germany. It seems to me that when the war is over and the men who have been imprisoned in Germany return home they should be given a bigger and greater reception than the most victorious army that ever marched into a city, for they will have suffered and gone through more than the world will ever be able to understand. No doubt you will find in the German prison-camps one or two faint-hearted individuals with a pronounced yellow streak who voluntarily gave up the struggle and gave up their liberty rather than risk their lives or limbs. These sad cases, however, are, I am sure, extremely few. Nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand of the men fighting in the Allied lines would rather be in the front-line trenches, fighting every day, with all the horrors and all the risks, than be a prisoner of war in Germany, for the men in France have a very keen realization of what that means. But to return to my day in Rotterdam. After I was fixed up I returned to the consulate and arrangements were made for my transportation to England at once. Fortunately there was a boat leaving that very night, and I was allowed to take passage on it. Just as we were leaving Rotterdam the boat I was on rammed our own convoy, one of the destroyers, and injured it so badly that it had to put back to port. It would have been a strange climax to my adventure if the disaster had resulted in the sinking of my boat and I had lost my life while on my way to England after having successfully outwitted the Huns. But my luck was with me to the last, and while the accident resulted in some delay, our boat was not seriously damaged and made the trip over in schedule time and without further incident, another destroyer having been assigned to escort us through the danger zone in place of the one which we had put out of commission. When I arrived in London the reaction from the strain I had been under for nearly three months immediately became apparent. My nerves were in such a state that it was absolutely impossible for me to cross the street without being in deadly fear of being run over or trampled on. I stood at the curb, like an old woman from the country on her first visit to the city, and I would not venture across until some knowing policeman, recognizing my condition, came to my assistance and convoyed me across. Indeed, there are a great number of English officers at home at all times "getting back their nerve" after a long spell of active service at the front, so that my condition was anything but novel to the London bobbies. It was not many days, however, before I regained control of myself and felt in first-class shape. Although the British authorities in Holland had wired my mother from Holland that I was safe and on my way to England, the first thing I did when we landed was to send her a cable myself. The cable read as follows: _Mrs. M. J. O'Brien, Momence, Ill., U. S. A._: Just escaped from Germany. Letter follows. PAT. As I delivered it to the cable-despatcher I could just imagine the exultation with which my mother would receive it and the pride she would feel as she exhibited it among her neighbors and friends. I could hear the volley of "I told you so's" that greeted her good tidings. "It would take more than the Kaiser to keep Pat in Germany!" I could hear one of them saying. "Knew he'd be back for Christmas, anyway," I could hear another remark. "I had an idea that Pat and his comrades might spend Christmas in Berlin," I could hear another admitting, "but I didn't think any other part of Germany would appeal to him very much." "Mrs. O'Brien, did Pat write you how many German prisoners he brought back with him?" I could hear still another credulous friend inquiring. It was all very amusing and gratifying to me, and I must confess I felt quite cocky as I walked into the War Department to report. For the next five days I was kept very busy answering questions put to me by the military authorities regarding what I had observed as to conditions in Germany and behind the lines. What I reported was taken down by a stenographer and made part of the official records, but I did not give them my story in narrative form. The information I was able to give was naturally of interest to various branches of the service, and experts in every line of government work took it in turns to question me. One morning would be devoted, for instance, to answering questions of a military nature--German methods behind the front-line trenches, tactics, morale of troops, and similar matters. Then the aviation experts would take a whack at me and discuss with me all I had observed of German flying-corps methods and equipment. Then, again, the food experts would interrogate me as to what I had learned of food conditions in Germany, Luxembourg, and Belgium, and as I had lived pretty close to the ground for the best part of seventy-two days I was able to give them some fairly accurate reports as to actual agricultural conditions, many of the things I told them probably having more significance to them than they had to me. There were many things I had observed which I have not referred to in these pages because their value to us might be diminished if the Germans knew we were aware of them, but they were all reported to the authorities, and it was very gratifying to me to hear that the experts considered some of them of the greatest value. One of the most amusing incidents of my return occurred when I called at my banker's in London to get my personal effects. The practice in the Royal Flying Corps when a pilot is reported missing is to have two of his comrades assigned to go through his belongings, check them over, destroy anything that it might not be to his interest to preserve, and send the whole business to his banker or his home, as the case may be. Every letter is read through, but its contents is never afterward discussed nor revealed in any way. If the pilot is finally reported dead, his effects are forwarded to his next of kin, but while he is officially only "missing" or is known to be a prisoner of war they are kept either at the squadron headquarters or sent to his banker's. In my case, as soon as it was learned that I had fallen from the sky it was assumed that I had been killed, and my chum, Paid Raney, and another officer were detailed to check over my effects. The list they made and to which they affixed their signatures, as I have previously mentioned, is now in my possession and is one of the most treasured souvenirs of my adventure. My trunk was sent to Cox & Co. in due course, and now that I was in London I thought I would go and claim it. When I arrived in the bank I applied at the proper window for my mail and trunk. "Who are you?" I was asked, rather sharply. "Well, I guess no one has any greater right to Pat O'Brien's effects than I have," I replied, "and I would be obliged to you if you would look them up for me." "That may be all right, my friend," replied the clerk, "but according to our records Lieutenant O'Brien is a prisoner of war in Germany, and we can't very well turn over his effects to any one else unless either you present proof that he is dead and that you are his lawful representative, or else deliver to us a properly authenticated order from him to give them to you." He was very positive about it all, but quite polite, and I thought I would kid him no more. "Well," I said, "I can't very well present proofs to you that Pat O'Brien is dead, but I will do the best I can to prove to you that he is alive, and if you haven't quite forgotten his signature I guess I can write you out an order that will answer all your requirements and enable you to give me Pat O'Brien's belongings without running any risks." And I scribbled my signature on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. He looked at me carefully through the latticed window, then jumped down from his chair and came outside to clasp me by the hand. "Good Heavens, Lieutenant!" he exclaimed as he pumped my hand up and down. "How did you ever get away?" And I had to sit right down and tell him and half a dozen other people in the bank all about my experiences. [Illustration: COPY OF TELEGRAM INVITING LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN TO MEET KING GEORGE] [Illustration: COPY OF TELEGRAM SENT BY LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN IN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO MEET KING GEORGE] I had been in England about ten days when I received a telegram which, at first, occasioned me almost as much concern as the unexpected sight of a German spiked helmet had caused me in Belgium. It read as follows: _Lieut. P. A. O'Brien, Royal Flying Corps, Regent's Palace Hotel, London_: The King is very glad to hear of your escape from Germany. If you are to be in London on Friday next, December 7th, His Majesty will receive you at Buckingham Palace at 10:30 A.M. Please acknowledge. CROMER. Of course, there was only one thing to do and that was to obey orders. I was an officer in the army and the King was my commander-in-chief. I had to go, and so I sat down and sent off the following answer: _Earl Cromer, Buckingham Palace, London_: I will attend Buckingham Palace as directed, Friday, December 7th, at 10:30. LIEUTENANT PAT O'BRIEN. In the interval that elapsed I must confess, the ordeal of calling on the King of England loomed up more dreadfully every day, and I really believe I would rather have spent another day in that empty house in the big city in Belgium, or, say, two days at Courtrai, than go through what I believed to be in store for me. Orders were orders, however, and there was no way of getting out of it. As it turned out it wasn't half so bad as I had feared; on the contrary, it was one of the most agreeable experiences of my life. XIX I AM PRESENTED TO THE KING When the dreaded 7th of December arrived I hailed a taxicab and in as matter-of-fact tone of voice as I could command directed the chauffeur to drive me to Buckingham Palace, as though I were paying my regular morning call on the King. My friends' version of this incident, I have since heard, is that I seated myself in the taxi and, leaning through the window, said, "Buckingham Palace!" whereupon the taxi driver got down, opened the door, and exclaimed, threateningly: "If you don't get out quietly and chuck your drunken talk, I'll jolly quick call a bobby, bli' me if I won't!" But I can only give my word that nothing of the kind occurred. When I arrived at the palace gate the sentry on guard asked me who I was, and then let me pass at once up to the front entrance of the palace. There I was met by an elaborately uniformed and equally elaborately decorated personage, who, judging by the long row of medals he wore, must have seen long and distinguished service for the King. I was relieved of my overcoat, hat, and stick and conducted up a long stairway, where I was turned over to another functionary, who led me to the reception-room of Earl Cromer, the King's secretary. There I was introduced to another earl and a duke whose names I do not remember. I was becoming so bewildered, in fact, that it is a wonder that I remember as much as I do of this eventful day. I had heard many times that before being presented to the King a man is coached carefully as to just how he is to act and what he is to say and do, and all this time I was wondering when this drilling would commence. I certainly had no idea that I was to be ushered into the august presence of the King without some preliminary instruction. Earl Cromer and the other noblemen talked to me for a while and got me to relate in brief the story of my experiences, and they appeared to be very much interested. Perhaps they did it only to give me confidence and as a sort of rehearsal for the main performance, which was scheduled to take place much sooner than I expected. I had barely completed my story when the door opened and an attendant entered and announced: "The King will receive Leftenant O'Brien!" If he had announced that the Kaiser was outside with a squad of German guards to take me back to Courtrai my heart could not have sunk deeper. Earl Cromer beckoned me to follow him, and we went into a large room, where I supposed I was at last to receive my coaching, but I observed the earl bow to a man standing there and realized that I was standing in the presence of the King of England. "Your Majesty, Leftenant O'Brien!" the earl announced, and then immediately backed from the room. I believed I would have followed right behind him, but by that time the King had me by the hand and was congratulating me, and he spoke so very cordially and democratically that he put me at my ease at once. He then asked me how I felt and whether I was in a condition to converse, and when I told him I was he said he would be very much pleased to hear my story in detail. "Were you treated any worse by the Germans, Leftenant," he asked, "on account of being an American? I've heard that the Germans had threatened to shoot Americans serving in the British army if they captured them, classing them as murderers because America was a neutral country and Americans had no right to mix in the war. Did you find that to be the case?" I told him that I had heard similar reports, but that I did not notice any appreciable difference in my treatment from that accorded Britishers. The King declared that he believed my escape was due to my pluck and will power, and that it was one of the most remarkable escapes he had ever heard of, which I thought was quite a compliment, coming as it did from the King of England. "I hope that all the Americans will give as good an account of themselves as you have, Leftenant," he said, "and I feel quite sure they will. I fully appreciate all the service rendered us by Americans before the States entered the war." At this point I asked him if I was taking too much time. "Not at all, Leftenant, not at all!" he replied, most cordially. "I was extremely interested in the brief report that came to me of your wonderful escape, and I sent for you because I wanted to hear the whole story first-hand, and I am very glad you were able to come." I had not expected to remain more than a few minutes, as I understood that four minutes is considered a long audience with the King. Fifty-two minutes elapsed before I finally left there! During all this time I had done most of the talking, in response to the King's request to tell my story. Occasionally he interrupted to ask a question about a point he wanted me to make clear, but for the most part he was content to play the part of listener. He seemed to be very keen on everything, and when I described some of the tight holes I got into during my escape he evinced his sympathy. Occasionally I introduced some of the few humorous incidents of my adventure, and in every instance he laughed heartily. Altogether the impression I got of him was that he is a very genial, gracious, and alert sovereign. I know I have felt more ill at ease when talking to a major than when speaking to the King--but perhaps I had more cause to. During the whole interview we were left entirely alone, which impressed me as significant of the democratic manner of the present King of England, and I certainly came away with the utmost respect for him. In all of my conversation, I recalled afterward, I never addressed the King as "Your Majesty," but used the military "sir." As I was a British officer and he was the head of the army, he probably appreciated this manner of address more than if I had used the usual "Your Majesty." Perhaps he attributed it to the fact that I was an American. At any rate, he didn't evince any displeasure at my departure from what I understand is the usual form of address. Before I left he asked me what my plans for the future were. "Why, sir, I hope to rejoin my squadron at the earliest possible moment!" I replied. "No, Leftenant," he rejoined, "that is out of the question. We can't risk losing you for good by sending you back to a part of the front opposed by Germany, because if you were unfortunate enough to be captured again they would undoubtedly shoot you." "Well, if I can't serve in France, sir," I suggested, "wouldn't it be feasible for me to fly in Italy or Salonica?" "No," he replied; "that would be almost as bad. The only thing that I can suggest for you to do is either to take up instruction--a very valuable form of service--or perhaps it might be safe enough for you to serve in Egypt; but, just at present, Leftenant, I think you have done enough, anyway." Then he rose and shook hands with me and wished me the best of luck, and we both said, "Good-by." In the adjoining room I met Earl Cromer again, and as he accompanied me to the door he seemed to be surprised at the length of my visit. "His Majesty must have been very much interested in your story," he said. As I left the palace a policeman and a sentry outside came smartly to attention. Perhaps they figured I had been made a general. As I was riding back to the hotel in a taxi I reflected on the remarkable course of events which in the short space of nine months had taken me through so much and ended up, like the finish of a book, with my being received by his Majesty the King! When I first joined the Royal Flying Corps I never expected to see the inside of Buckingham Palace, much less to be received by the King. XX HOME AGAIN! That same day, in the evening, I was tendered a banquet at the Hotel Savoy by a fellow-officer who had bet three other friends of mine that I would be home by Christmas. This wager had been made at the time he heard that I was a prisoner of war, and the dinner was the stake. The first intimation he had of my safe return from Germany and the fact that he had won his bet was a telegram I sent him reading as follows: _Lieutenant Louis Grant_: War-bread bad, so I came home. PAT. He said he would not part with that message for a thousand dollars. Other banquets followed in fast succession. After I had survived nine of them I figured that I was now in as much danger of succumbing to a surfeit of rich food as I had previously been of dying from starvation, and for my own protection I decided to leave London. Moreover, my thoughts and my heart were turning back to the land of my birth, where I knew there was a loving old mother who was longing for more substantial evidence of my safe escape than the cables and letters she had received. Strangely enough, on the boat which carried me across the Atlantic I saw an R. F. C. man--Lieutenant Lascelles. I walked over to him, held out my hand, and said, "Hello!" He looked at me steadily for at least a minute. "My friend, you certainly look like Pat O'Brien," he declared, "but I can't believe my eyes. Who are you?" I quickly convinced him that his eyes were still to be relied upon, and then he stared at me for another minute or two, shaking his head dubiously. His mystification was quite explicable. The last time he had seen me I was going down to earth with a bullet in my face and my machine doing a spinning nose dive. He was one of my comrades in the flying corps and was in the fight which resulted in my capture. He said he had read the report that I was a prisoner of war, but he had never believed it, as he did not think it possible for me to survive that fall. He was one of the few men living out of eighteen who were originally in my squadron--I do not mean the eighteen with whom I sailed from Canada last May, but the squadron I joined in France. He rehearsed for me the fate of all my old friends in the squadron, and it was a mighty sad story. All of them had been killed except one or two who were in dry-dock for repairs. He himself was on his way to Australia to recuperate and get his nerves back into shape again. He had been in many desperate combats. As we sat on the deck exchanging experiences I would frequently notice him gazing intently in my face as if he were not quite sure that the whole proposition was not a hoax and that I was not an impostor. Outside of this unexpected meeting, my trip across was uneventful. I arrived in St. John, New Brunswick, and eventually the little town of Momence, Illinois, on the Kankakee River. I have said that I was never so happy to arrive in a country as I was when I first set foot on Dutch soil. Now I'm afraid I shall have to take that statement back. Not until I finally landed in Momence and realized that I was again in the town of my childhood days did I enjoy that feeling of absolute security which one never really appreciates until after a visit to foreign parts. Now that I am back, the whole adventure constantly recurs to me as a dream, and I'm never quite sure that I won't wake up and find it so. THE END * * * * * [Transcriber's Notes: The transcriber made these changes to the text to correct obvious errors: 1. p. 172 woulb --> would 2. p. 265 geting --> getting End of Transcriber's Notes] 
35724	----	* * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has | | been preserved. | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For | | a complete list, please see the end of this document. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * [Illustration: "WITH HIS BUNDLE SAFELY ON HIS HEAD HE TOOK TO THE WATER" (_page 205_).] 13 DAYS THE CHRONICLE OF AN ESCAPE FROM A GERMAN PRISON BY CAPTAIN J.A.L. CAUNTER 1ST BN. THE GLOUCESTERSHIRE REGIMENT ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR [Illustration] LONDON G. BELL AND SONS, LTD. 1918 CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION vii PART I CHAPTER I. CREFELD 1 II. THE MOVE TO SCHWARMSTEDT 45 III. SCHWARMSTEDT CAMP 65 PART II IV. MY ESCAPE FROM THE CAMP 87 V. CROSSING THE FIRST TWO RIVERS 108 VI. I MEET FOX AND BLANK 125 VII. THE CROSSING OF THE WESER 134 VIII. THE RAILWAY TRACK 155 IX. CROSSING THE RIVER HUNTE, AND THE TOWN OF "DOGS" 164 X. EXIT BLANK. SHEDS 175 XI. TWO DAYS OF THE EMS 184 XII. THE CROSSING OF THE RIVER 198 XIII. ACROSS THE FRONTIER 209 XIV. CONCLUSION 222 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE "With his bundle safely on his head he took to the water" _Title_ Fancy Portrait of "The Crab" 16 Section of a German Camp 96 "At last the two Women got up" 112 "Face to face with a Flapper on her way to bathe" 128 "Every dark corner seemed to contain a dog" 160 "Fox led them over the worst pieces of boggy ground he could find" 192 "The German Relief passed within 200 yards of my hiding place" 208 INTRODUCTION On placing before the public this account of my escape from Germany and some episodes from my life in two prison camps, I feel that I must make clear that it was only due to the fact that I had two definite supplementary objects to attain, that I succeeded in making myself launch out in the following pages. The first of these objects is to add my quota to the information before the public relating to the treatment and existence of those who, in prisons in Germany, have suffered and are suffering for their country. My second object is to try to throw a little light on the marvellous spirit of the prisoners as a whole. Think what it means to be shut up for years under such conditions. Let me quote the prisoner poet, Lieut. Harvey, who, in _Gloucestershire Friends_, vividly describes what prison means in the following lines: Laugh, oh laugh loud, all ye who long ago Adventure found in gallant company! Safe in stagnation; laugh, laugh bitterly, While on this filthiest backwater of time's flow, Drift we and rot till something set us free! It is always a fight against this sort of thing that the prisoner of war is waging. Some apparently find such a fight difficult, but the majority do somehow keep a hold on themselves and retain their energy and hopefulness. "Barbed-wire" disease is now officially recognised, and internment in neutral countries of those who have done the longest spells in prison is the outcome of this. It will readily be conceded that those who keep cheerful throughout their cruel trials display wonderful moral courage. But what about another class of prisoner? The prisoner who tries to escape--is caught--does three months cells--is released--tries to escape again--meets the same fate--and does another stretch of perhaps six months this time--but only goes on trying. There are some who have spent two and a half years out of three in Germany in cells for attempts to escape. There are many who have made six or seven attempts. I, who only had one determined attempt and succeeded, am able to say it: "These men are of the salt of the earth." I have heard some chicken-hearted persons who say that nobody ought to try to escape because it might make it worse for those left behind. There is only one answer to that sort of person. However, it is not a fact that others get punished for the escape of individuals, although it was true on two occasions in 1914; so the question hardly arises. Very few people in this country seem to realise that the German, being a bully, has the characteristics of a bully. If a strong attitude is taken with him he immediately gives way. Collectively and individually they cannot understand any argument but Force, whether it takes the form of a reprisal or a great attack at the front. GERMANY Since my return to England I have often been asked what do the Germans think of the war now and are they hard up for food, etc. The Germans I talked to were thoroughly fed-up with the war and only wanted peace. This does not mean that they will break out into Revolution. That to my mind cannot come about until the military defeat of Germany is a fact. The Kaiser, not too popular nowadays, would immediately regain his former position in the minds of his subjects could he but secure a peace even partially favourable to the German people. The rulers of Germany know that defeat, or anything like it, would be fatal for them; that is why they will stick at nothing and spare no spilling of blood until they have either won or lost irretrievably. What would a patched-up peace mean? It would mean that Germany would begin building submarines by the hundred for use against us within ten years' time. It would mean just an armistice for a few years and then a renewal of the conflict without Russia and probably many of our other exhausted allies. The Germans with whom I spoke knew this and looked at the future with open eyes. I wonder if it is realised how much the British are hated by the Germans? Their hate of us is "Kolossal," to use their own expressive word. Somebody in Germany said that should the Germans ever get into England they would make "Belgium appear like a Garden of Eden in comparison with what England would look like after they had done with her." It is a German boast that the war has never touched the sacred soil of the Fatherland. The few occasions on which our aeroplanes bombed German towns during my stay there, gave me an excellent opportunity of judging how sensitive they are to this particular form of punishment. The bombing of Karlsruhe and Freiburg caused a scream throughout the west of Germany. I heard the echo of it in the canteen at Crefeld. When I suggested that London had also been bombed and innocent lives lost, they simply said that that was different. Thus in their minds there are two kinds of law, one for England, the other for Germany. I was very pleased to notice how much less was the effect of air-raids on our civilian population than on the Germans. There is no doubt whatever that the fear of air bombardments is much stronger in Germany than over here. There is only one way of touching the German mind and that is by the employment of FORCE, Brute Force. It is what he believes in as the medicine for his enemies, simply because he judges others by himself, and knows that he respects that and that only, and therefore applies it whenever possible to others. It is a pity that our public does not know more of the German mentality. It is a knowledge of this factor that should assist one in having a correct view of things and in understanding German aspirations and methods. A word about food and supplies generally. The Germans are extremely hard-up for food. In the Spring of 1917, meat was practically unobtainable. The bread was disgusting and scarce. Potatoes had to be procured by standing in queues for hours. (This as a matter of fact has been the rule for the last year and a half.) Mangel-wurzels, swedes, black peas, and turnips form the greater part of the food. The town of Crefeld in February, 1917, was like a place of the dead, absolutely deserted except at the hour when the workers went home. The shops have practically nothing to sell in their windows. To get a shirt or a towel or any such article, a permit had to be got from the town authorities. Boots were a difficult problem. All the children wore wooden shoes. Leather could not be got for love or money nearly two years ago. It is extraordinary how the German people put up with their hardships. People ignorant of the true state of affairs in Germany have sometimes asked me if the Germans are shorter of food and other things than we are. I always have to laugh as the question is so ridiculous to me. There is absolutely no comparison between the two countries. I often see articles in the papers on the conditions that obtain in Germany, written by persons who know, and I hear people doubt the veracity of them. I can truthfully say that I have not yet seen the article or item of news from Germany which I, from my point of vantage, did not absolutely believe. It is a pity that people will not believe what men who have been in Germany have to say on the subject. PART I CHAPTER I CREFELD I was taken prisoner at Gheluveld, 31st October, 1914, and arrived at Crefeld prison-camp on the evening of 2nd November with ten other officers brought in from various parts of the Ypres front. It was the same old story every time that one heard, on asking what had happened in any particular sector of the battlefield. The impression we got from the sum total of these descriptions led us to think that a German break-through to Ypres and beyond was a certainty during the evening of the 31st. We had been taken through the German reserves while being transported to the rear, and had seen the thousands of fresh men they had got massed behind their fighting armies. Menin, Wervicq, and other places were packed with troops. Every farm and cottage held its full complement of armed Boches. On the railway, trains passed westwards every few minutes crammed with troops, destined for the Ypres battle. It was not surprising that we prisoners, who knew the exact strength of the British army, and also the fact that all units were having hard fighting, and that nothing was left in reserve, should feel depressed and wonder if it was possible that the Germans would fail to use their great opportunity. I have often been asked how our prisoners are treated in Germany. The only correct answer to this is that the treatment varies according to the time and place, and the type of German who comes into contact with them. In 1914 it was generally the same throughout Germany. In those days the treatment was exceedingly bad. Every prisoner taken then has seen or experienced some brutality or insulting behaviour on the part of Germans. For my part, I, on first becoming a prisoner, was spat at and called all the choice names their musical language can provide. I saw a British soldier, with a shrapnel wound in the back, made to carry a heavy German pack which bumped up and down on the open wound. This fact was remarked upon by a German private soldier, who, more humane than the rest, protested against this treatment. But the Unter-Offizier would not alter his order and the wounded man had to carry his burden for seven miles or more. When asked for water at Aix-la-Chappelle railway station, by prisoners who had hardly had a drop to drink for two days, and scarcely a scrap of food to eat, I heard the Red Cross "Ladies"! reply--"For an "Engländer"? Nein!" At Cologne station I saw the brute beasts of German officials haul three or four of the most miserable British private soldiers they could find, out of the cattle trucks and place them on the platform to be baited by the populace, comprised largely of women. There were German officers on the platform, so there was no excuse; it could have been stopped instantly by them. There were many other incidents too numerous to mention, but similar and worse stories will be told by the thousand after the war. The treatment of prisoners has steadily improved since those days. No longer do the Germans openly insult and knock prisoners about to the same extent, except in out of the way places and when they have a particularly cowed and defenceless lot to deal with. I have heard from officers taken prisoners in 1916, that they were reasonably treated when captured. It is much changed now according to general report. While waiting at Cologne station for our train for Crefeld, we were locked in a cell under the stairs of the station. Although expecting to receive food here and being told that it was with that object that we had been put in this place, nothing of this kind materialised. However, we had the great honour of being visited by a German general and a young female of high rank, who could speak a little English. This she aired, and asked us several silly questions. She was much taken with S----'s height, comparing him to some Karl or other. It was a kind of private show of the wild beasts at the Zoo in which we acted the parts of the animals. On arrival at Crefeld station a hostile crowd was ready to receive us, and we were hurried as quickly as possible into the trains waiting there, in order to get us away from the attentions of the populace. As it was, two of the eleven officers in my party were hit with sticks, the wielders of which had pushed their way through the escort of German soldiers accompanying us. We were not sorry to reach the barracks and get away from these demonstrations of the unpopularity of England in this town. Crefeld, a great centre of the silk industry, had suffered heavily by the entry of England into the war. Once inside the camp we had time to spare for anything we wished to do, which naturally meant food first, sleep next, and after some time a wash and shave. The barracks of the Crefeld Hussars, now wired in and used as a prison camp, are large and strongly built. The prisoners occupied three large buildings and a fourth smaller one provided mess rooms and canteen, etc. There was a gravel parade square in the middle of the ground between the buildings; this we used as a place for exercise. This square was a hundred and forty yards long by about eighty yards wide. It made an excellent association football ground when cleared of big stones, and in the summer, by dint of hard labour, we turned it into a number of tennis courts. Until he got command of Belgium, Von Bissing--the brute responsible for the death of Nurse Cavell--was the general in charge of the particular army command which included Crefeld in its jurisdiction. On the walls of the prison camp an order signed by Bissing was posted, which informed all the prisoners that they were the inferiors of all Germans, whatever rank they might hold. The order also warned us against trying to "evade our fate by escaping." It continued, "The guards are earnest men, knowing their duty." This caused the nickname "earnest men" to be given to them. I wish Bissing could have known how we laughed at his special order. The Boche has no sense of humour or he could never have put a thing like that on the walls for Englishmen to laugh at and ridicule generally. For the first year or so, only seven officers were allotted to the smaller rooms and fourteen to the larger ones. But these numbers were eventually increased, first to eight and sixteen respectively, and then to nine and eighteen. At first we had a cupboard each, but later four had to do duty for seven officers. The beds were iron with wooden planks supporting a hard mattress, sometimes filled with straw or wood shavings, which was changed on one or two occasions. During the first few months we had only small oil lamps for lighting purposes, at a scale of one per seven officers. It was impossible for everyone to read at the same time. We used to sit over the fire for warmth and the three nearest to the lamp could manage to see sufficiently in the evenings to read the few Tauchnitz editions we had been able to purchase through a tradesman, who was allowed into the barracks twice a week. As nearly all great-coats and waterproofs had been taken away from prisoners at the time of their capture, we felt the effects of the cold pretty considerably. Roll-calls took place at 8 a.m. and 9.30 p.m., generally out of doors. We often went on these roll-calls in the early days with our blankets over our shoulders. A welcome supply of soldiers' great-coats was sent through the American Embassy about Christmas time. During the first winter there were about 250 Russians, 200 French, 120 English and a few Belgian officers in the camp. That first winter was by far the worst of the three I spent there. We had not got to understand the true nature of the German official reports, and for some time they depressed us. Parcels began coming in December, but the Germans made us pay duty on them for a time, and as we had very little money in those days, they were not so welcome as they became at a later date, when the duty was removed. As time went by, conditions in the camp improved, but until the summer of 1915 we had great difficulty in getting permission to do anything to make ourselves more comfortable. In the early summer of 1915, thirty-five British officers were sent to Cologne to be imprisoned in cells as a reprisal against the alleged maltreatment of German submarine crews. The majority of this number went from Crefeld. After two months or more, the reprisal having ended, they came back, looking very white and ill. Sometime in the month of June of this year a successful escape was made by three Russians, and three others who got out of the camp the following night were re-caught. Apparently they crossed the Dutch frontier but got tied up in swampy ground and had to return across the frontier into German territory again, in search of a way out of this bad stretch of country. It was while attempting this that they were seen by a German patrol and re-captured. The whole affair was badly managed. The theory which many prisoners held and worked upon, consisted of allowing each small party twenty-four hours start, so that they might have a good chance of getting across the frontier, some eighteen miles away, before the next lot tried, who if caught at once would cause the Germans to discover the departure of others at the nominal roll-call always held after an attempt to escape. If anyone is missed at these roll-calls the frontier guards are warned by wire. The frontier is guarded just the same, whether an escaped prisoner is reported "out" or not, so getting away unknown is not a necessity. Of this I am absolutely certain from after knowledge of the conditions, but of course nobody knew definitely what was the best course of action at that time. The mentality of the Boche, on the subject of escape, is curious. In the early days, anyone who tried to escape and was caught was the subject of particular dislike among the Germans, besides suffering his usual term of punishment in cells. I suppose becoming accustomed to these attempts altered their point of view, as latterly indifference towards evil-doers of this nature was displayed by them and the punishment term of cells was administered and given with the same lack of interest or emotion as the matron of a boys' preparatory school displays on dosing her charges all round with medicine. During the first winter in prison we built up a library, which eventually became a large affair with a librarian and a room to itself. Some prisoners managed to continue playing cards from their first days in prison until I left, and I suppose will continue to do so without ceasing until the day of their release. Personally, after the first year I spent in captivity I hated the sight of a card and played very seldom. The orchestra, from modest beginnings, grew into a really excellent institution. Most of the instruments were hired from the town of Crefeld. By dint of asking repeatedly, we persuaded the Germans to allow us to run a theatre, which also developed from an extremely crude state into what was really quite a respectable affair. The main difficulty with which our theatrical manager had to contend, was the lack of material for "girls" in the caste. However, practise and hard training turned out some passable ones in time. The French were more fortunate in this respect than the English. They are all born actors it seems, and they found two or three really excellent male "actresses." The Russians also produced theatrical displays, but were not so persevering in that respect as the French and British. Periodically the camp used to be visited by German officers on leave from the front. We used to stare at them and they at us, and beyond the necessary salute, took no particular notice of each other. One thing about the uniform of German officers drew our attention. Although the top half of them appeared smart enough, they always looked sloppy about the legs. Often one would see a German officer with a reasonably well-cut coat, but his breeches would be perfectly impossible. His leggings were worse than his breeches and looked as if they must have been picked up at a second-hand clothes dealer's. They never fitted, and besides giving their wearers legs the same shape all the way down, generally ended off with their edges half an inch clear of the boots all the way round. The leather of these leggings looked as if it was made of papier-maché. Being generally of a light yellowish-brown colour they at any rate matched the boots, for the latter were nearly always of that particularly aggressive tone of yellow often seen in the shop-windows in England. The German officer seems to like this colour and has it preserved by his servant, whereas we get rid of it at once. I suppose these officers in their new uniforms criticised the generally unkempt appearance of the English officers in prison extremely unfavourably, not realising that anything is good enough for a prison, and the less new stuff we got from "home" the less unimportant work we gave to the hard-worked tailors endeavouring to cope with the millions of uniforms required by our growing armies. In the Spring of 1916 we were allowed by the British Government to give our "paroles" for purposes of "walks" and other recreation. This enabled us to go to the dentist in the town. This dentist, although extremely short-sighted, did not do such bad work, provided you found the hole for him. He did his best for us and his charges were extraordinarily reasonable. These visits to the dentist were naturally very popular, as they enabled us to see new sights and get away from the horrible prison for a few hours. The dentist scored heavily, as he always had a waiting-list and continuous work to do for the prisoners. As a man he was about as unfit for war as anyone could imagine, and yet they called him up eventually. Being a weedy specimen, small and pasty-faced, with such short-sight that he had the greatest difficulty in seeing anything, he had been returned as totally exempt time after time by the army doctors. But during the winter of 1916-1917, the weeding-out committee of Germans arrived at Crefeld and once more he was examined. To everyone's surprise, and to his most of all, they passed him fit, and off he had to go. It cheered one up to see them need such a man in their armies. [Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT OF "THE CRAB" (_page 28_).] The commandant, who, together with the vast majority of Germans, believed in a great German victory over the whole world in 1914, began his career as our chief gaoler as an autocrat of the Prussian type. Various objectionable things were done by his orders. Not the least objectionable of these was the stopping of smoking, when Major Vandeleur escaped in December 1914. After a fortnight we regained our tobacco and were allowed to smoke until a similar episode occurred, when the same penalty was imposed. Sometime in the Spring of 1915, three French officers attempted to escape, but at the last minute, having already gained the outside of the camp, came back into the prison, and in so doing were fired upon by a German sentry who saw them. As the names of these officers were not known to the German authorities, they ordered a roll-call and demanded their names from the senior French officer. Naturally the request was not granted, so the commandant said that all smoking would be stopped for all officers of the camp, unless the names were forthcoming at once. Again he was disappointed, and the tobacco was once more collected. This time most of the parcels of tobacco were filled with lumps of coal and other unimportant trifles, while we smoked, like schoolboys, on the sly. Up the chimney was the favourite place for this. During the summer of 1915 the commandant changed his tone a bit, and steadily improved from that time forward. Eventually there arrived a time when we could consider him a fair and just commandant, and although no friend of England or the English, he managed to get on very well with his English prisoners. The French, however, were never able to satisfy their consciences on the subject sufficiently to look upon him as anything but one of the worst. This was too severe. The commandant complained that when he passed them, they would turn their backs on him, in order to avoid having to salute him. Relations between the English and the allies were always of the best. About half the English preferred the Russians, while the other half preferred the French. There were many amusing incidents constantly occurring, if one could raise sufficient sense of humour to enjoy them. One typical example of the way in which we got some amusement out of our guards happened one morning when a German fatigue party was in the barracks loading up a wagon. One of the men had taken off his uniform cap and hung it up by the entrance to one of the buildings. Along came a certain English officer, interested in anything which might assist him to escape, saw the cap, snatched it up and hid it inside his coat, while passing into the building. Ten minutes or so later, the work being finished, the German soldier looked round for his cap. Meanwhile, the story of the annexation of the cap had gone the round of the prison, so, when the wretched Boche passed along the front of the building with his bald pate shining in the sunlight, he had to run the gauntlet of a crowd of heads peering from all the windows and roaring with laughter at him. For a long time, I, like the majority of Englishmen, was in a room half-English, half-French. We really got on very well together, but the usual rock upon which French and English split, cropped up in our case. We English wanted a fair proportion of the windows open; the French on the other hand wanted them shut, complaining of "les courants d'air mortels" (draughts). A compromise was the only possible solution of this universal trouble. On one occasion our allied friends received a consignment of live snails from France, which they proceeded to cook with garlic on a small spirit stove in our room. The smell was appalling. I had to bolt from the room, although I am not over particular. The odour of snails hung about for days afterwards. These same friends of ours took up fret-sawing as a hobby. Have you ever tried to live in a room in which five or six fret-saws are working for hours at a time? They used to commence work before breakfast sometimes. However, we stuck it without complaining for months. We had a most extraordinary prison companion, in the person of a Russian, who received the nick-name of "Cuckoo." This Russian was not really an officer at all, but during the great Russian retreat from Poland was a transport driver. Finding, or otherwise coming by, an officer's great-coat, he was dressed in it, when taken prisoner with many thousands of others. The Germans, who were not able to prove whether all officers were genuine, naturally concluded that he was one, and took him to an officers' internment camp in Germany. During his wanderings from camp to camp, he one day came to Crefeld. The Cuckoo grew his hair long, abnormally long, so that it fell in a matted mass, reaching to his shoulders. It was said that he had vowed never to cut his hair until the Germans had been kicked out of his village. He was called the Cuckoo, because when one day he had climbed a tree he was asked what he was doing by some officer, and replied that he was a cuckoo. This extraordinary person was not allowed to feed with the Russian officers, as they objected to having him with them. So he had to have his meals between the two services, which were normally within an hour of each other. The English officers belonging to the first service were always late in leaving the table, and so were frequently in the large dining-room when the Cuckoo was fed. It was a sight never to be forgotten. His manner of eating was truly marvellous. On some occasions dried smoked fish were part of the meals, and the Cuckoo would pounce on these like a vulture and gnaw one, holding it by the head and tail with both hands. This was not his only stunt. Another good one was the way in which he shovelled food down. His hands worked absolutely feverishly to supply his insatiable appetite; great gulps of tea were rapidly interspersed, for lubricating purposes, I suppose. For all that, I can say that I saw him at the bath, which is more than can be said for all the prisoners in the camp. A really plucky, but at the same time comic attempt to escape was made one Spring by a certain officer, who went by the soubriquet of "Peeping-Tom." The refuse heaps and dust-bins were cleared out daily by an old German man and a boy, who removed the rubbish in a heavy two-wheeled cart drawn by an old ox. This rubbish-cart in these days used to leave the camp without being carefully searched and was emptied some distance from it. This fact was naturally well known to the prisoners, but the question, which most people took to be unanswerable, was how to remain hidden in the rubbish and yet be alive at the end of the unpleasant journey. It remained for "Peeping-Tom" to think of a gas-mask in connection with this scheme. Borrowing one from an officer, who had been lately brought in from the front, and had retained possession of this article of equipment, he dressed himself in it, and choosing a moment when the German boy was looking the other way, and the old man had departed on some other business, he rushed to the cart and got inside. A well-trained batch of English soldier-servants then arrived, each armed with a bucketful of rubbish which they threw over the top of him, successfully hiding him from view. All would now have been well, had not fate cruelly intervened, in the shape of an old German who worked the bath-house furnace, and who occasionally came out for a breath of fresh air. Seeing this extraordinary looking object disappear into the cart, the old Boche fetched his cap and went off to the commandant's office to report the strange event. Remarking this, another officer who had been assisting the attempt, walked past the cart and warned "Peeping-Tom" that he had been seen and must get out. Suddenly a horrible looking object rose from the middle of the cart sending a shower of empty tins and other rubbish in all directions. For a moment his peaky masked face peered round, and then leaping from the cart, he went like the wind for the room of a friend in the nearest building. The German boy nearly fell flat on his back from fright when he saw this apparition, and could do nothing to hinder its escape from the cart. The Germans arrived in force shortly afterwards, but their bird had flown. From that day onwards, the rubbish was pierced with spikes every time it passed through the main gate, so that this scheme never had another chance. During the earlier days of our captivity, impromptu sing-songs sometimes used to take place. On one particular occasion this led to trouble with our prison authorities. Empire-day was a day which could be made something of by the English, as a set-off to the numerous Saints-days and fêtes of the French and Russians. This particular Empire-day, which we had decided to celebrate as a "jour-de-fête," happened to be the day of the declaration of war between Italy and Austria. The noise made by the Empire-day celebrators was quite appreciable, and sufficiently loud to reach the ears of the many town-people promenading up and down outside the camp. As these Germans had just heard that their so-called ally and friend, Italy, had declared war on Austria, thus upsetting German calculations, they were very angry and depressed. On hearing these sounds of cheerful voices and other manifestations of joy they naturally concluded that our Empire-day celebrations had been especially arranged in order to celebrate the entry of Italy into the war, which fact, combined with their feeling of depression and indignation at what they termed Italian treachery, made them wild with rage, and complaints were sent in to the commandant, who believed also that the noise had been due to a celebration in honour of Italy. It was only after most persistent declarations on the part of the British senior officers, that it was at last satisfactorily explained to the commandant. On the whole we were exceedingly fortunate in our German officers at Crefeld. One of them, however, was a most ludicrous person. He was nick-named the Crab, on account of his gait. He wore cuffs, which always asserted their independence from his shirt, when he raised his hand to the salute. This Crab was a fool in his dealings with the prisoners, and various little incidents occurred between him and his charges. On one occasion the order against smoking on parade was re-read to the prisoners, and then the German officers kept their eyes open for smoke for a time after this. The Crab one day saw an English officer smoking and took his name, with the result that the victim got three days cells. In the course of his campaign against smoking, he next came up against the French. One of these was observed to be smoking and accused of it. However, he declared his absolute innocence and the Crab was non-plussed. On looking round he found that the whole crowd of Frenchmen were smoking, and roaring with laughter at him. This was too much for him to tackle and he gave it up. Occasionally our allies received him with a chorus of coughs or suppressed cheers if he came on parade late. A very fine attempt to escape was made by a naval officer, who used the Crab as his model. One evening, knowing that the Crab was busy in the camp and would not be passing out of the Commandantur gate for a few minutes, the Naval officer, dressed _à la Crab_ to the last button, presented himself at the first barrier and got easily through without causing any suspicion. At the next gate, however, the sentry, as a matter of form, asked him for his pass, but unfortunately, not being conversant with the language, he was unable to understand what was required of him, otherwise a word in answer and the production of anything at all resembling the pass might easily have sufficed to allay the man's suspicions. Instead of which the sentry had to repeat his question several times, each time becoming more suspicious of this strangely silent German officer. It wasn't very long before they discovered the trick which was being played on them and arrest quickly followed. The commandant, it was said, was extremely amused over the whole affair, and made the naval officer show him how he had copied the Crab walk. He then sent for the Crab, who came to his office to find his double staring at him. The commandant roared with laughter, but the Crab only vouchsafed "very clever" in English as his remarks on the subject, looking very fed-up the while. All the German employees in the prison used to laugh at the Crab, so this little masquerade caused a good deal of amusement among them. We were always hearing rumours from someone who claimed to be in the know, about the mobilisation of the Dutch army and a rapid attack on Germany. This interested us very much of course, as we had visions of being released by Dutch cavalry. However--cheering as these rumours were at first--they became decidedly unpopular when nothing ever happened according to the programme of the rumour. Sometimes we heard of misgivings in the town when our offensives were stretching the German armies to cracking point. The people didn't believe their official reports without applying a grain of salt to them first, on many occasions. The _Times_ was largely read in the town, and I have heard it actually said by a German that he read it so as to get news of the war,--the German papers containing nothing but stuff entirely favourable to the Fatherland. There was an official report issued by the Great Headquarters every afternoon and this appeared in the _Extra Blatt_, a yellow sheet of paper specially printed. This _Extra Blatt_ used to be carried past the prison by an old Boche, who always shouted the same thing--"heavy losses of the English, French and Russians." At last, after hearing him daily for two years or more, the prisoners began to assert themselves, and he was received with cheers, which daily grew louder, until the commandant ordered that the old man should not come past any more and give opportunities for the prisoners to practise their sarcasm at the expense of the communiqués of the Great Headquarters. The reports about the Jutland battle sent the Germans into a great state of excitement. At first they were very happy, while we said very little to those Boches we met about the camp. A day or two later their joy was rather more assumed than real, until nearly a week afterwards, the sudden marvellous discovery by the German authorities that they had lost some more ships, and the consequent admission of this unfortunate little fact, finally wiped out altogether the dreams of a German domination of the seas, which many deluded people seemed to consider a "fait accompli" after that battle. It was then our turn to smile and drop insinuations and hints that probably their authorities could tell them more if they liked. Of course we were told what would happen to England when the submarine campaign began. The Unter-Offizier in charge of the parcel room informed us with great glee that the English would be unable to receive any more parcels. Although pooh-poohing his suggestions many prisoners had secret fears on the subject. There was great excitement in Boche circles when the first batch of parcels bearing postmarks of a later date to that of the first day of the unlimited submarine campaign arrived in the camp. This did not look a all like a complete blockade of England! After careful thought a satisfactory explanation was forthcoming from the "under officer." "Of course the English postal authorities must have faked the postmarks in order to cause these very misgivings to arise in the minds of true Germans"! Again he and his satellites were able to look on the bright side of things. But not for long did their joy last. The steady stream of incoming parcels continued and joy gave way to sulkiness and then disillusionment in the minds of those Germans who saw with their own eyes. Depend upon it these men told others what they had seen and so it spread. All the same they still imagined, in May, 1917, that we had far less food in England than was really the case. Talking about food reminds me of the behaviour of the Crefeld children when we prisoners went out for walks on parole. Although undoubtedly brought up upon ideas of hate against England, and presumably thoroughly informed of the odious natures of all Englishmen, these children very soon forgot their lessons and rapidly became great friends with the prisoners--English, Russians, French, Belgians and Arabs alike. Of course to a certain extent their behaviour was due to their hopes of getting odd bits of chocolate or a biscuit or two from their enemy friends. It was not unusual to see the "Walk," generally consisting of about forty prisoners, returning with a crowd of kids of all kinds and description hanging on to its edges. Their usual practice was to get hold of a prisoner's hand and trot beside him, asking sometimes for chocolate and occasionally for old tennis balls. These children's disregard of the attitude, which the war lord has decided must be displayed against the English, was not allowed to continue unchecked. I expect the children were the subject of a special army order, as they suddenly ceased to join us in our walks, and the usual crowd of urchins who stood for hours in the road outside the barracks in the hopes of having something thrown out to them, were chased from their points of vantage and silence once more reigned in the one time noisy road. On special occasions the schools were given holidays by orders from headquarters. A victory or the occupation of a town was always commemorated in this way. On these occasions, the headmaster or mistress would march the school past our prison and order the kids to sing patriotic songs. We always laughed at them, and the girls would sometimes forget to sing and would wave their handkerchiefs to us instead, causing their bear-leaders to get wild with rage. Eventually when the Germans got tired of victories and wanted food instead, their holidays ceased and we no longer had to listen to shrill voices shrieking "Die Wacht am Rhein" or "Deutschland über Alles," time after time _ad nauseam_. It was extraordinary how the feelings of the German people changed towards us while at Crefeld. At first nothing was too bad to say or do to the captives of the Kultur nation, but it is marvellous what a good blood-letting and perpetual food shortage has done for them. So tame did they get that our windows, at first only open at the very top and all covered with white paint, were eventually made so that one could sit and look out quite easily. No fist shaking or gestures of hate were made by the time the windows were allowed open, so prisoners and Boche civilians simply stared at each other quite peaceably. There was one thing that specially worried us in the camp. By some means or other all attempts to escape by digging tunnels were discovered. Although the foundations of the prison buildings were literally honey-combed with tunnels and attempts were made without number, never once did one succeed. Most ingenious efforts were made, but despite the most rigid secrecy and the utmost caution, sooner or later in would come a search party and go straight to the scene of the excavation and often catch the diggers red-handed. It was believed that there were spies among the prisoners; at any rate everything that went on was known in the commandant's office sooner or later. The members of one party on being caught were actually complimented on their fine work by the Boches, who were full of joy naturally at having found the tunnel. For many months before we left Crefeld the Germans used to search the ground floor rooms and cellars daily. Not infrequently they would pay two or three visits to the cellars in one night. Their searching included tapping the walls, ceilings and floors for hollow places. Periodically a search for the earth excavated from these holes and hidden away, would lead to the Boches discovering many hundredweights of sand and rubble stowed away safely. Searches were sometimes made in our rooms for articles of contraband. Civilian clothes, and maps, compasses and various tools were the chief objects of interest to them. These searches on some occasions were extended to the persons of the prisoners, especially after an order forbidding the possession of real German money had been issued. Of course none of us liked being searched and we showed our searchers pretty clearly what we thought of the whole affair. I must say that the commandant did not order many searches and probably those that did occur were due to the orders of a superior. These searches were usually carried out by the under-officers and men of a different unit from that which guarded the camp, in order to prevent those who were quite friendly to us among the prison guards letting us off too lightly. During 1915 we were all inoculated and vaccinated against a number of diseases. In all we were each punctured seven times. Many prisoners objected to these measures and did their utmost to avoid being done. The German authorities caught the majority and treated them to these unpleasant attentions however. The inoculation was a comic sight. One after the other the prisoners filed past the doctors, who worked automatically at their pricking job. It often was a case of almost leather punching when the tough skins of some of the rougher types of prisoners had to be pierced. The needles were far from sharp, and I believe had to be constantly changed. Small parties of prisoners were constantly leaving and arriving at the camp. This was done, so it was generally thought, to let the people see prisoners being taken about and make them imagine that the German armies were always taking new batches. New arrivals from the front were sometimes brought in, and we would generally worry the lives out of them for their first few days, asking for news of all kinds. Hardly ever were they able to tell us anything we did not know from the newspapers, but it often happened that all sorts of wild rumours arose from the remarks of fellows who were simply badgered into saying things they did not really mean or had not thought over thoroughly. Early in the Spring of 1917 the Germans brought a hundred odd mercantile marine officers and men from Karlsruhe to our camp at Crefeld, with what object nobody rightly knew. These men had been through a very bad time and were very pleased to get to a camp where there were English army officers. The majority of them had been captured by the _Moewe_, and some of them had been in her for weeks while she cruised about sinking other ships. They had been half-starved and had very little clothing with them. In several cases the Germans had sunk their ships so quickly that the wretched crews had had no time to put on any of their clothing and had had to take to the boats in whatever garments they were wearing at the moment. When they arrived at Crefeld they were received by the military officers and had a breakfast given them at once. They were extraordinarily pleased to get some decent food, and we so arranged it that they never lacked English food with which to augment their camp rations while at Crefeld. In connection with this, the Germans were very amusing. They expressed their astonishment that officers of our army should take so much interest in British mercantile marine common seamen as to provide them with food and actually wait on them at the first decent meal they had seen for months. A collection of clothes of all descriptions was made, and most extraordinary sights were to be seen as the result of this. Stokers promenading in the uniforms of Guards officers, and ship's boys in huge "British Warms." I think the Germans had hoped to annoy us army officers by this introduction of merchant seamen. If this was so they failed utterly to achieve their object. The greatest good feeling existed between the two lots in the camp, and after three or four weeks the merchant sailors were removed to another camp where I am afraid they were less comfortable. The Germans were not the only surprised people over this affair. The French, although Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity is their national motto, were very astonished at the way in which good fellowship and camaraderie was fostered between army officers and merchant seamen. When the Russian revolution broke out, we all wondered how the Russians in the prison camp would take it. The majority of them seemed to have very little decided opinion on the subject, but were generally inclined to think it a good thing for their country. It was then that we were told that the Russians were all to be sent to another camp, which made the whole camp think furiously as to the reason for this move of the German authorities. Was it peace in sight and the prisoners were to be concentrated in camps by nationalities near the frontiers of neutrals bordering their own countries preparatory to the general exodus at the end of the war? Did it mean a separate peace with Russia? These and other theories were discussed backwards and forwards. Eventually the Russians went and many of us were very sorry to lose them, as it meant a loss of all means of continuing to learn the language from their Russian friends. Two hundred English arrived from Gütersloh in their place, and then the departure of the French began. The leave-taking between the French and English was very cordial and annoyed the Germans very much, as while the former went from us we all sang the "Marseillaise." The English continued to sing it until the French were out of sight along the road to the station. Then we became an all English prison-camp. There seemed to be no room to move, as everyone was out of doors, and a great percentage of the Russians and many of the French had kept to their rooms a great deal. We were only about six weeks in this state, as in May once again the Germans turned the camp upside down, this time ordering its complete evacuation by all the English. CHAPTER II THE MOVE TO SCHWARMSTEDT Many and varied were the aims ascribed to the Boches when the news of the move from Crefeld, ordered in May, 1917, reached the ears of the prisoners. We were divided into parties of varying sizes. My party was the strongest, consisting of four hundred officers and about seventy soldier-servants. The greatest secrecy was displayed as to our destination by the Germans, and all sorts of places were mooted as possible by the prisoners themselves. Shortly before we had heard the news of our impending departure, a strange thing happened. A battalion of young German soldiers marched into the German half of the camp, and very soon after their arrival we were astonished to see another line of sentries posted round the camp outside the barbed-wire fence. These sentries were only twenty yards apart and were dressed in active service uniforms. In addition to these, machine guns were posted at each corner of the camp so as to command the roads running past it. These precautions were taken a day or so before May 1st, the day when the Social Democrats were to have labour demonstrations throughout Germany. We were naturally extremely interested and wondered what was to happen. These German soldiers were far from being on the best of terms with our old Landsturm men, who continued to carry out the usual guard duties as they had done previously. Nothing else happened beyond the arrest of five civilian Germans who were hanging about the entrance to the prison. Why they were suddenly seized and flung into cells no one rightly knew, but we concluded that it had to do with these same May 1st demonstrations. The preparations for the great exodus from the camp were full of comic and sometimes almost tragic incidents. Some prisoners, who had taken the trouble to try to make their rooms comfortable when the camp became all English, were particularly savage over the move, and took care that nothing which they were unable to take away should be left to be sold again to another batch of prisoners at a later date. There was a considerable quantity of live stock of various kinds in the camp, and measures for the transportation of these furred and feathered belongings had to be undertaken. The rabbits had to have special boxes made for them so that they could be carried by hand. These rabbits had been in existence some six months at Crefeld and were very prolific breeders. They provided many an excellent meal for their owners and were objects of great interest, being watched by a small crowd of the prison inhabitants every day. Quite a number of canaries, a dog or two and a cat, were also in the camp, and would have to be taken away by their owners. We were told that our heavy baggage might in due course follow us to the new prison camps and that we could take one box each, which was to accompany us. Of course we all had accumulated much more stuff than would go into one box, and much grousing and desperate thinking was the result of this order. The commandant promised to have our special boxes of tinned food sent on to us as soon as possible after our departure. Although many of us never expected to see the things again, he kept his promise, greatly to the delight of everyone. These food boxes arrived some three weeks after we had got to the new camp. On the last evening at Crefeld, definite "move" orders were issued and our names were called by parties. I was detailed for No. 2 camp, which was to have over half the 750 officers at that time at Crefeld. Another party consisted approximately of three hundred officers, and the remaining fifty or so were distributed among two or three other new camps. Owing to finding out that five or six officers were missing at the final roll-call, another nominal roll-call was ordered that evening in order to ascertain the names of those who were missing. The Crab was in charge of this roll-call, and he stood at the opening of a wire netting fence dividing two tennis courts, while the English officers answered their names and filed past him. Muddles very soon occurred, and what with officers who had already answered their names wandering back among the uncounted ones, so as to answer to the names of those missing, and the mistakes which naturally occur in calling over the names of 750 officers of another nationality, the Germans were bamboozled, and had no idea what they were doing. This roll-call was a fearfully slow one, and it became dark before two thirds of the officers had passed through the opening. Now, of course, no certainty of keeping those counted from those uncounted could possibly be assured, unless a large number of soldiers were employed to prevent persons slipping from the counted crowd to the uncounted crowd. Accordingly a strong force of German soldiers was sent for, and for some reason or other they made matters worse instead of better. This state of affairs continued for some time, until someone applied a match to an old broom found on a tennis court. It made an excellent torch and others quickly emulated his example. This was followed by a wild throwing about of these flaming missiles, and it not infrequently happened that one of them pitched extremely near a German soldier forming one of the cordon round us. This sport gave place to bonfires. In a moment some old benches were torn up and three or four fires started. This roused the Boches and they cleared the bonfire stokers away and proceeded to trample out the flames, amid the laughter of all the prisoners. The alarm was sounded on a bugle, and yet another small army of soldiers arrived on the scene, but they did not tackle the largest bonfire which burnt merrily on undisturbed. It was a weird sight. The red flames lit up a wide area, in which the greater part of the prisoners were strolling about surrounded on all sides by German soldiers in field gray uniforms and carrying rifles. However, the whole affair was only due to over-boisterous spirits, and there was no bad feeling displayed towards the Germans, who very wisely did not interfere to any great extent. When the order to disperse to our rooms was given the prisoners went off quietly enough and the whole affair died out without any trouble occurring. However, at times it had been touch and go, whether the Boches would fire at us. The hour for parade next morning was extremely early, and we had to wait for hours before we eventually moved off. Prior to leaving the camp our personal baggage, which we were to carry by hand, had to be searched. A large number of young German officers and _Feldwebels_ were brought into the camp to carry out this task. They were quite civil and polite and got through their job fairly quickly. My party was the first to move out of the camp. We then found we had to walk to the station, a mile or so away. It was now that many discovered what a quantity of baggage they had got with them. Everyone had been under the impression that we should go by trams to the station, and consequently had much more to carry than they would have had if a walk to the station had been expected. It was an awful procession. Every fifty to a hundred yards the column had to halt while bags were changed to the other hand or bundles re-adjusted. We walked four abreast and on both sides of each four was a German soldier. It was an absolute nightmare. Some prisoners threw some of their belongings away, and a few sat down unable to move a yard further without a rest. At last, after an absolutely agonising time, we reached the station. We were put in the carriages four at a time, with three to four German soldiers in each carriage with us. In my carriage there were four Germans, one of them an Unter-Offizier. The Germans appropriated the corner seats, to prevent us being near the doors. This of course allowed the four of us to play bridge in the middle of the carriage. Eventually the train moved out of the station and we saw our last of Crefeld. Extraordinary as it may seem, we were positively annoyed at leaving; far from being keen on seeing new places and settling down in new environments, the majority would have preferred to remain in the same old groove for the whole term of their imprisonment. Time seems to go by much more quickly when nothing happens to mark its flight. The two and a half years spent in that prison had slipped by without milestones and it was extremely hard to realise what the two and a half years really meant. One sometimes felt that life previous to the war was really the invention of a dream. It often seemed to one that "prison" was the natural state of existence and anything outside of it unnatural. Perhaps the animals at the Zoo have the same impression of the outside world. On settling down for our journey to that unknown destination, we had an opportunity of studying our guards. They were men of about thirty years of age and had all been to the front for long spells. For several hours they were very sulky and only answered our remarks and questions in monosyllables. When we reached Essen they expanded a little in order to point out to us what a wonderful place it was. It certainly was wonderful. Miles of workshops and factories, and in many of them one could see guns, new, old, and damaged, lying about. The Germans in our carriage were evidently proud of this place and talked quite a lot about it, using many adjectives of the "kolossal," "wunderschön" type. We, of course, told them that we had hundreds of places in England of a similar nature and that they would one day see their wonderful Essen burnt to the ground. We thought naturally of air raids on Essen, and in view of the bombing of this place early in the war, we carefully examined it, and came to the conclusion that a bomb would be bound to hit something of importance there, so close together are the various workshops jammed. At Gütersloh station we slowly passed a train conveying a German battalion towards the West front. We were able to examine the men well. This particular battalion consisted of very fine looking men, but there was no "Joy in the War" expression, as the German papers call it, on their faces, and they were not singing or shouting the incessant repertoire of the front-going German soldier. In fact they looked resigned to their fate, and took very little notice of us. Of course we talked to each other about "Kanonen Futter" for the benefit of the guards in our carriage. On clearing out of Gütersloh we decided to have a meal. As we had prepared for two or three days in the train if necessary, we had plenty of food with us. It was with great curiosity that we covertly watched our German guards when we produced white bread and tinned beef sent from England. It was evidently a great surprise for them, and they could not help showing their astonishment in their faces. It did not look to them as if England was starving if white bread could still be made, and as for the meat, they had not seen so much during a whole week as we each proposed to eat at one meal. They had had a meal themselves just before we began ours, so we had been able to estimate what had been given them as their rations. It was very scanty and the small quantity of bread was exceedingly poor looking. In the hopes of getting them to talk a bit, we offered them some beef and a little bread. They accepted with alacrity and became friendly from that moment, telling us all sorts of things that interested us exceedingly. Apparently, they in common with the majority of Germans, had mistrusted and even feared their English prisoners up till then. Very probably they had all been warned to be suspicious of us, and given to understand that we might overpower them at any moment and escape from the train. There must have been some such fear in the minds of the senior German officers, as there were machine guns on the train in addition to four hundred armed soldiers. The under-officer told me that he had been wounded twice and been on the Russian front for a very long spell. He had also been on the West front in 1914, and I discovered that he had been in an attack on the very trenches occupied by my brigade near the Chemin des Dames on the Aisne. He had no hesitation in saying which was the nastiest front. He was absolutely fed up with the war, as were the others in the carriage. They asked us when we thought the war would end, and out of principle we said in a year to two years' time. I was often asked the same question while at Crefeld and always answered--"a year or more." This seemed to depress them and they used to blame England for being the cause of the war going on so long. Nearly every day I went to the canteen, and, according to my usual custom, talked to the German soldiers doing duty as salesmen there. The war was always the subject of conversation and I generally asked them, laughingly, when the great promised defeat of England was going to come off. One day, one of them became quite serious and leant across the counter to me and said in a low tone so that only I could hear--"Germany will never defeat England." As an afterthought he added, "but England can never defeat Germany." I laughed and told him to wait. It was extremely interesting to observe the gradual taming of the Boche. In 1914 he was intoxicated with victories actual and prospective; 1915, confident but a little more calm; the big talk of capturing London, etc., had died down by then; 1916, general depression, and towards the end of the year actual and open fear for the future and hate of the war was to be observed among the soldiers and civilians of the lower orders. By the Spring of 1917, real anxiety about the coming summer's fighting began to be evident, which was partially relieved by the events in Russia and the great promises and hopes held out to them by the submarine warfare. Their behaviour towards us followed the same gradual scale. At first, bullying, truculent and brutal, they became more docile as time went on, until when we left Crefeld in May 1917, their behaviour was not so far removed from what one had a right to expect from prison guards and officials towards their officer prisoners. Although the guards in our railway carriage had become quite friendly by now, they did not relax their vigilance, and it was quite evident that they would not sleep all at the same time during the night which was approaching. I watched very carefully that night, but never once did I catch them all unconscious at the same moment. There can be no doubt whatever that they had had very stringent orders on the subject, owing probably to the escape of nine British officers from trains in the last three months. The same watchfulness was displayed by the Germans throughout the train, as we found out on comparing notes afterwards. The journey continued throughout the next day and we passed through Minden in the late afternoon. We had now made up our minds that Stralsund, one of the rumoured destinations, was to be our new "home." Great was our surprise when we found that our train had stopped at a small town called Schwarmstedt, in Hanover, and that our new camp was some eight miles from there. The guards got out and formed a close cordon completely round the train and we were told that we were not to be marched off till daybreak. The German soldiers from our carriage not employed on this cordon duty fetched us water at our request and we settled down to sleep for a few hours until the time for moving came. We were turned out of the train at 3 a.m. and after being formed up in fours we waited for an hour or so. We had a grand opportunity of studying the Prussian method of enforcing obedience and smartness in the men during this wait. A captain and a sergeant-major kind of man, fairly screamed at the privates. On several occasions, livid with rage, one or other of them rushed at some hapless wretch and roared at him in sentences containing very choice German words--hardly of the endearment variety. Our carriage guards had previously told us that the major, captain and sergeant-major were "Schweine" of the worst type, but that the lieutenant was liked well enough. We could now judge for ourselves. At last we got the order to move off, our hand baggage being left behind to be brought up by a miniature railway train especially constructed for the purpose of supplying the prison camps. The camp with several others, as we found out afterwards, was situated on the Lüneburg Heide, some eight miles east-north-east of the town of Schwarmstedt and five or six miles on the Berlin side of the river Aller. Crossing the river and leaving the valley through which it flowed, we quickly entered a wild tract of country, through which the only road was a rough cart track. The soil was peaty with a deep layer of sand and black dust on the top of it. For the first two or three miles we passed through several very fine pine forests interspersed with young plantations and rough scrub. This type of country gave way to a flat marshy-looking area covered with rank vegetation and stunted fir-trees. Streams and ditches cut up the land, and it struck one as being a very wet place even in the summer, in winter it would probably be a swamp. At last we reached the camp and found ourselves looking at a collection of wooden huts with tarred felt roofs, surrounded by a barbed wire fence, seemingly planted at random in the midst of the wildness. CHAPTER III SCHWARMSTEDT CAMP Our first sight of this camp hardly encouraged us to think that we were going to a better place than Crefeld. An ominous silence fell upon the incoming prisoners! And it was a particularly sulky lot who faced the new commandant when he had them formed up in front of him. He admitted the bad state of the camp in his very first speech, and hoped that we would put up with it as he himself was powerless to alter matters. On being dismissed, we went off to our rooms and very soon found out all about our new prison. Imagine dirty sand, covering a layer of peat with water two feet underneath it, enclosed with a barbed wire fence. In this area put four long low wooden huts with tarred felt roofs, three much smaller ones, three pumps, a long latrine, a hospital hut and some cells, and you have the sum total of the buildings in the camp. The three long low huts held 390 officers, each hut divided roughly into eight to ten rooms. Many of the rooms held sixteen officers, and so crowded were the beds in them that three pairs had to touch in many instances, despite repeated and varied ways of re-arrangement being tried. The latrines were very close and handy, so much so in fact, that their ends came to within ten paces of the living-rooms at the end of two of the huts. As the latrines were never cleared out, the atmosphere in these near huts was something too appalling for words, especially if a west wind was blowing. The drinking-water had been passed as fit for human beings by the German sanitary authorities. For all that, the majority of us only drank tea and coffee, etc., requiring boiling water. The water was brownish and smelt abominably. We became expert laundry hands, as we had to wash our own clothes, and so learnt the art from experience. Many of the prisoners were able to see the comic side of life in this place fortunately, and so made the best of a bad job. As the bath-house was outside of the wire fence, we could only get to it by going on parole, or by being marched out in groups. This naturally meant that the turn for baths did not come round too often. If one refused to give parole for this purpose, a bath could be got twice a week with luck. The natural outcome of this was that everyone used to bath under the pumps which were situated between the living-huts. It was a common sight to see between twenty and thirty naked figures throwing water over each other round the pumps. It was absolutely impossible to play tennis or football in this camp, as there was no space in which to do such things. The little ground lying between the living huts had been planted with vegetables by the Germans before our arrival. It was against all orders to walk across this ground. A Belgian private soldier, acting as officer's servant in the camp, did so once, and was banged into cells for his offence. No officer was put in cells for this, but that was not due to the lack of opportunity. I think the Germans did not want to cause trouble with their English officer prisoners, so refrained from rash acts of this nature. As we had been allowed to take only one box with us from Crefeld, some officers had purchased huge baskets in the canteen into which they had crammed great quantities of luggage. When these baskets were unpacked, the German authorities decided that they were too big to remain in the rooms and so ordered that they should be removed from the camp to a store shed outside the wire fence. Three officers availed themselves of this fact and hid themselves inside the baskets, arranging that strong English soldiers should carry them out, pretending that they were empty and put them with the other large boxes in the shed. Thus the officers would get outside the camp and eventually get away from the shed by night. All went well at first. The baskets were outside the gate, and merrily moving off towards the shed, when the Boche officer called upon the soldiers to halt, and decided that as the soldiers were needed for other work the baskets were not to be put in the store room till after five o'clock. Down went the baskets on to the ground and were then massed near the German sentry on gate duty. As it was only two o'clock and fearfully hot, the wretched inhabitants of the baskets had a very poor time of it waiting till five. One of the three did not keep still and we could see the wicker-work straining from his movements. Awful squeakings and scratchings came from this basket, and although we tried to drown the noise by talking and shouting near the gate, the German sentry must have heard something and became suspicious, as he stood by them and looked carefully at each in turn. At last they were taken to the store. What really caused their recapture I don't know, but it appeared to be due to one of them showing himself at the window of the store-room some three hours later. They had to be careful to arrange it so that one of the baskets could be cut open from the inside, and the others could then be opened with the keys that the occupant of this basket had on him. At about eight o'clock the German officer arrived, followed by a guard, went straight to the store-room and captured all three, who by this time had been out of their baskets for hours. We next saw them marched off to cells, where they were to do five months in solitary confinement. We had not been thirty-six hours in this camp before three officers did get away. Crashing along a ditch, they cut the wire and got through the hole which was in the fence opposite the nearest clump of undergrowth to the camp. How the Germans did not hear them crashing into these bushes I cannot conceive, as I myself heard them seventy or eighty yards away. These three were away about ten days before being caught. Not very long after their exit the German sentry noticed the hole in the wire and so that chance was spoilt for anyone else. The clump of bushes, which had been so useful to the three escapers, was cut down by order of the commandant, and after that a hundred yards of open clearing surrounded the wire fence, making a good field of fire for the sentries. Owing to the sandy nature of the soil, which had all the dirt-causing propensities of coal dust and none of the advantages of clean sand, we had to be constantly washing our feet if they were to be kept clean at all. Many prisoners, realising what a lot of laundry work wearing socks in this dusty place meant, discarded their use altogether and simply wore football shorts and shoes, with an old shirt as top-wear. Our rooms were perpetually in a filthy state. As soon as they were brushed, in came more of this sandy dust. A wind made life unbearable. These conditions are those of summer, winter will mean a different tale. The open ditches, dry on account of the drought when I left, are hardly there as ornaments, but in all probability are filled to over-flowing with the surface water from the camp, when the rainy months come along. At the end of the camp was a space wired off from the rest of the ground for the use of the soldier servants. There was a wooden hut similar to those occupied by the officers, which did duty for the housing of the men. In this wooden hut about 200 soldiers, of all kinds and descriptions, were packed--Russians, French, Belgians, and English, and not a few half-German half-Russian Jews. These latter men were allowed great freedom by the Germans. There was no fear of them escaping, so they walked in and out of the camp whenever they wished to do so, as far as we could see. They were hardly trusted by the rest of the prisoners, who had good reason to know what useful sources of information these persons are to the German camp authorities. I went to these quarters of our soldiers several times, although officers were not supposed to do so. But if no coat was worn, it was impossible for a German sentry to tell who was an officer or a private, so we used to adopt that plan if we wished to get into the enclosure. The crowded state of that soldiers' hut was beyond belief. The beds were arranged as closely as possible, and then another layer fixed on to the tops of the ground floor ones. For the first three weeks of our life in this camp, we had to live mainly on the rations provided by the German authorities, since many of us had not been able to bring much in the way of tinned food along with us when we left Crefeld. The parcels from England were also delayed in their arrival, as the organization arranged for Crefeld had to be altered for Schwarmstedt. The food provided by the Germans at a daily cost to each officer of 1 mark 50 pfenning, comprised the following: _Breakfast_, coffee, of the war variety, probably made with acorns. _Dinner_, soup, always containing lumps of mangel-wurzel, cabbage, black peas, and occasional pieces of potato. Twice or three times a week, tiny shreds of real meat could be discovered in the soup. There was often a liberal ration of grit in this soup, but no extra charge was made on account of that. _The Evening Meal_, soup of the sago or meal variety, generally exceedingly thin. In addition to these daily rations, we were each allowed to purchase two pounds of war bread per week at 60 pfs. This war bread was exceedingly nasty and doughy. If pressed with the finger the indentation remained, as it does in other putty-like substances. Its color was a dark grey brown, and its smell and taste were sour. I understood that it was mainly made of potato. It is amusing to hear the talk about the English war bread in this country, to anyone who has experienced the same commodity in Germany. The German war bread most certainly has violent effects on the interior economies of those who eat it for the first time, without becoming gradually trained to stand the strain of such an ordeal by eating the different grades of bread which have been given to the Fatherland during the last two years. Personally I cannot justly complain, as I was one of the few who did not suffer from eating it. It was a great day when the first consignment of re-directed parcels arrived. By standing in a queue for two hours the parcel could be obtained from the German censors. One of the first prisoners to draw his parcel came back with it under his arm, and a disgusted expression on his face. Nobody dared ask what he had got in his parcel, he looked too savage for the risk to be taken. However, it soon got about that he had got a dozen tennis balls! It was not surprising that he had looked like murder, when one realised that no tennis was possible in this camp, and that food was what he most wanted. Fortunately our trials in this latter respect soon ended, as the parcels began to come in as regularly as they did at Crefeld. In addition the Crefeld commandant's promise, that the food boxes would be sent on, was fulfilled, and once more we had plenty of provisions. The soldiers also received their parcels now, and from what some of them said, they generally do wherever they are, thanks to the untiring energy of those who see to this for them in England. One day we caught a specimen of the beasts which attacked us at night, and took it to the German officer pinned on a board. He made excuses and blamed the wooden huts, saying how impossible it was to deal with vermin. However, our room was to be fumigated. We were ordered to clear everything out of our room, and then the Germans arrived with a blow-flame with which to run over the bedsteads and clear out the cracks in the walls. Another German splashed creosote on to the floor, and places too high up to be reached by the blow flame. We realized that this was all "eyewash," as the gaps between the partition walls separating the rooms were in some cases wide enough to allow the passage of one's hand. Therefore the many footed beasts of prey lurking in such places would easily avoid the strafing by going a few inches next door via these cracks. Of course the other rooms were not fumigated at the same time, so their preserves must have been entered by the game driven out of ours. We all wrote home for Keating's, but the letters never fetched up. The censoring of our letters was done at a headquarter censor's office at Osnabrück, after our removal from Crefeld. This meant endless delay and often non-arrival of incoming letters, and practically a complete suspension of the outgoing mail. The reason for this latter fact is not difficult to explain. Of course the prisoners described the new camp in these letters, and as the place was bad from every point of view, the contents of these epistles were not liked by the censors at Osnabrück. Consequently the letters were either burnt or kept. Of course the non-arrival of letters in England would do more to cause inquiries to be made at this end than anything else, but the Germans don't see things in that light. This camp, Schwarmstedt, was known as No. 2, but why a number should be assigned and no name given to it, only a Boche could say; possibly it was because the Germans did not want it visited by any interfering inquisitive neutral country representative, since it was such a bad camp. I was pleased to hear that it was visited shortly after, and a full report made. I believe some of the grievances were attended to. When we were at Crefeld some of us had taken up fencing as a form of exercise and amusement. The sabres and épées were sent out from England, but the Germans were very careful to take charge of them on their arrival, and used to let us have them at specific times, locking them up carefully at six o'clock every evening. This care was continued for over a year, and then I suppose realising at last that as weapons with which to attack the camp-guards they were absolutely useless and that bed legs would be much more likely weapons if anyone wished to do such an absurd thing, they suddenly ignored the old fencing weapon and we were able each to have his own. When we moved from Crefeld, I took mine with me, tied quite openly on to a kit bag. I hung it up in my room without thinking anything about it, until one day we were told that we were to be visited by a Boche General, and that everything had to be extremely tidy and in its correct place. As the authorities here were much more fussy persons than those at Crefeld, and the arriving general was rumoured a particularly aggressive England-hater, I thought that I had better hide my sabre, which I did almost entirely, only about three inches of it showing. Naturally I was a trifle worried about this compromising thing, as I had never realised before that it might get me into trouble in this new camp. Whenever there was a search I had to hide it; in fact I got to dislike that sabre. I never got rid of it finally because I got rid of myself instead and left it behind as a legacy to my room companions. I hope they haven't claimed it and taken over its troublesome propensities. At one end of the camp were three small huts known as machine-gun houses, constructed originally so as to command the three streets of the enclosure. In two of these the senior British officers lived, nine in a room. The other one was the orderly room. In addition to these three houses, there were several machine-gun towers dotted at intervals outside but close up to the main wire fence of the camp. These also must have been designed originally as points from which turbulent prisoners could be overawed. After a week or so of English occupation of this camp, one of them was cunningly used to give cover to an escaping party. The exit from the camp was successful, but the actors in this drama were caught and brought back after several days away. The offending tower was promptly pulled down by the Germans and an extra sentry posted in its place. Near the soldiers' quarters was the building assigned to "cells." I never saw the inside of them, but they were extremely small and hot in the summer. Officers in cells were marched out to the "bath" twice a week, and we could see them quite close, and sometimes even speak with them, while this was going on. They looked very white after a fortnight in these places, but that was due probably to the lack of sunlight. Each cell had a barred window about eight feet from the ground and occasionally we could see the faces of the occupants staring through the bars. Another wooden hut did service as a hospital. This building was the best in the camp, being painted white on the inside and having quite a clean appearance. There were not many officer prisoners sick in this hospital when I left. Three or four bed cases was the total, on the average day. Owing to the great heat, the rough grass and bog myrtle became extremely dry, and when a fire did break out it burnt merrily for a long time in the surrounding country. On several occasions the flames swept down on the camp, and the German guards not on duty were turned out to prevent their too close approach to the wooden buildings. Once a fire was only stopped ten yards short of the nearest hut. The smoke was very thick and drove across the camp, obliterating it. Needless to say, some of us were watching the sentries very closely during this, but nobody got an opportunity of attacking the barbed wire perimeter by which we were enclosed. Rumour had it that a German village a few miles away had been wiped out by one of these fires. The German civilians of course blamed the prisoners, saying that they had caused these fires when smoking on parole-walks. The commandant then ordered no smoking except on roads, while we were out walking. The German commandant of this camp full well realised what an extremely unpleasant place it was and how unsuited for the accommodation of officers or for private soldiers for that matter. Evidently ordered to make the best of a bad job, and told to try and smooth over the bad particulars of the camp by the skillful giving of small privileges, he attempted to get the prisoners interested in the building of a theatre and the making of playing-fields outside the camp. A strong section of the prisoners fortunately hung together and declared themselves solidly against taking advantage of these privileges until such time as the really important questions, which had already been the subject of numerous complaints by the prisoners, should be attended to, and action for the general welfare of the camp population taken by the German authorities. This camp was a miserable one if judged only from the details of existence there, but fortunately, as so often happens, there was a brighter side to it. The uncomfortable and trying conditions made for unity and co-operation among the prisoners themselves. The humorous side of life seemed to come to the fore more easily than at the comparatively comfortable camp of Crefeld. Cliques and factions existing during the previous two years at Crefeld were inclined to disappear, and a more general feeling of a common cause in the face of an unpleasant period steadily grew, closing the gaps in the ranks of the prisoners and tending to bring together people who would hardly bear to see each other under previous conditions. It is surprising what a difference the effect of a long term of imprisonment has on various people. To anyone gifted with the smallest powers of observation, the constant changes and rapid transformation of ideas and standpoints in the small world of prison necessarily came with interest. It is a strange fact, but nevertheless true, that some prisoners, forgetting that a prison-existence is only temporary and entirely unnatural, seem to think that things matter in such a place, and that the happenings and views of the outside world do not directly concern them. A long spell of such an existence changes a man more in character than the same period spent in the ordinary course of life. Some are tempered in the fires of such a test, while there are others.... PART II CHAPTER IV MY ESCAPE FROM THE CAMP It may be wondered why it is that so few British officers have succeeded in escaping from prison camps in Germany. The Germans do not get very worried over the loss of a few private soldiers in that way, but they are very careful to prevent our officers from having too many chances of escape. The men are taken out to work in the fields and woods, and as the Germans have by no means too many men to spare, they cannot send a very large escort with them. Consequently it not unfrequently happens that men are able to slip away into thick cover without the Boches seeing them or knowing of their absence until they count up their charges, maybe some hours later. The officers on the other hand never leave the barbed-wire enclosure of the camps, unless on parole for walks, an arrangement countenanced by our War Office, so they have naturally greater difficulties to get over before commencing any dash for the frontier. Many officers have tried and have had appallingly bad luck in numerous instances. Early in the spring of 1917 the Germans warned all officers and men that they would be liable to five months and three months solitary confinement in a cell respectively, if caught attempting to escape. This was as a reprisal for excessive sentences inflicted on their prisoners who attempted to escape in England, under the Defence of the Realm Regulations. As the solitary confinement was automatic, and was given without trial, we were also warned that after undergoing it, a transgressor of this kind might be tried by court-martial for such offences as being in possession of civilian clothes, a compass, German money, or wire-cutters, etc. The charge was simple.... Disobedience of orders! For this another three or four months could be imposed. I was very glad to read in the papers that all this sort of thing had been done away with by that excellent Commission which went to the Hague to meet the German delegates in July, 1917. There were other great things done by that same Commission, and the prisoners who benefit thereby will be most grateful. Of course it was natural that with this heavy sentence hanging over the heads of would-be escapers some thought twice before trying, but it is worth noting that since this German order was issued there have been more successful escapes and more attempts to escape by officers than in the whole previous period. I spoke to some of our men when out on a parole walk. They were working on a wild piece of heath-land with very few Germans to guard them. I asked one whether any of them had tried to escape from there. He told me that very few had done so, as there was such a long way to go, and that when caught the men were put in the cells and were not allowed their parcels. This meant three-quarters starvation, as the German food provided was bad and scanty. Our camp, known as Schwarmstedt, although situated seven or eight miles from the small town of that name, was on the Lüneburg Heide, an expanse of marshy, waste ground, intersected by small streams and dotted with little woods and stunted pine trees. There were other camps on the same stretch of country. The notorious Soltau lay some miles to the north of our camp. This district is some hundred and seventy miles from the Dutch frontier as the crow flies. In preparing my escape, I had to calculate the quantity of food required to carry me through the journey. This would naturally be considerable as I could not reckon on doing more than an average of eight to twelve miles every twenty-four hours, as it was only safe to march by night and the hours of darkness at that time of the year were only about five and a half. Although the actual distance was a hundred and forty-five miles, allowances to be made for detours and an indirect line, as well as for delays occasioned by such large obstacles as broad rivers and smaller, but more formidable ones in the shape of German guards, would necessitate preparations for a greater distance. The food required would have to be carried, so a bag was necessary. I will not say how I got the bag or what kind it was, nor how I got my civilian clothes, for this is certain to be read by members of the thorough race whose prisoner I was, and naturally any hints I drop may be used against other prisoners. What I say outright is all known to the Germans, or obvious to the veriest fool of a prison-camp commandant. My costume consisted of a long white cotton coat and a pair of white cotton pants, both dyed a dirty light grey-brown with coffee. I had a cap also, but that too must remain a mystery. As the cotton coat had no pockets and was very thin, I wore an old khaki coat underneath, which stood me in good stead when I had nearly got to the end of my journey. A pair of rubber-soled shoes, white once but made khaki-colour by my servant some time before, completed my kit. Although I had naturally discussed matters with others in the camp in an indefinite way I had not arranged any collaboration in the scheme, by which I succeeded. I told only one friend ten minutes before I took the first steps in the carrying out of the plan. When first we reached Schwarmstedt after our journey from Crefeld, there were several weak spots in the "ring" of precautions against escape which surrounded it. Within forty-eight hours of our arrival three officers got out of the camp. They had very bad luck, being caught after eleven days' travel, about three-quarters of the way to the Dutch frontier. This loophole was of course closed to further attempts by the measures now adopted by the Boches. However, two more got away from the camp not long afterwards and had the same atrocious luck after going about the same distance. Another individual attempt resulted in an officer getting out for some days before the same Nemesis overtook him, and he too was brought back. About ten days before my escape, yet two more got away, and were still unaccounted for when I left the camp. They must have had the same hard fate, as I heard nothing of them in Holland or England when I arrived. After each of these attempts the Germans discovered fresh weak spots, and the camp was rapidly becoming a stronger prison. One effect they had was to make the Germans employ more guards for the camp. Extra sentries were put on at several places, and every extra sentry means reliefs, and it takes six men at least to permanently provide one extra sentry. These men might have been helping on the farms instead, so it is some small comfort to think that even a failure to escape can do some service to our country. Of course when I left most of these unfortunates were back in the cells, beginning their five months' stretch of solitary confinement. Anyone looking at the map of Germany will see immediately that from the Lüneburg Heide, north of Hanover, one has to cross the following rivers before one can reach the Dutch frontier--the Aller, Leine, Weser, Hunte and Ems. These are all fairly large. The Aller runs along the western limits of the Lüneburg Heide (Heath) and acts as a natural barrier around prison-camps situated to the east of it. When we first arrived at this camp, Schwarmstedt, the commandant had practically told us in so many words that we might get away from the camp, but that we should never cross the frontier. This meant that there was something which he knew of to be passed besides the camp guards and those at the frontier. Many of us promptly understood by his remarks that he had himself made arrangements for the guarding of the bridges over the rivers. Another fact generally well-known to every one is this. All bridges over large important rivers are guarded in Germany, and even the railway bridges over many of the smaller ones are provided with their ancient Landsturm men. On our arrival the commandant of our camp had spoken at once to us in English, of which he knew a certain amount. We soon got to see how proud of this knowledge he was, as he would address all the English officers on some trifling subject every second day. Besides which he would summon the senior English officer before him and all those officers who had any particular department of the camp to look after, such as kitchens, parcels, games, practically every day. The language spoken was always English. He was a fine-looking old man, covered with medals and iron crosses, a veteran of the 1866 and 1870 wars. He loved being saluted, and complained that the British did not salute him enough. He was told that our officers do not salute when they are not wearing hats, and that many had got no military caps since theirs had been taken from them by the Germans at the time of their capture. [Illustration: SECTION OF A GERMAN CAMP (_page 97_).] He promptly ordered the canteen to get caps and sell them to us. When they arrived they were very comic to look at, dark blue with a stiff peak. Before describing my actual exit from the camp it is necessary that the general plan of the enclosure and its adjacent buildings be understood. The camp was oblong in shape, and was surrounded on all sides by a barbed-wire fence some eleven feet high. At every fifty yards there was posted a sentry, whose orders included the shooting of any hapless wretch found cutting his way through the fence, or climbing over it. Opposite one of the corners of the camp, and outside of it, was situated the parcel office. Here the prisoners' parcels were censored by the Germans in front of them. There was also a tin office here, where all tinned food not immediately required by the prisoners was kept until it was needed, when it could be taken away after being opened by a German. We often used to try and make the German soldier jump by saying "Bomben" or "Handgranaten" just at the moment when he punctured the tin with his opener. These two offices were open until 6 o'clock in the evening, and the Germans had put up a barbed-wire passage from a gate in the wire wall of the camp enclosure to the door of this office, thus enabling them to permit the prisoners free access to these two rooms until this hour. At 6 o'clock the offices were cleared of prisoners by the numerous Germans employed there and cut off from the prisoners' part of the camp by closing the iron gate in the main wire wall of the camp. It occurred to me that if I could hide in the parcel office or tin room before 6 o'clock, and be locked in when the work of the day ceased, I should naturally find myself outside the wire enclosure, which was the first and principal difficulty to be overcome by a would-be escaper. It would then remain to be seen whether it was feasible to get out of these offices by way of the skylights or other windows at a late hour. The risk was worth taking, but another difficulty presented itself. How was I to get my pack, full of food, boots, civilian clothes, etc., and all the rest of my paraphernalia, weighing fully fifty pounds, into the parcel office without making the numerous Germans I should have to pass suspicious. The solution to this question came two days after I was ready. At about 5.30 p.m. on Tuesday, June 19th, a tremendous wind came down on the camp, and the sandy dust rose in a huge cloud filling everybody's eyes, noses, and mouths with fine particles. This seemed to me a good opportunity, and I quickly put my pack into a large wooden box, nailed down the lid, and carried it to the parcel office. The Germans were far too busy thinking about the dust in their eyes to wonder why a box was being carried into the parcel-office, whereas boxes were always carried "away" from there. I passed several Germans without any trouble and got into the tin room, where I deposited the box on the floor. I now had twenty minutes in which to hide. While pretending to be extremely interested in what I was going to have for my meal that evening, I looked round, and saw at once that the best hiding-place without doubt was on the top of the pigeon holes in which everybody kept their tins. These pigeon-holes, about two feet square and two and a half feet deep, were made of wood and were ranged along each wall, tier above tier for about twelve to fourteen feet. There was a ledge at the top about two feet below the level of the roof. I decided to get up onto that ledge, knowing full well that nobody looks round a room at a much higher level than his own eyes, and that a hungry German gaze would never wander farther than the level of the nearest food. This was a good start, but unfortunately there was a Boche painting numbers on the lockers within six feet of the spot from which I should have to climb up to my hiding-place. However, he did not look intelligent, wore spectacles, and was very engrossed in his work, so I thought I could risk his not seeing me. I had rubber shoes on, my boots being in the bag, so I was not afraid on the score of noise. I was lucky in choosing the right moment, and succeeded in climbing slowly and quietly up and then putting myself into a lying position along the ledge without either the Boche or three other English officers getting out tins near by, being aware that anything strange had happened. I lay there hardly daring to breathe, with four slats of wood fixed cross-ways in a vertical position, so that the sharp edges were uppermost, catching me at various unprotected and tender points of my body and legs. However, it did not last for ever. The officers left, and no more came in; and then the German soldier packed up his tools. He left, and very shortly afterwards in came the under-officer in charge. He looked at the windows, walked round the office and then, quickly slipping a tin from a handy pigeon-hole into his pocket, left the room, locking the door after him. I was locked in and was able to breathe again. After giving my pilfering friend another twenty minutes in case he should have under-estimated his appetite and should return for more, I got down and rubbed my cramped legs. This done I had a meal and then settled myself down to wait till 11 o'clock, which I deemed the earliest hour for commencing operations with safety. The skylights appeared to be the best exit from the room, and under one of them there was a convenient beam. The other skylight proved to be out of reach of anything. Since the building was of wood, I had to exercise great caution in moving about, so creaky were the boards. At 11 o'clock I climbed up to the beam and then crawled along it till I was exactly under my skylight. Then getting my shoulders well under it I heaved. Horror of horrors; it gave an awful crack and would not budge a hair's-breadth. This was a nuisance, only I called it something stronger than that! I got down, afraid that the loud crack must have alarmed the sentries, two of whose beats joined exactly opposite this tin room. However I was able to thank my good luck again as they had heard nothing. I had now to find another way out. I tried unpicking the lock with a bent nail, but had no success. I then tried to take the screws out of the lock with a table knife. One came loose but the others refused to shift at all. Foiled here I tried the wooden partition between the tin room and the passage beyond; but again I could make no progress, as the carpenters had done their work too well. I sat down on my box and sweated. The atmosphere of this closed room was simply appalling and my clothes were wringing wet by reason of it. It looked now as if I should be found next morning in this office, and get five months' solitary confinement in the cells for trying to escape, and not even have a run for my money. There still remained one chance, the most dangerous and therefore left until desperation should drive me to it. The side windows of the tin-office, some three and a half feet from the floor, opened onto the sentry's beat, exactly opposite the point where the other sentry, whose beat ran at right angles to the office, joined in. In addition there was a large arc lamp within thirty feet of these windows. My idea now was to watch until both sentries should be walking down their beats away from me, and therefore naturally with their backs turned, and then open my window, jump out, and run for it. The windows were made in two halves hinging at the sides and opening outwards. I could always get the sentry opposite the window walking in the right direction as a beginning. I had then to open the right-half of the window three or four inches in order to see where the other sentry was, as he walked up and down parallel to the windows and close up against the building. Of course I was in mortal dread each time I opened my window to find out his position, of discovering myself looking straight into his face. I never got such a bad shock as that, but neither did I ever get the two of them walking with their backs turned at the same time. _Wednesday, 20th June._ I had to shut the window every time I saw that he was approaching, as he was certain to see it when he came close if I left it open. Nine times I tried this experiment and had no luck. I then sat down to think for a bit. Fortunately I remembered now that the sentries were changed at 2.30 a.m., so I thought that I would try to turn this fact to my advantage. Sentry changing consisted of twelve Germans in file marching round the camp, clock-wise, picking up the old sentry and dropping the new one. I hoped that the noise caused by their heavy boots would drown all noise made by me, and that this crowd of men rounding the corner and marching towards my most difficult sentry would hide me from him. It happened just as I hoped. They relieved the sentry opposite my window well down his beat and he stood still, as they always do for a minute or two after being newly posted. Then on came the twelve Landsturm-men, rounded the corner, making a fine noise and dust with their heavy boots. When the last of them was about fifteen yards from my window, and all twelve were strung out between it and the difficult sentry, I pushed open both halves of the window, pitched out my heavy pack, which fell with a thud, and jumped out after it. To pick it up, jump into the ditch, run along the path, and round the corner away from the dazzling rays of the arc lamp did not take many seconds. I was out. I listened for the excitement which would tell of the discovery of my flight, but all was quiet, so I was able to steal off in a westerly direction. CHAPTER V CROSSING THE FIRST TWO RIVERS After walking steadily away from the camp in a westerly direction for about a mile and a half, I found running water which was a God-send. Here I filled my water bottle (an empty wine bottle bound round with cloth and string) and had a good drink. Pushing on to the south-west I continued along a rough track running through marshy ground. By this time the dawn had spread its light sufficiently to make objects clear a long way ahead. From the marshy ground rose the cries of curlews and peewits,--the drumming of snipe and the hoarse croakings of many frogs making an unearthly tout ensemble. It was a strange feeling to be out and walking freely along this quiet track, and the mist which hung about the ground on either side of the road gave a weird shape to everything. For the first time I was able to think of other things than the details of escape, and I counted up my chances. At any rate I had got out, and if I were caught I should at least have made a determined effort and would be able to feel I had done my duty in attempting. After an hour's walking I left the marshy country behind and struck woods and clumps of young pine trees. At last at about 4.30 a.m. I approached a metalled road which ran across my front. I advanced cautiously to the edge of it and then heard German voices. Some boys and women were milking and tending cattle not far away. Thinking that to move forward at this hour, which is always one of the most active in the day with the hard-working farmers of Germany, would be to risk detection, I decided to rest where I was in hiding. I found a thick clump of young firs within sixty yards of the road and deposited my lumpy bag down in a place where the moss was thick and soft. A drink of water followed by a few biscuits and a piece of chocolate, sufficed for a meal, and then I lay down and tried to sleep, which I found impossible to do, although I was tired enough. It was bitterly cold lying still, and my clothes, wringing wet with perspiration as they were, clung to me and took away all natural warmth. I suppose I got an hour's sleep before 11 o'clock, when it got so hot that it became quite unpleasant in my hiding-place. These hours passed very slowly and I felt the need of someone with whom to talk. At 3 o'clock I thought I would move forward and try to get up to the bank of the river without being seen. After crossing the road I proceeded for half a mile or so before leaving the thick cover which was plentiful hereabouts and got into a grove of large trees at the side of a field. Now I discovered that any further advance was out of the question at that time, as all the fields in front of me were hay-fields in the process of being cut, and I could see fourteen or fifteen Germans working at the cutting. I stayed where I was until about eight o'clock, when I saw that most of the workers had left the fields and gone home. I pushed on a bit now, making a detour to the north, and soon saw the main road bridge over the river. By watching this I came to the conclusion that it had no guard posted on it, at any rate by day, but many civilians were walking across, and a hay cart passed every minute or so. Pushing on again I crossed the main road and got into the thick cover to the north of it and close to the river. As I was filthily dirty from the dust storm I thought I would bathe at a safe spot well away from the bridge, deciding to post myself in the bushes close up to it as soon as it became dusk. The bathe passed off without incident, and after all, as it struck me while I was swimming about, what better disguise could I have than nakedness. If anyone came along I could act the German very thoroughly, knowing enough of the language to answer any question while swimming. The bathe was delightful and refreshed me exceedingly. After dressing I found that it was practically dark, so set off for my hiding-place close to the bridge. I got safely to it and lay down in a ditch running through some bushes within ten yards of the beginning of the wooden structure. My plan was to cross as soon as it became quite dark. I had been there scarcely ten minutes when I saw two German women come out of the house at the other end of the bridge and cross over towards me, followed at some thirty yards by a German soldier. He caught them up just opposite me and all three, talking hard, went some forty yards along the road, and then sat down in the bushes on my side of it. Here they were soon joined by another soldier who came from the direction of the camp, as I discovered on hearing his voice. I was now so placed that I was actually between them and the bridge, but dared not move, as I was certain to make the bushes surrounding my hiding-place rustle and the dead sticks lying about crack. I waited in hopes that they would go away, but it got quite dark and still the giggles of the women and the low tones of the men continued. [Illustration: "AT LAST THE TWO WOMEN GOT UP" (_page 113_).] At last, at about 11 o'clock, the two women got up, and after standing talking for a few minutes I heard one of them say to the men, "You must now remain quite quiet! Nicht?" And they answered yes, and I heard them all say good-night and the women walked back along the road across the bridge and went into their own house, leaving the two men still in the bushes. I waited for them to go also, but they did not budge. A silence as of the dead came over everything, and I knew then that they were an ambush, and a very cunningly placed one too. Naturally, anyone looking to see if a bridge was guarded or not would expect to find the sentries on the middle or at either end of the bridge itself and could then clear away from the place if it proved to be unhealthy. However, this ambush was placed so as to catch any wretch moving cautiously along the side of the road, straining his eyes eagerly forward to see if the near end of the bridge was or was not guarded, little thinking as he did so of any cunning ambush fifty to sixty yards away from the bridge itself. _Thursday, 21st June._ I now set myself to tire the Germans out by waiting, and hoped that in the early hours of the morning they would be less alert than usual. I lay there, bitten all over by mosquitos, and having a very uncomfortable time of it. I heard one of them cough, and then, after an hour or two of silence, another cough. Altogether I waited about four hours, and it was not till roughly three o'clock that I thought I could risk a move. Very cautiously I now began to crawl on all-fours towards the road, carefully feeling all the ground as I did so in order to be able to remove the dead sticks lying across my track. By pushing through the bushes very slowly I avoided making much of a noise and gained the embankment along the top of which ran the road, without causing any suspicion. Here I had a breather and then continued my crawl upwards. I reached the top of the bank which was the edge of the road, and, knowing that I was well against the sky-line to the eyes of watchers below, did not waste much time before turning towards the bridge, and keeping well down, crawled steadily onwards, reducing the space of time in which I risked being seen very rapidly. Another fifty yards on all fours and I ventured to get on to my feet and walk, in my rubber-soled shoes. Fifty yards more and I was safely off the planking of the bridge and on to the road proper with plenty of cover all round me. As my clothes were of a light coffee tint they assimilated very well with the colours of the dusty road and the white painted woodwork of the bridge. I felt inclined to roar with laughter at the ambush after gaining the far side of the river, and would dearly have loved to have shouted insults and gibes back at them, instead of which I continued my walk quietly along the road, keeping well to one side under the trees which so often border country roads in Germany. I soon came to a village, and feeling that this one was too close to the bridge, which had been guarded, to require anything for itself in this line, walked through it without even causing a dog to bark. I continued for an hour before anything else happened, and then I very nearly made a bad error. I was sleepy I suppose and was not so sharp on the look-out as I ought to have been, and I suddenly got an awful shock on distinctly seeing in front of me in the first light of the dawn two men in dark clothes approaching. I immediately turned about and walked away from them as hard as I could go. Gaining on them rapidly I continued till they were too far behind to be seen and then jumped into the corn on the right of the road, and after running fifty yards into it, lay still. Sure enough these two men had slowly continued their walk and now passed me, carrying on for a hundred yards before they also stopped. Thinking that it was time to be off, especially as it was getting lighter every moment, I took a detour through the corn-fields and striking the road about half a mile further on crossed it and took a turn in the corn on the other side. Then after about a mile of making winding tracks through their precious wheat, rye and barley crops, I again struck the road and hurried along it to make up for lost time. This wandering about I considered necessary in order to delay and perhaps bamboozle any police dog put on my track. I had no doubt that these two men were policemen and that they had only just caught a glimpse of me which had made them curious. I am certain I again had to thank my whitish suit for my immunity from determined pursuit. After this little excitement I had to move very rapidly as it was already nearly daylight, and I wished to get to the banks of the next river before hiding. Pushing along the road I struck a small town, and crossed the end of it, taking a level crossing on the way. Seeing nobody at the station near-by I gained more confidence again, and was not so upset as I might have been when I found that I had to walk for a mile or more along a road flanked on both sides with houses. At last and by no means too soon I got to the river bank, had a drink, refilled my water-bottle and set about looking for a hiding-place in which to sleep during the day. This river, the Leine, is about seventy yards broad and is deep and fairly sluggish. There was a bridge crossing it about a mile downstream from the place at which I drank. I found a hiding-place not far from the river, but after a short while I began to think that it was a bad one, as although in this district most of the hay had been cut, one field quite near had still to be done. So off I went to look for a better place. I found a thick hedge which looked likely, and then suddenly saw a girl bathing eighty yards away. However, I quickly decided that she could never have seen me, and began to pull aside some brambles with a view to getting in. Suddenly without any warning I heard just behind me "Guten Morgen." I turned in a second and found myself face to face with a flapper dressed all in white, on her way to bathe. I growled back "Good Morning" and she passed on. I expect she also got a shock, for I must have been a wild-looking object. I decided now that this was no place for me and began to make tracks as soon as she had moved away. I hadn't gone a hundred yards when I heard a man's voice and the yapping of a dog come from where I had spoken to the flapper. He was speaking to the girls, so fearing that my girl might have mentioned seeing an extraordinary apparition on her way, and so arouse suspicions in the mind of the man, I cleared out and went through the woods, which were fairly thick here for about a mile. I was lucky now to find a deserted factory quite close to the bridge which I had seen previously. By this factory was a thick patch of small fir trees, into which I forced my way and found excellent cover among the dense undergrowth and lower branches of the trees. I tried to sleep, but had little success, and was again worried by flies and heat at about midday. My watch had stopped, so I arranged some sticks so that when their shadow pointed north by my compass I should know it was roughly noon, and be able to set my watch. I was keeping a collection of hieroglyphics which I cannot honour with the title of "Diary." I purposely made it unreadable, and abbreviated all the words so that it would convey nothing to the Boche if they caught me. Unless one keeps some sort of record it is very easy to forget the day of the week, etc., and that is necessary knowledge, as Sunday is a special day in Germany and must be treated differently by an escapee. It had become very uncomfortable in my hiding-place and sleep was out of the question for some reason, so I thought that as I had lost time already by being delayed both nights, I must try to make up for the delay, and what would help to do so more than anything else would be the crossing of the Leine by daylight. The more I thought of it the more I wished to get that river behind me as soon as possible. I decided that at any rate I would scout the bridge and then make up my mind. This proved easier than I had hoped, because I found that the bridge had no cover anywhere near it, so that I was able to see without any trouble from quite a distance away that there was no sentry on the bridge or in the neighbourhood. There being no cover, ambushes were out of the question. I thought then that I might easily cross at once, as at night there was always the possibility of finding that a sentry had been posted simply for the hours of darkness, those being the hours during which prisoners generally move, a fact that the Germans know well. Accordingly I got on to the road and walked boldly along it, reading a German newspaper which I had found and kept the day before. Just before reaching the bridge I met a very nice-looking German girl carrying two pails of milk. She deigned to honour me, tramp though I looked, with a sweet smile and a most encouraging "good-day." I suppose the shortage of young men in the Fatherland was accountable for this; it would hardly have been due to my personal beauty. However, she didn't meet with much response beyond a surly "good-day" from behind my newspaper. On the bridge itself I met an older woman who just looked at me and didn't answer my good-day. That made me hurry on somewhat. I got across without any trouble and didn't see a sign of a sentry, and I was not surprised at that, seeing how near the Aller and Leine are to each other. It would mean many more men called away from farm work to arrange for the guarding of the crossings of the Leine as well; a fact which hardly recommends itself to the Boche authorities just at present. CHAPTER VI I MEET FOX AND BLANK The fact that this bridge was left behind made me feel quite elated, and I continued along a lane in a westerly direction with full confidence in my disguise and my evidently unsuspicious appearance generally. The lane ending in a field made me take to working across country. There were quite a number of Germans scattered about making hay. I had to go very cautiously so as to avoid meeting anyone face to face, as they might have asked me awkward questions relating to my work, etc. I also could not walk across fields with long grass in them by day without risking causing suspicions in the minds of any farmer who might see me, as the Germans themselves are very careful not to damage any crops in these times. And now happened the most remarkable thing that could well have fallen to the experience of anyone outside a novel. I was walking along a hedge very slowly, watching a German in the distance, when suddenly I thought I heard my name being spoken very clearly and distinctly. Again I heard it and this time I was certain, and immediately thought that I was imagining it and that I was really going mad. I was told afterwards that I clutched my head with both hands. It was an awful shock to hear this, after not having seen anyone or been with anyone who knew me for two and a half days, and having crossed two rivers and got miles from the camp in which my only acquaintances and friends in Germany were locked up. I turned round and then I heard it again coming out of the hedge, and not only my name this time but an exceedingly English sentence which told me that I was a something fool, and that I was to come back. I promptly did so and found Major C.V. Fox, D.S.O., and Lieut. Blank lying at the bottom of the hedge. I at once joined them, and I naturally thought that all the officers from the camp had escaped and were spread far and wide over Germany, and that I had found a couple of them without being unduly lucky. However, that was not the case. Fox and Blank had escaped sixteen hours after I did, but while I had been hung up between the ambush and the first bridge for four hours, they had pushed ahead and crossed both rivers and got to their present hiding-place at daybreak. It was a great relief to have somebody with whom to talk, and we set to and discussed details in low whispers. I then found out that I had not been missed at roll-call the night I had hidden in the tin office. Fox told me his adventures and I gave him an account of mine in exchange. Again our luck was well to the fore. On examining our supplies of food, etc., I found that Fox had lost nearly all his biscuits and chocolate in the crossing of the Aller, which they had had to negotiate by swimming a raft across. This had got swamped, as its buoyancy was poor, naturally with disastrous consequences to much of the perishable food they had taken with them. I had got a good number, and so would be able to supply them and in exchange they gave me other things. My compass was a good one, theirs poor; whereas my map was exceedingly bad and theirs quite good. We found that we had both the same ideas of the route to be taken towards the frontier. The Germans had captured three other lots of escapers in the district around Osnabrück. Forest guards were active in the woods in this district, and this had decided both of us on our line before we met. Another fact which made us the more sure which route we should follow was the nature of the ground as shown by the maps. The country which we eventually traversed is shown as marshy, and we had both decided that the great drought in Germany this summer would have dried this up to a very large extent, and we hoped that the Germans might not have taken this fact into consideration in allocating guards, so that this district would be more lightly watched than others. As a matter of fact the maps exaggerate the marshes, and I should think that even after really wet weather it would be possible to follow the same line. [Illustration: "FACE TO FACE WITH A FLAPPER ON HER WAY TO BATHE" (_page 120_).] The one disadvantage to this joining-up of parties lay in its greater visibility and the loss of its elasticity, owing to the fact that we were now three whereas two is the ideal number. It is naturally more difficult for three to dive into hiding immediately on sighting a German than it is for one or two. However, the pros easily outweighed the cons. While we were thus talking we got rather a scare. A man on a horse came along the road and stopped immediately opposite the patch of brambles in the midst of which we lay. The horse began tearing at the leaves of a small tree, thereby making a noise which seemed to us, cowering under cover, as if it might be caused by the man trying to force his way into our hiding-place. We lay absolutely still, but we felt very uncomfortable, especially as the contents of our bags were mostly strewn about the ground drying. We should never have had time to collect our belongings together and bolt if an intrusion resulted in our hiding-place being exposed. However, after two or three minutes of suspense on our part the horse moved on down the road and we breathed again. Up to this time I had been exceedingly sparing in what I had eaten. In fact I had overdone my economy in this respect, as I had felt a bit weak once or twice that day. The other two had fed well up till then, and when I saw what they intended to eat that evening I also increased my ration. From this time onwards we usually had a pound of food each per day. This we intended to augment when possible. The details of Fox and his companion's adventures are outside the scope of this narrative, but the broad facts which must be included in order to account for their presence in the hedge are as follows. On Wednesday afternoon, 20th June, they had left Schwarmstedt camp with a fatigue party detailed for tree-felling, disguised as British soldiers. The Germans of course did not realise that two of the party were really officers, but they were naturally bound to find out the deception which had been practised on them on the return of the fatigue party to camp. The fatigue party broke up and scattered about while working at their tree-felling job, and it was not possible for the German escort to keep a watch on all and every soldier at the same time. Accordingly these two, nicely judging their chance, slipped away when the Boches were looking in the other direction. It did not take them long to get some distance away, and that night they approached the river Aller with the object of effecting a crossing. On nearing the railway bridge they had discovered an ambush waiting for them, and consequently cleared away from that area. Striking the river some distance up-stream, they made a rough raft from wooden palings, and putting their food and clothes on it swam it across. It was here that Fox discovered that his companion was far from being a strong swimmer. Therefore Fox, who had not entirely recovered from the injuries he had received in a previous attempt to escape by jumping from a train, had to swim the raft backwards and forwards several times by himself until all the food and clothing had been transported across. The raft was not a large one or very buoyant, which resulted in much of the food being destroyed. Fox also assisted Blank to cross, so had plenty of swimming to do. After crossing this river, they had pushed rapidly on and crossed another by a bridge, without apparently getting into any trouble. They reached their hiding-place during the early hours of Thursday morning and had remained there all day, drying their goods and chattels. CHAPTER VII THE CROSSING OF THE WESER We had decided to begin the night's march at 10 o'clock should it be possible to do so. When we started it was not far off that hour, and in consequence was still fairly light. As there was an old well in the field at the side of which we had been hidden all day, we went to it in hopes of finding water. This we were fortunate enough to get. It was the kind of water that would only be drunk by cattle and escaped prisoners. After filling our water bottles we commenced our march westwards. Very soon we struck a rather wild stretch of country and were startled by the sight of fireworks not far from us. After various rockets and Roman candles had fizzled themselves out, we came to the conclusion that this display constituted no additional risk to us, and pushed ahead. This stretch of rough country began to take a slope, and not long after we began the ascent of this incline we debouched on to an open plain. The weather had begun to look threatening about half an hour previously. Now it was clear to us that we were in for a wetting. Striking westwards across this plateau we soon got into difficulties. Parts of it were decidedly boggy even after the great drought. Several streams and dykes intersected the country and barbed-wire fences were common and difficult to climb. We had covered about four miles since our start, when suddenly the rain began to descend. Mutterings of thunder and odd flickers of lightning in the west boded ill for the coming hours. Soon the rain, which had begun falling fairly gently, increased its unwelcome efforts. The thunderstorm very quickly established itself right over our heads and lightning flashed every second or so. It had got exceedingly dark, and in addition the rain, now descending in torrents, had made the hitherto dry ground into a morass. We were absolutely unable to make headway in the inky blackness which now reigned, so we got under some thick trees and sat down. These trees did not shelter us much, and it was not long before we were all soaked to the skin and shivering from head to foot. It was an ideal moment for discussing our future and its chances, and we did it, in a thoroughly depressed and miserable way. We quite envied our late companions their warm if hard apologies for beds at Schwarmstedt. However, all things have an end, and the rain eventually ceased and the darkness lifted somewhat. Owing to the sodden state of the ground now the swampy bits had become really things of awe-inspiring proportions, which made us return eastwards for a mile or so in search of a road or track along which we could travel in the right direction. This we found and took, doing some three miles or so before the storm returned once more and we were again handicapped by the darkness. So dark was it in fact that we never noticed a bend in the road, and we continued in the same direction only to walk slap into a ditch bristling with barbed-wire. This decided us to halt again for a time. The same misery repeated itself, but this time tired nature asserted itself in the case of Blank, who slept like a log in the soaking ditch. We waited in this pretty state till the grey light of dawn gave us sufficient seeing-power to enable us to continue without risk of falling into ditches. _Friday, 22nd June._ We naturally put on the pace after all this delay, and we soon got warm from hard walking. Passing through a village and striking across country afterwards for lack of a track to follow, we hit a small river. This we waded through and got to rough heath country on the other side. It was drizzling at intervals now, and we very much wished to find a dry and sheltered spot in which to lie up during the day. We thought we had found something suitable in this line and called a halt at a dense clump of bushes and undergrowth of all kinds. We were disappointed in our place very soon, as the rain came through freely. After boiling some water and drinking the coffee we made with it, we decided to continue our trek, reasoning that an atrocious day like this would effectually keep early risers in-doors until a later hour at any rate. We were right in our conjecture, as, although we walked along the roads which are not safe places at 6 o'clock in the morning, we neither saw anyone nor any tracks in the mud which abounded everywhere. Striking more north-west after an hour or so, we again hit a wild trackless moor. This we began to cross and soon came upon peat-cuttings. Shortly after this we spied three huts. These at first interested and then fascinated us. At last, plucking up courage, we examined them. Their dry interiors and the lack of all traces of recent visits from human beings, decided us to do rather a risky thing, namely, to use them. Having begun risking we went the whole way and made a wood fire in the huts, from splinters torn from the benches, etc. Drying our clothes and cooking hot food of the oxo variety occupied considerable time. We took it in turns to sleep on the floor. This involved practically lying in the fire, but it had the advantage of allowing one to become thoroughly warm. There was a pond of excellent water by the hut we had chosen, so we had quite a number of drinks of coffee and beef tea, etc. In the afternoon the sun came out to cheer us up a bit, but the scudding clouds did not give us much hope of a dry night. We intended to start at 10 o'clock, all being well. At about six I was suddenly taken ill, and for half an hour or so felt extremely miserable. I suppose it was a chill I had got, but fortunately it passed off fairly soon and I was able to eat and have some oxo two hours later. At ten o'clock we actually did start, but we were unfortunate in having pitch-darkness again in which to negotiate extremely difficult ground, as it had set in to rain once more in a thoroughly steady, lasting manner. We had a bad fright over my compass--the best one. When I was ill the compass must have fallen out of my pocket, and although we searched diligently everywhere, it was only by the merest chance that I saw a piece of it showing up in the heather in which it was lost. Truly, a marvellous stroke of luck. We had done about an hour's hard work ploughing through the rough boggy land, when we decided that we had better return to our hut once more, and tackle the bog next morning. This delay meant that we should lose the night's march, a serious affair when food reserves are limited and long distances remain to be covered. However, the night's rest we got as the result of this delay was extremely valuable as a matter of fact, as we woke up in a much fresher state after sleeping till 7 a.m. _Saturday, 23rd June._ Comfortably smoking our pipes in the dry warmth of our hut, after a breakfast of tinned beef, biscuit, and hot oxo, we were able to look on the bright side of things, and our fears on the subject of the crossing of the river Weser, to be undertaken within the next twenty-four hours, dwindled in strength until we were able to imagine it a trifling obstacle. We intended to make a raft and swim it over, should no boat be forthcoming during a short search. While we were discussing these and sundry other matters, Fox suddenly saw two men in dark clothes running across the heath some thousand yards away from us. Who could they be? On they ran, one about thirty yards behind the other, until they both disappeared into a clump of stunted pine trees. After a minute or two's discussion we agreed that probably they were also escaped prisoners. If so, from what were they running? This question was answered shortly afterwards. A cart driven by two men suddenly came into sight not very far from the place where we had first seen the two running men. This cart was coming towards our hut, and soon began to fill us with something stronger than mere interest in its movements. It came to within 150 yards of us and then stopped. The men got out and began filling the cart with peat from the piles of this commodity lying about. We by this time were lying on the bottom of the hut, or squashed up against the back of the door, not daring to move. We prayed that it would not come on to rain heavily, as the men would be certain then to take shelter in one of the huts, and ours was the nearest to them. This suspense continued for about half an hour, and then, with the cart filled, the two men departed the way they had come. At about noon we made up our minds that we could safely attempt the crossing of the moor by day. Accordingly, after clearing the hut of all traces of our occupation we packed up our kit, shouldered our packs and set off. We had torn up the benches and taken planks off the back of one of the other huts, intending to carry them with us to serve as material for our raft for the crossing of the Weser, but now that we actually began our march we found that the weight of all this wood was very considerable and so at the last moment left the whole lot behind. We were fortunate in so doing, as the distance was much greater than we had realised, and, as it turned out, it would have been a case of carrying coals to Newcastle. We proceeded to negotiate the same ground as that which we had attempted to cross and failed over the night before, and now realised how impossible a task it would have been in the inky blackness of the night, proving as it did a sufficiently difficult task even by daylight. Two or three miles of boggy rough ground had to be covered, and during the last few hundred yards of this, before we reached the lowest slopes of a range of hills, we were continually going through the spongy soil up to our knees. Fox, who was brought up amidst Irish bogs, chose the line, and we followed as nearly in his tracks as we possibly could. We were not sorry to get off this bit of difficult country, and we wondered what would have happened if we had continued our attempt the night before. The range of hills we had now reached ran in a westerly direction for a few miles before sloping down to the valley of the Weser. They were covered with fine pine and fir woods, cut up every now and then into squares by drives made through them. We saw several deer, and the additional presence of things that looked like shooting butts made us think that this area was probably some special deer-forest. None of us felt very safe, as deer-forests mean forest-guards. The lack of food in Germany has probably increased the numbers of the poaching fraternity, and the German authorities are sure not to have reduced the establishment of forest-guards. These ideas caused us usually to feel very nervous in woods, fine cover though they afford. By 3 o'clock we had reached the western end of these hills and were able to look out over the Weser valley. Our enjoyment of the scenery was cut short by our hearing children's voices not far behind us. We bolted into cover like scared rabbits. The place we chose was a very thick plantation of young fir-trees. The shelter given us by this was excellent and we afterwards endeavoured to find similar places for our daily rests. It had become pleasantly warm by now so we all got a little sleep and were very comfortable till about 8 o'clock, when it got cold and we naturally became anxious to move on again. I entered up my rough diary, and we found that we had little reason to be pleased at the pace at which we had travelled up to then. Fox's right heel and my left ankle had got rubbed a day or so before, and by now had begun to get really troublesome. Providentially we had with us a small tin of boracic ointment with which we plastered these sore places every daily halt. At this halting-place we had a thorough overhaul of our possessions, and I mended my pack with string, as the great weight of its contents had begun to tell on its seams. The children's voices continued to make themselves heard all round us, and one was forced to wonder what they found to scream and shout at for such hours on end. Of course Germany is the land of children, they are much more important in that country it appears than elsewhere. The grown-ups seem to understand them better, and certainly the kids themselves always seem to be extremely happy. This particular batch of brats was just playing in the woods I suppose, but their laughter and shouts caused us some alarm at first, until we got accustomed to the noise. At about 9 p.m. we decided to commence our march, as we were particularly desirous of striking the Weser bank as soon as possible after complete darkness set in. Pushing forward through thick undergrowth we had travelled some distance westwards, when we were forced to halt while several military wagons passed along a road a short distance in front of us. After they had left our immediate neighbourhood I went forward to reconnoitre the main-road which we were bound to cross in the next hundred yards or so. My costume lent itself better to this kind of work than did the garb of either of my companions, being as it was of a light brown colour whereas theirs was dark blue or black. The road was all clear and we got across safely, and continued our march until we reached another road which we crossed safely also, but this time only just in time to avoid a woman on a bicycle. Blank then went along the edge of the road to look at the sign-post near by, and we two lay fifty yards from the side of the road, bitten all over by the mosquitos which swarmed here. He returned with his information, and off we went. From this place we made our way so as to pass to the north of a village and strike the Weser bank immediately north of a small town, from which we hoped to steal a boat. We were now among cornfields and got held up until it became quite dark by the presence of various Germans in the fields. We had our evening meal while we waited and felt that the local Germans were very inconsiderate in being in their fields at this hour. However, it was a Saturday night, so it was not so surprising after all that they kept such late hours. When all was quiet we continued our advance, cutting across corn-fields and getting nice and wet from the dew in so doing. Striking a village, we walked through it and then took the wrong road for a mile or so before finding out our mistake. On getting on to our correct line again we crossed a level-crossing and began to pass through the outskirts of a small town. Turning north to avoid this we arrived at another level-crossing, where we halted to discuss our route. Suddenly the door of the cottage by the level-crossing opened and a man came out. He stood and stared at us, ten paces away. We quietly moved off and got to the edge of a dense copse, where we doubled on our tracks as quickly as possible, crossing the railway some two hundred yards from the cottage. In crossing a railway one has to be particularly careful not to trip over the signal wires in the darkness. We made some noise on this occasion, as we did not know of the wire's existence and naturally crashed right into it. We did not wait to see if our noise had drawn anyone or not, but pushed ahead rapidly. A few hundred yards and we were on the bank of the river which flowed swiftly by, looking a pretty formidable obstacle in the light of the moon. We had agreed to have a rapid search for a boat, and then, if we had no luck, to swim the river as soon as possible. Fortune favoured us, however, and we found a large ferry-boat moored to a post within one hundred yards of the place where we had first debouched on the river's bank. It did not take us long to get aboard and push off into the middle of the stream. Fox, an expert punter, took on the task of getting the boat across, although his bad hands suffered somewhat in the process. Enjoying our ride in the boat we let her drift down-stream for a mile or so. We felt extremely happy at this piece of good fortune and discussed quite seriously what we should have for dinner the first night in town, when we got back. The banks fairly flew past and it was not very long before we had left the farm, near to which we had discovered our boat, a long way behind us. Our free ride over, we chose a landing-place. Fox brought the boat in towards the western side, and I agreed to go up the bank first in order to make sure that there were no Boche sentries patrolling the top of it. When the boat struck the bank where it was covered with bushes, I jumped out and forced my way up to the top, to find it all clear of Germans. Now occurred what nearly proved to be a tragic episode, but it fortunately ended more comically than otherwise. Coming down the slope again I put my foot on a rotten piece of bank which gave way, with the result that I went crashing into the bushes. Fox, thinking that the Germans had seized me, and that the noise he heard was made by my fighting with them, pushed the boat off into the river again, he and Blank lying flat on the bottom of it. When I got up I saw the boat swirling away down-stream, apparently empty and absolutely out of control. For an awful moment I imagined that Blank had fallen overboard and had clutched Fox in doing so, and that now the two of them were drowning each other in the mud at the bottom of the river. I shouted, softly at first, and then louder and louder, but got no answer. The boat still drifted down-stream until it was lost to sight round a bend. Here was a pretty state of affairs; all the water bottles were in the boat I knew, and my companions were Heaven knows where. Thinking it over, I decided that they might still be in the boat and that they had seen Germans or heard their voices. This decided me to remain still and quiet for an hour in the hopes of something turning up. After half-an-hour or so, I saw two figures coming along the bank towards me and found on shouting to them, that it was indeed Fox and Blank. They had heard me shout before, but had thought it was meant for a warning to tell them to clear out. We were very relieved to have this episode over. They had brought all the water-bottles on with them and then turned the boat adrift, and watched it float down-stream. We could afford now to laugh at the whole thing, but for all that it was a far from pleasant experience. However, the main thing which ran through our minds was the fact that the difficult crossing of the Weser was a thing of the past, and we could now reasonably hope to reach the frontier and have a chance to compete with its special difficulties, whereas prior to crossing the Weser it had been a presumption to do so. CHAPTER VIII THE RAILWAY TRACK _Sunday, 24th June._ Leaving the Weser and travelling westwards for a mile or so we were exceedingly surprised to find that we had come close to the river again. For a moment we thought that perhaps we had got off our bearing, but our compass showed that we were right, and the stars checked the accuracy of the compass. In reality we had struck a great loop in the river and our westerly route led us close to it again. Crossing cornfields and extensive areas planted with roots of all kinds, we got thoroughly soaked with dew well above our knees. Fox and I both suffered considerably from our sore feet, and it seemed to me that my boots shrank a bit every time they got wet. It had now begun to get fairly light and the coming day promised well to be fine. Being a Sunday we had naturally to think of what difference to our plans this might make. Germans we knew often go out into the wilder parts of the country when they have a day off, and in addition to scattering abroad the usual litter which always marks the presence of holiday-makers in all countries they wander into all sorts of out of the way places, and by so doing constitute a definite danger to be guarded against by the fugitive. Realising this we were desirous of finding a particularly safe retreat for the hours of daylight. Leaving the flat country immediately west of the river, we began crossing an undulating stretch of heath-land, which gave place after two or three miles to pastureland and corn. Here it was that Blank, who had been in a prison camp situated in this district, declared that he knew of a railway running from somewhere close to our position at that moment. We decided to try to find it before we hid for the day, in order to know its exact whereabouts when we moved off that night. Sure enough we came to a large cutting, and were able to get on to the convenient road we found waiting for us at the bottom of it without any great difficulty. It was high time now to think seriously of a hiding-place. This was not forthcoming. Instead we seem to have entered a district packed with farms. This railway track had evidently been made with the express object of tapping this rich farming district. At about 4.45 we suddenly became aware of a man behind us, following along the railway track some four hundred yards off. This drove us up the southern side of the cutting we were traversing at the moment, and away across country in a rapid search for good cover. Nothing turned up to suit us for some time and we were beginning to feel fairly desperate, as the Germans usually begin to milk their cows somewhere about 5 o'clock. At last, after travelling at top speed for nearly half an hour, we found a thick plantation situated between two farms. Into this we crawled not feeling at all satisfied with the cover. It proved to be really dense, which was a blessing, and despite the cold, two out the three of us were very soon asleep after a hot drink. We took it in turns to watch here, each doing a two hour stretch of sentry-go, and then four hours off. These hours of waiting were fearfully long and tedious, one could not sleep for very many hours, and then it was a case of sitting still till darkness fell, when further desire to rest had been killed. Towards the evening of this Sunday we were again badly scared, by hearing dogs barking and the reports of shot-guns quite close to us. Evidently the farmers were trying the hedges and small plantations hereabouts for rabbits. What if the dogs were put into our copse? We discussed several murderous schemes. Eventually we thought that the remaining half of the tinned beef, which was to serve as our evening meal, might be used with good effect as a means by which any inquisitive dog's attention might be held while a dastardly attack could be made on it from behind. Our lethal weapons consisted of a pocket-knife of Fox's and a table knife of mine. Fortunately the dogs never came into our copse, so murder was not necessary. Intending to begin our night's march at 10.30 p.m. we cautiously worked our way to the edge of our cover and Fox went on to scout. He came back shortly afterwards to say that we must wait as several Germans were still strolling about the fields. It was not till 11 p.m. that the last of them went into a cottage some four hundred yards away, leaving the ground clear to us. We soon got back to our railway cutting and continued to walk rapidly in a westerly direction. We were now very much in need of water and were fortunate in hearing the trickle of a small stream which ran at the bottom of the embankment. Much refreshed by our drink and with full water bottles we pushed on. Nothing very exciting happened during the night's march, but again we were badly rushed for a hiding-place in the morning. _Monday, 25th June._ Not a sign of anything at all suitable presented itself. We looked at a new station building, and wondered whether, could we but get into it, it would prove a safe place for our nineteen hours of waiting. However, it did not stand the test of our discussion, so we moved on. It was now a case of going at top speed, and leaving the railway. We tried copse after copse only to find them all too open. At last, after considerably exceeding our time limit, we found an excellent place in which to hide. A small densely planted copse of trees of the Christmas-tree variety, situated in lonely fields, seemed to offer as good a place as we could wish, but had the disadvantage of being near no water. [Illustration: "EVERY DARK CORNER SEEMED TO CONTAIN A DOG" (_page 172_).] The day passed off uneventfully, and we left our hiding-place at 10 p.m. striking the railway track shortly afterwards. After a couple of hours' hard walking we rested for a few minutes, and lit cigarettes from the few precious ones that remained to us. It certainly was rather a risky thing to do, but as we carefully shaded the match and this part of the track was very enclosed, we did not fear very much on that score. On proceeding a mile or so Fox suddenly discovered that he had left the box of cigarettes, with a dozen or so still in it, on the stone on which he had sat. He decided to go back, so we remained where we were and rested. Both box and cigarettes had English words on them, which was the chief reason of his return to search. Cigarettes with English names, etc., would mean "Englishmen" to the meanest Boche intelligence, which would not take long to develop into "escaped prisoners," and might in turn spell "search and pursuit." He returned after being away nearly an hour, without the cigarettes. They were nowhere to be found. _Tuesday, 26th June._ Dawn. We left the railway-line at about 2.30 a.m., as it had turned towards the south-west and joined another line. Striking across country we made good progress until we approached a road. Here we had suddenly to dive into the nearest cover, as a trap containing two men drove past. The spot into which I dived was a patch of stinging nettles with a hidden strand of barbed wire running through the middle of it! Blank dived in the open but fortunately was not seen, although conspicuous enough in all conscience. The trap gone, we crossed the road and began to think of a hiding-place. This we did not find easily. Village followed village, and we could not get clear of this district of farms and cottages. It had now become broad daylight and we began to feel the desperate early morning sensation again. All the dogs in the country prowled around the farm-yards we passed, or so it seemed to us. A barn in the process of being filled with hay presented its inviting doors to us. Fortunately, although much tempted, we steered clear of it and continued our hunt. Eventually, at about 5.15 we found a small copse of fir trees situated in pasture land, and were not sorry to get into it. It was bitterly cold, but we slept quite well. CHAPTER IX CROSSING THE RIVER HUNTE AND THE TOWN OF "DOGS" After the morning's rest in the copse, and the great increase in warmth due to the sun, which soon caused us to feel very thirsty, we thought that a move during the afternoon would not be too risky as the country was of a very wild deserted appearance hereabouts, and our need of water was a matter to be dealt with as soon as possible. Accordingly at 3 p.m. we moved out of our hiding-place and very soon found a pump by a cowshed in a field. We drank and filled up our water-bottles and then hid again in a wood close by. We were much worried while drawing water by a large herd of cows. They must have been very thirsty, as they crowded round us and whenever we moved towards them would gallop off for a few yards and then return. We were afraid lest this behaviour on their part had been seen and would cause comment or even worse among any farm people who might be within view of the shed. While lying hidden in the wood the sound of axes being used near us came to our ears. This was not very disturbing though, and we managed to pass a peaceful evening talking in the sunlight; quite a restful feeling stole over one; life for the moment was not the strenuous thing it had been for so many days. The songs of birds and the buzzing of insects combined to lend a peaceful atmosphere to the surroundings. A deer appeared from the interior of the wood and quietly went about its feeding as if we did not exist. If only one could have known that the future was to be favourable, and that success was to crown our effort, it would have been even extremely enjoyable in that wood. But misgivings and forebodings of evil were natural to us, and robbed us of the full amount of pleasure we might otherwise have enjoyed in such a pleasant entourage. In the evening clouds began to drift up and eventually a slight drizzle began to descend, but not sufficiently copious to make us miserable. At 10 p.m. we began our night's march, and worked forward to the western edge of the wood; from here we were able to look out over a wide stretch of pasture and cornland. In the distance a railway line crossed the field of vision. A beautiful wild sunset cast a golden light on the country-side. A road ran close by the wood and we waited till the light should die in the sky before crossing it. At last we were well away, and reached the railway we had previously seen, which we crossed a moment before two trains rumbled past. One of these was a heavily laden munition train, the other much lighter. After leaving the railway we took to a lane which eventually brought us out into the main road. Just before debouching on to this, Fox and I both heard a bicycle coming along the road, and we dived into the long grass at the side of the road. Blank, however, did not hear it and blundered straight into the cyclist, a woman, before he could stop. Fortunately his "Guten Abend" was sufficiently German to pass, and the cyclist continued her way after answering him with the same words. We caught him up some ten minutes later, and then cut across country. A farm loomed up in front of us and we bore to one side of it, but not before the ubiquitous dog made the night hideous with its barking, so we passed on with as little noise as possible. Soon after this a stream barred our way. A rapid search for a bridge did not bring one to light, so there was nothing for it but to get wet. However, Fox had a plan whereby two of us might be saved a wetting. He being the heaviest was to strip and stand in the middle of the stream while we crossed over, using his shoulders as a stepping-stone. When he got into the stream he found the bottom very muddy and the water came up to his chest. I was to try the 'stunt' first. All the food bags, etc., were carried across, and then Fox stood ready to do his part. Stepping well out from the bank and placing one foot on his shoulder I reached down until I could catch hold of his hands and waited for his signal. At the word, I sprang, he simultaneously throwing me, and before I had time to realise anything, I found myself rolling over and over on the other side. The timing had been perfect and I had landed completely dry. Blank was also got across successfully, and then the two of us pulled Fox out. But not without an effort, as one of his feet had got well embedded in the mud. He told us then that a large stone had prevented the other from getting similarly stuck. Rapid marching was the order after this episode, and we covered a great distance in an extraordinarily short space of time. We had omitted to fill our water-bottles at the last stream, and this burst of speed soon made us painfully aware of it. Finally we found some appalling water in a ditch at the road side, but only by digging a hole in the mud, could sufficient be got to fill a water-bottle. This water was naturally very muddy and full of those little beetle things that rush about the surface of stagnant pools--'water-boatmen'--I think they are called. I know I felt them running about the inside of my mouth when I drank. _Wednesday, 27th June._ We were now approaching the Hunte river. This river is not very large, but is sufficiently formidable to require swimming if no bridge or boat is used. Therefore, finding on a map that a bridge crossed it at a certain spot miles from anywhere of importance, or anywhere at all for that matter, we had decided that it would in all probability be unguarded. It was clear now that we were getting near this bridge. A dense mist overhung the valley through which the river ran, and made it easier for us to approach. I, having the best coloured costume and the lightest footwear, went a few yards ahead of the others to reconnoitre the bridge. Cautiously approaching it, I was delighted to find that no guards were posted there, and we got across without difficulty. A few miles further on, our westerly line would bring us to a small country town, which must be nameless. The country in this district was covered with corn, and knowing that a detour through these corn-fields to avoid the town would mean an hour or more of delay, we decided to run the risk and walk through the streets of the town itself. All went well at first. The town seemed absolutely deserted, and we crept along in the shadows where practicable, choosing the dusty gutters and grassy patches at the side of the road in order to make as little noise as possible. We reached a kind of square towards the centre of the town, when Blank stumbled over a cobble-stone, a not unusual thing for him to do, which called forth various cryptic whispers from Fox; at that moment, out of a dark shadow on the right of the road, a great dog slowly emerged. With hackles bristling and teeth bared he approached us, emitting savage growls. The only thing to be done was to walk straight past him making no noise. This we did, passing within two yards of the beast. It seemed to scare him for he stopped and when we had got well past began barking furiously. Then it was that we discovered that the place was stiff with dogs. The din made by their combined barking was absolutely awe-inspiring. Every dark corner seemed to contain a dog. Shapes flitted about near us, and one got the impression that they were collecting for a combined attack. It was no use going quietly now, so we put on speed and rushed through the place. Nobody came out into the streets, however, but the blinds over a lighted window were pulled aside, disclosing a face which peered out into the darkness at us. After ten minutes of apprehension we gained the outskirts of the town, where the last of our doggy foes stood to meet us right in the centre of the road. He was a large bristly animal and had a particularly nasty note in his growl. We adopted the same procedure with him, and after waiting till we were almost on top of him he turned tail and fled. We were clear of that town now, but vowed never again to run such a risk. My experience of German dogs at night, by no means slight, causes me to think that they bark so much and so often, generally at nothing, that their owners take absolutely no notice of them. It is a case of "Wolf! Wolf!" in real life. Of course, the tired-out state of an over-worked and insufficiently fed population must make rising in the small hours of the night, to see what the dog is barking about, even less popular than is usually the case. Anyway we profited. Leaving the vicinity of the town at the same great speed for fear of pursuit, we soon placed several miles between the scene of this, our latest fright, and the wooded country we now struck. It had become light by now, so we had to search for a hiding-place at once. This we found in a hollow filled with undergrowth, an offshoot of a wood surrounded by corn and potato fields. We were very tired, but quite pleased with our progress, as we must have done well over twenty miles from the time we began our march at 10 p.m. A day of sun and warmth made the drying of clothes, socks, and boots an easy matter. CHAPTER X EXIT BLANK, SHEDS A quiet day amid peaceful surroundings counteracted the effects of the excitement of the previous night. We slept quite well by reason of the good conditions, and but for the soreness of Fox's heel and my left ankle would have felt extremely fit. We were guilty during the afternoon of a piece of carelessness which nearly gave us away. Fox and Blank were near the edge of our hiding-place, and went to sleep with some of our kit spread about the ground round them. I was asleep further inside our cover, but my boots were with theirs drying in the sun. Suddenly Fox woke up and saw a woman not fifty yards from them, planting something in the field and gradually moving in our direction as she worked. Waking Blank and seizing all the kit he could find he crawled into the depths of our hiding-place, followed by Blank who had got hold of other portions of our impedimenta. An hour or so later the woman departed and we found that one of my boots had remained in the open all the time. We decided that in all probability she had not seen it, and so had no fears of discovery due to her. The night's march began at 10 p.m., but it proved to be too early an hour for such night-birds as we. Hardly had we moved two hundred yards from our cover, when a youth with a shot-gun, prowling round in search of rabbits, saw us from about sixty-yards away. We legged it and soon left him wondering what three rough-looking men with heavy bags, and of military age, were doing in that part of the country. Making excellent progress that night, we crossed a wild stretch of heath in the early hours of the morning, and then got back to more of the abominable corn-land again. Crossing a railway and passing a cottage by the level-crossing we were greeted with the usual barking of a house-dog. _Thursday, 28th June._ It was now high time to think of our hiding-place for the day. Nothing presented itself and we carried on with our rush westwards. Cover after cover we examined without finding what we wanted, and at last, hearing German voices not far off, we were forced to adopt the first thing which presented itself. This proved to be a wood cut up with broad drives, with hardly any undergrowth in it. We had to make the best of a bad job, and by making a kind of zareba of dead branches, some sort of cover from view from anyone more than fifty yards away was possible. The sound of voices on all sides of the wood, which was only about 200-300 yards wide, and the yapping of the ever-present dogs, together with the fact that half-cut hay-fields touched the wood on two sides, made it imperative that we should have a sentry all the time. After a hot drink and a breakfast of beef and biscuits, which made us feel a little warmer, Fox and I lay down to sleep. Blank, who had asked for the first watch, for the two hours till 7 a.m., because he said he was too cold to sleep, was to undertake the duties of sentry. It is necessary to state here that, now we were so rapidly approaching the Ems river, Blank had begun to have serious misgivings about his ability to swim it. We had fully made up our minds that there was to be no looking for boats or building of rafts for that river. The Germans, we knew, were certain to have this obstacle well guarded, and the only chance of success, and that but a slight one, lay in dashing through the watchers and swimming it. Blank had spoken of trying to find a boat in order to tackle the Ems on his own. Well, Fox and I went to sleep feeling fairly secure with a sentry to warn us in time to get away should we be discovered. After about an hour we both woke up, instinctively feeling something was wrong. Blank had disappeared. On looking out of our hiding-place I saw him lying fast asleep in the full sunlight, right in the middle of the drive some fifty yards away. We woke him up by throwing some pieces of wood until we hit him. He came back to our hiding-place, and naturally Fox and I felt much annoyed that the trust we had put in his watching should have been betrayed. This incident, combined with Blank's fears for the future, when in all probability he would have to swim the Ems, made it imperative for us to come to some arrangement. It was decided that Blank should go on by himself from this point. We arranged to divide up our supplies and equipment so that he should have a third. Accordingly, after I had copied the map for him, all was ready by noon for his departure. Taking a third of the food, a water-bottle, compass, and a copy of the map, he left us, determining to push on by day as he was unable to find his way at night by himself. The line he decided to follow involved his following the main-road through ----, a large military centre. However, he hoped to get through this place, trusting to his luck, civilian clothes and a fair knowledge of German to assist him. Leaving us lying in our hiding-place, he was soon out of sight, and we saw or heard nothing more of him. At about 10 o'clock we, Fox and I, began our march. We struck northwards now in order to get off the line taken by Blank in the morning, in case he had been caught and had thus made the Germans more wide-awake. Proceeding at a decent pace we soon came in sight of some sheds which lay directly on our line of march. Being curious and feeling much more confident, as we were now only two, we decided to go as close to the sheds as we dared in order to get a good look at them. We were able to see them excellently, although we never got very close to them. What prevented us from approaching any nearer was the sound of a concertina issuing from a hut a hundred yards from us. German voices could also be heard, so we considered that we had done all that could be done and left the place exceedingly rapidly, feeling that we should be safer when we had put a few miles between these sheds and ourselves. A very wooded country now lay before us, and we made good progress by walking along the fire cuts and drives, which conveniently ran east and west. We soon struck a main-road, which we followed for some time. While proceeding along this a cyclist dashed past us making practically no noise, so we had no time in which to take cover. He looked at us when passing, but it was so dark under the trees, that he could not have got any impression of our appearance. By now both of us were suffering very much from our feet, and on leaving the main-road and taking to rough tracks over wild country we suffered intensely owing to the inequalities of the ground. _Friday, 29th June._ At about 4.30 a.m., thoroughly tired out, but pleased with the distance travelled that night, we found a place in which to hide. A rest till noon, and then feeling that we had barely sufficient food for the distance still to be covered, we decided to try and push forward a mile or so during the afternoon in the rough country of that distance. Leaving our hiding-place at about 3 p.m. we cautiously crossed a road and continued slowly working forward till about 6 o'clock. Here, finding excellent cover in a very thick fir plantation, we halted until dark. We were well north now of our original route, and we must have been more than twelve miles away from the east and west line Blank had taken. At first we had been worried over the idea of his probable capture affecting us also. But remembering that the Germans did not know that the parties had amalgamated, and were looking for one single man and two in a separate party, for the original report from the camp must have started the existence of two separate escapes, we felt much reassured. If they caught Blank they would naturally conclude that they had re-captured me, and that the original party of two might be anywhere, and nowhere in particular. CHAPTER XI TWO DAYS TO THE EMS Leaving our secure hiding-place at 10 p.m. as usual, we made good progress until we came to a stream which had evidently been widened artificially, as it had the appearance of a canal at the point at which we struck it. It was quicker we thought to strip and cross at once than to hunt up and down, perhaps without avail, for a possible bridge. I took to the water first. It was up to my shoulders and the bottom was muddy. I went across to try it without any of our possessions with me. It was lucky I did so, as at the other side of the stream I got into very bad mud and had a hard job to get out of it. By dint of half swimming, half clambering among the thick reeds on the edge of the river I managed to get over, but I had found out the best way to tackle it, and went back to the other side quite easily. Taking the bulk of our possessions tied roughly together on the big bag with me, I got safely across and deposited them on the other side by my second trip. Another journey, and all our gear was across. Fox being a heavy man could naturally do none of this work as the mud was too treacherous. As it was, in attempting to cross himself, he got badly stuck near the bed of reeds on the other side. With my hand to help him and by making use of the reeds with arms and body, he struggled clear at last, by no means sorry to be on firm ground again. Quickly dressing ourselves we got away in very little time, and made rapid progress. Our map was very faulty in its description of this part of the country. Villages had sprung up lately perhaps, and as it was an old map they were not included in it. The main result of this to us was that we discovered here at unexpected moments villages and collections of farms in front of us. We took them all as they came, driven to great speed by the threat of having to reduce our food rations. As usual our canine foes advertised our movements everywhere, but we had become thoroughly used to them by now, and took little or no notice of them. The sign-posts at the road-junctions in this particularly old-world district were very ancient, often written in old German characters. To read them it was frequently necessary for me to mount on Fox's shoulders in order to get a closer look at blurred and faded words. These villages, seen as they were by the light of a nearly full-moon, gave one the impression of being extremely beautiful. The houses were all old. Bulging walls, practically all containing supports and cross-pieces of old timber, and low eaves were common. It was a very out-of-the-way track we had chosen, and one wondered whether we had unwittingly come across a collection of something quite out of the ordinary in the way of old-fashioned villages. I should like to have seen them by day. I expect some of these old places could produce a very fine collection of really old furniture if they were searched by a connoisseur. While creeping through a village we got a bad fright in the early hours of the morning. Without warning we heard the ringing of a high-noted bell quite close to us. The mystery of this was rather alarming until we solved it. A few yards farther on we passed an old church in the side of the road; from the windows of this a faint light was shining. The bell rang again, and we located the sound as having come from the church. Evidently an all-night mass for the dead must have been in progress. On clearing the village we seemed to leave civilisation behind us and entered an area of wild moorland. At first here and there quaint-looking houses were dotted about, but even these we left behind in our rush westwards over this moor. _Saturday, 30th June._ By this time it was fairly light and we had covered a great distance in a very short space of time. A hiding-place was forthcoming when we decided to rest, and with a plentiful supply of water not very far away we managed at last to get a good hot drink before sleeping. The wildness of the country and the need for speed moved us on again at about 3 p.m. Excellent water was abundant in all the low land in this undulating moorland district, and after a good drink we felt very strong in preparation for what we decided must be a great march before we rested again. While following a rough track over the heather-covered slopes, a young hare foolishly sat down in a tuft of heather a short distance ahead of us. This we proceeded to stalk, and thinking of the possible food supply in front of us we went very carefully for it. I took a detour round it so as to occupy its attention, while Fox, armed with a water-bottle held by the strap, warily approached it direct. He got to within two yards of it before up it got. A wild swipe with the water-bottle missed it by six inches. The hare galloped off, while our water-bottle let its valuable contents run out rapidly. However, Master Hare had not apparently had enough of it, for he again squatted in a tuft some two hundred yards farther on. The same plan of attack was carried out, and again Fox got to within striking distance. This time, feeling that the strap had only retarded the attack, he hurled the whole thing at the hare, narrowly missing it, but this time scaring it so much that it disappeared in the distance at a great pace. At about 10 p.m. we got near a village we had been making for, with the object of striking a road. This village, although nothing very important, proved to be the point of concentration of roads and tracks crossing the moor. In making a careful detour round the northern outskirts of it we suddenly came upon three men in dark clothes, standing on one of these tracks. Turning sharply to the north we made for a wood a mile or so away, and watching them carefully out of the corners of our eyes we slunk along rapidly. They did not really follow us, although they took a few paces in our direction. Having gained the wood we made a circle through it and were able to come back to the vicinity of the village well away from the three men. We could still see them, but then we knew where to look and they would have had to be visual marvels to see us, peeping as we were over the top of the corn, which was plentiful all round this village. At last we got on to our right road, which led us to the end of the moorland and eventually landed us in a swampy bottom cut up with dykes and small streams. Here we floundered about in a hopeless manner in the darkness. Feeling thoroughly tired and cold owing to the rain which had begun to descend an hour or so previously, we got into a cowshed and decided to have as many hot drinks, etc., as we could manage, and push ahead as soon as we could see sufficiently well to do so without wasting time. I think we had about three brews each. It was marvellous the effect this had on us. We both felt absolutely fresh again, and quite strong enough for another long stretch before sleeping. _Sunday, 1st July._ When sufficiently light we set off, passing a village in the daylight, the track leading out of this difficult country being easily found now, though it had eluded all our efforts during the hours of darkness. A large hill lay before us, and we decided to go to the top of it so as to get from there a view of the country which lay before us. It was a stiff climb and we reaped our reward. A magnificent view greeted us. It was indeed a sight of the promised land, as we remarked at the time. This hill was the last piece of high ground, or for the matter of that of any ground not dead flat, on the way to the frontier. We could see the valley of the Ems and the funnels of a steamer which we knew must be on the river itself. The flat country had an almost sea-like appearance, spreading as it did to a regular horizon, where the country became a misty grey line. A twenty minutes' rest here, and on we went. We were feeling our feet badly again now, and decided to rest on the lower slopes of the hills. On the way down we put up a fox. We had been extremely surprised all along at the scarcity of game in the wild country we had traversed. [Illustration: "FOX LED THEM OVER THE WORST PIECES OF BOGGY GROUND HE COULD FIND" (_page 211_).] Beyond a few deer, our hare, a black-cock, and a few duck which we heard in a corn-field, absolutely nothing else showed itself or gave any sign of its existence. As we had gone quietly for the greater part of the distance, it was astonishing that we should have surprised no rabbits out feeding in the early mornings. We came to the conclusion that, from an English standpoint, there is little or no game in these parts of Germany. At 5 a.m., finding a good thick copse of small fir-trees, we lay up for a rest. We were now about six miles from the river Ems, which again was some ten miles from the frontier. We decided that the Ems and the frontier itself should be crossed on the same night. Therefore, in order to allow enough time for such a large programme, we must cross the Ems at the beginning of the night; this meant that the six miles which lay before us now before arriving at the river, had to be done before dark. We proposed to move forward at 5 p.m. A good rest and a large meal worked wonders on our tired bodies, and we felt fit for our last great effort by the hour selected. Before moving off, however, we decided to make a "cache" of all our superfluous luggage, taking with us only food for twenty-four hours, with a bottle of milk each as an emergency ration, and the water-bottles. The remainder, which was not much now, we hid carefully in case we failed and had to come back for reserve food. The bag we also left, as that stamps the escaped prisoner more than anything else. We each now had a bundle done up with a coloured handkerchief. The wild country still stretched westwards until it gave place to a wet valley cut up into rough hay-fields and meadows of rank grass. While walking quietly along a rough grass road here, we suddenly saw a cart with two men in it come out of a field behind a hay-stack some four hundred yards from us. Deciding that to avoid them, when they must have already seen us, would be a very suspicious act, we walked straight ahead. When level with them the old man driving shouted out something to us; we stopped and he repeated his sentence. For the life of me I couldn't make out a single word he said. He had a squeaky voice and spoke a vile patois, but it sounded like no language I had ever heard. His third attempt to make us understand something had no more success, but Fox, who hardly knew a word of German, walked two paces towards him and shouted "Yah"! "Yah"! With that we walked off, leaving the old man and his youthful companion gaping at us. We discussed the matter as we walked away, and both came to the conclusion that he had used the word "Landsturm." From this we made up a nice theory. We imagined that the old man had thought that we had been called up for Landsturm service, and were trudging off to the nearest town with our bundles in our hands to join up. They still stood and looked at us, and we had our beautiful theory badly smashed a minute or two later. We suddenly came to the end of the cart-track and found a ditch full of water bordered with a barbed wire fence in front of us. As they were still looking at us, we followed the ditch down for a short distance and then crossed it without hesitation, hoping to give the impression that we knew what we were about. They drove on then, and we turned our thoughts to other matters. Some distance further on we came across a youth of about sixteen who was in charge of a flock of sheep. When we were quite close to him his dog must have done something to upset the youth's Hunnish temper, as the beast got a fearful hiding. Blow after blow, accompanied with torrents of Hun oaths, were rained on the wretched animal's back by this child of Kultur, who was armed with a heavy stick. To interfere would have been madness on our part, so we passed on. For the next mile we could hear the poor beast's howls. A swampy mile or so had now to be covered, and then we got on to the edge of a fir wood, which ran down to a road and railway. These we reached and crossed safely, finding ourselves once again in farmland and a country of hedges and dykes. When we judged that we had still a mile or so to do before striking the river we halted and had our last meal, hidden under a good thick bush which constituted part of a hedge at the side of a rough track. Setting out at 10 p.m., before it was really dusk, we followed a grass track westwards and very nearly got ourselves caught by a piece of carelessness. CHAPTER XII THE CROSSING OF THE RIVER The river winds about considerably. It was into a canal that we suddenly walked on turning a corner of a rough track. A bridge lay right before us, with a sentry on it, who must have seen us at the same moment as we saw him. Turning back we retraced our steps, but not before we had seen two German patrols walking along the canal bank. Leaving our track we got back to our previous hiding-place, intending to wait until it was quite dark before attempting to cross the river some distance to the north. Hardly had we got into our bush when a cyclist soldier passed along the track along which we had been walking a minute or two before. This alarmed us somewhat, but we deemed it best to remain hidden till it should be darker. While waiting we found and finished off our tin of milk, and discussed plans in a whisper. We allowed half an hour or so to elapse and then started off again; this time following a track running parallel to the river, northwards. We had done a mile or so, when, just before crossing another grass-road which led to the east, I saw the spiked helmet and rifle of a German soldier silhouetted against the sky, and moving rapidly from west to east. This turned us back, and we hoped then to be able to get eastwards across country until we could make a detour further northwards and regain the river bank. Entering a field we got half-way across it when two horses, taking fright at something, galloped away from the far corner straight towards us. We now lay down and discussed matters. Germans were north of us, east of us, and south of us, we knew, and the river to the west of course would be guarded. A quarter of an hour later, a weird cry, something like that of a curlew or peewit, but not exactly either, came to our ears from the north-west near the river. It was repeated from immediately north of us, and then north-east. From there the cry seemed to come from the east, moving southwards, until at a point south-east of us it was repeated time after time for two or three minutes, until taken up again further to the south, eventually ending again at the river, to our south-west. I had heard rumours and talk about a system the Germans are supposed to have for guarding their frontiers from fugitives, while I was in prison. This system had been called a "fan" or "cordon." It now occurred to me that these bird-like cries had been all round us in a ring. It did not take much thinking to connect the Germans we had seen, the imitation cries, and our known presence in this district. The more we thought the more certain we felt that these Germans we had seen hurrying eastwards had been sent out expressly to form a fan-like formation, in which they hoped to hold us against the river till daylight should allow them to search the ground for us. The bird-like calls would be just the thing to indicate to the commander of this formation the exact whereabouts of his men and the continuity of the cordon, without being a suspicious fact to any hapless wretch caught inside, who did not happen to know the real notes of the birds imitated. What was to be done? Should we try and break through the cordon, northwards or eastwards, by striking across country? This plan did not commend itself to us, as we should have had to get through thick hedges and wade through dykes innumerable without making any noise at all, an impossibility on a still moon-lit night such as it was. We decided to wait till 1.30 a.m., to give them time to get sleepy. An hour's sleep in a ditch, and then do something, was our plan. _Monday, 2nd July._ Moving westwards a little, we came to a farm close by, and got the idea of hiding somewhere in a hay-loft and waiting till the next night, when perhaps no cordon would be round us, before attempting to cross the river. The farm was quite deserted, except for the cattle and horses, etc., which we could hear in the buildings. We tried now to open the doors of the barns and sheds, without avail. They had no locks, but open them we could not. We tried everywhere for a long time without the slightest success. At last our combined efforts forced a door open, and we got a nasty fright. A great pig galloped out past us and went off grunting into the darkness of the field. The inside of this building was no good, as it was a piggery and only held bare stalls, nearly all of which were already populated. A cart of the kind used to convey pigs to market next attracted Fox, and he got into it to try it as a hiding place. It was by no means a good place, as, although the cart was an ancient one and the farm people would probably not require it, the possible arrival of dogs with the men who would undoubtedly turn up in the morning to see to the animals in the farm, would lead to a nerve-racking experience, if not to actual capture. While Fox reposed at the bottom of the cart I searched round for water, so as to fill the bottles against our possible stay of eighteen hours in the cart. There were two pumps in the yard, but both were broken. I could find no water anywhere. The whole farm was a mystery which we never solved. Returning to the pig-cart I was told by Fox that it would never do, as he had already got cramp after only ten minutes in it. He got out and we noticed then that it was threatening to become light. Deciding to risk all we left the farm, making for the river in the hopes of avoiding the Germans. Our marvellous luck again came to the rescue. From the farm ran a narrow path which we had not noticed before. This we took, and after going only a short distance along it suddenly struck the bank of the river proper long before we expected to do anything of the kind. This path was so small and unimportant that it must have been overlooked and considered too unimportant to require guarding, as we saw no Germans thereabouts. It did not take us long, now that we were on the bank of the river, to get on to a point of land jutting out into it, and taking cover in the long grass and bushes there. The Ems flowed sluggishly at this point, and appeared to be about a hundred yards across. We had made up our minds to leave all the not absolutely essential articles of clothing, etc., behind us here, and tie the things we must take with us to the tops of our heads and then swim. Knowing that anyone found moving about the frontier line is a suspicious character to German frontier guards, and therefore asked to show his papers, although he might be in civilian clothes, I left my long coat of cotton stuff behind, preferring to rely on my old khaki coat which I wore underneath to make me less visible. Fox had made the suggestion of the tying our clothes to our heads scheme, and I thought he knew all about it, so had not asked anything more about it. Now, taking our boots and coats off, we tied them into bundles, and Fox got his safely on to the top of his head and took to the water at once. He looked a weird sight, swimming slowly on his chest. I tied my boots to my waist-belt and then tried to balance my coat on to the top of my head. This would not work. Time after time it rolled off on to the grass. I suppose the top of his head is flatter than mine, but on mine the bundle would not stay. At last, desperate at seeing him on the other side of the river trying to land, I tied my coat on to my left shoulder with a large handkerchief to hold it there, knotted round my neck. Then I also took to the water, swimming on my right side, so as to keep my coat and its contents as dry as possible. I had noticed that Fox was still stuck at his point of striking the other bank, and was evidently hung up by the dense bushes which hung well over the river at that point. This made me strike a little up-stream so as to make for a clearer place on the other bank. This I reached and got ashore without difficulty. Fox had found it extremely hard to get out of the river at all; in fact he had got to the other side to find that he could not get his feet on to solid ground, and had tried to pull himself ashore by clutching at the over-hanging branches with his hands. It was now that the bundle on the top of his head, well-behaved till that moment, came adrift and fell into the water, and getting under a submerged branch, while the big handkerchief which held it still remained round his neck, practically pulled him under. In this predicament he could not yell for me at the other side of the stream to come to his assistance for fear of giving our position away to the German river patrols. After a hard struggle he managed to pull himself into the bank and was able to get ashore. This episode cost him his boots, as they became unhitched in his struggles with the bundle, and sank. On his telling me this I was able to help him in his problem of footwear. Although leaving all unnecessary kit behind, I had by error put a spare pair of thick woollen socks into the pocket of my khaki coat and was now able to produce them. He put them on over his own and we proceeded on our way towards the frontier, running and walking, both for the sake of warmth and also to make the best use of the hour or so of half-light that remained to us. [Illustration: "THE GERMAN RELIEF PASSED WITHIN 200 YARDS OF MY HIDING PLACE" (_page 215_).] CHAPTER XIII ACROSS THE FRONTIER During our rapid march we passed a few houses, and shortly afterwards began to cross an open moor which spread flat and wide in front of us. Our map showed a canal bordering the frontier itself, and it was along this canal that we anticipated having to avoid the line of actual frontier watchers. We were desperately anxious to make the frontier line within the next half-hour, in order to avoid having to lie waiting for the next night within a mile or so of it, as so many unfortunate escaped prisoners have been caught while hiding near the frontier itself. This anxiety on our part was now the cause of our making an appalling error, which nearly ended disastrously for us both. When within a mile of a line of trees, which we decided must be along the canal bank and must practically define the frontier line, we suddenly saw two German soldiers advancing some thousand yards in front of us. Had they seen us? We dived to the ground and lay still, in the hope that we had not been seen. Soon there was no doubt whatever that we had been observed, as the two Boches came straight towards us at a steady walk. We decided that by separating one or both of us might succeed in getting away from them, and so I crawled towards the north while Fox went off southwards towards a peat observation hut. Fox was dressed in his dark blue suit still, and I had now got my khaki coat as my outside garment. The value of the khaki coat now came out. They evidently saw Fox crawling and not me, as they very soon changed their direction slightly in order to go after him. Fox and I had crawled two hundred yards apart when he must have had no doubt that they were definitely after him, and I suddenly saw him get up and run off, away from the frontier direction. He seemed to me to be keeping the hut between him and his German pursuers. The latter, probably oldish men, or wounded and not absolutely recovered, had no idea of running after him, and I suppose they knew that their shooting was not good enough to score a hit at a running-man four hundred yards from them. However, they followed his course at a brisk walk, passing me at some hundred to two hundred yards distance. I saw them go to the hut, look in, and not finding anything in it of interest to them, continue their pursuit. Fox led them over the worst pieces of boggy ground he could find. Having no boots and very light footwear, by reason of the two pairs of socks being his all, he was able to do excellent "time" over the peaty soil. The Germans got others to help them, and eventually had quite a number of Boches after him. Finding a hole in the ground which satisfied his requirements, Fox got into it and covered himself over with peat and heather. The "field" now included dogs and cyclists. When the dogs had got sufficiently near him to cause real alarm a marvellous stroke of luck came to his assistance. A flock of sheep, grazing on the moor, wandered right across his track, drowning all scent and completely defeating all the efforts of the dogs to follow his line. After lying shivering in his hole all day he commenced his final dash for the frontier at about 11 p.m., and crossed a mile or so to the north of the place at which I passed through the German frontier line, without seeing any sentries. After the Germans had gone well past me in their hunt after Fox, I began to crawl again; but I made slow progress, as going on all-fours was out of the question, the vegetation being seldom more than eighteen inches high and in places considerably less. It was a most tiring game this sort of land-swimming, and I continued as long as I could each time I did a crawl, and then rested a space. In three hours I covered five hundred yards and then considered that I was far enough from the scene of our discovery to be safe, should the Germans return to see if anything of interest had been left at the place where they had first remarked Fox crawling. I then lay still and began to feel fearfully cold on account of the soaking wet clothes clinging to me. I had a meagre meal. I had no water, so soon began to feel thirsty as the day began to warm up. Sleep was out of the question, firstly on account of the cold and afterwards on account of the great heat when the sun got high. I lay and thought of many things, mostly of that line of trees I could see ahead of me which I knew must be practically along the frontier line. The fear of recapture now became haunting. Up till then I had been fully prepared to find myself rounded up and then taken back to five months' solitary confinement, and I had managed to think of that probability with complete calm, as so few of the many who try to escape have the luck to get right through with it. But now it was different, to be so near and know that twelve or fourteen hours of inactivity lay in front of one before the last great effort could be attempted, in which time one was powerless to move in the midst of this "Frontier" zone, was a nerve-shattering experience. It would have been much better with a companion, as a whispered exchange of thoughts makes all the difference. I wondered whether Fox had been caught and whether either of us would get over, but never dreamt that we should both have the marvellous luck to do so. While lying there waiting for night good luck again came to my assistance. The German relief for their posts actually on the frontier, marched across this open moor every two hours, and they passed along a track within 200 yards of my hiding-place, so that I could time their passing and was able to make plans accordingly. They passed me regularly at half-past-five, half-past seven, half-past-nine, etc., and those that were relieved and had to return across the moor generally came by about three-quarters of an hour afterwards. I was also able to watch them until they disappeared every time in a clump of bushes under the trees I had already noticed and conjectured must be along the frontier. Thus, I could fairly well assume that the position of one post was fixed. The afternoon wore on and I managed to pass some of the time by drying the compass, which had got full of water during the previous night's swim. With the exception of the regular passings of the Boche sentry-relief, the only other human being who showed himself was a shepherd, some five hundred yards away. I had an anxious time for a spell as he drove his sheep towards me, and I feared that if they came past me the dog might give me away. Fortunately he turned the flock homewards when still some three hundred yards from me. Evening slowly came, and the long hours of twilight gradually gave way to partial darkness. I cannot call it a stronger darkness than that, as the moon rose at once and the north never lost its weird light all night. I felt the want of sleep badly, but had not been able to sleep for even a quarter of an hour all day and now could not run the risk of waking too late, so had to do without it. At 10.30 I came to the conclusion that I could move at last, and very pleased I was to stand up and rub my legs after my enforced uncomfortable position all day. Setting out cautiously towards the frontier post that I had been able to more or less mark down, it was not very long before the mile or so of open that had to be covered was completed. I thought that, were I to pass close to the post of which I knew the position, I must necessarily be as far from the unknown one on my right as possible. At about 200 yards distance from what I judged to be the line of posts, I got on all fours and worked forward noiselessly. My khaki coat again stood me in good stead, as I must have been an extremely difficult object to see, even in the light which was at that time quite strong. Once more my luck held good. When about midway between the posts, the Boche sentry on duty on my right, about whom I knew nothing, very obligingly chose that moment to stand up against the sky-line and begin singing "Die Wacht am Rhein." It was a fine night, which perhaps caused him to be jovial, but probably it was the result of smuggled spirits. After singing a bit, my friend the sentry began shouting to his companion next beyond him. This made matters easier for me, and I was able to crawl forward in full confidence. A dyke, at the bottom of which was a little water, had to be crossed, and then some rough fields. Shortly after this I heard a patrol which I easily avoided in the corn. Several more dykes, the deepest water in any of them only reaching to my knees, had to be crossed, and I was once more on arable land. I must now have been two miles inside Holland, but now again I heard a patrol. This time a cyclist dashed along the road on hearing me, I suppose, and once again the same curlew noises began to spread themselves around me. However, this time I knew about them and pushed on extremely rapidly, cutting across country and keeping to the cornfields where I knew I should never be followed and be very difficult to catch. I soon left this danger behind, and then struck a pavé road and a railway line. The sleepers were wooden, whereas in Germany they are iron. I felt now that I was across, but continued steadily on my way. Seeing a great number of powerful lights in front of me I made for them, and eventually reached them, to find that they belonged to a factory working at top pressure. Around this factory straggled a large village. _Tuesday, 3rd July._ Here I found no guards and sat down to wait for daylight to show me the language of that village as indicated on the advertisements in the shop-windows. I had got in here at 3.30 a.m. and at 4.30 knew that the words in the shop-windows were Dutch and not Boche. What a great feeling of relief and rest it was! The first man I saw was a soldier on a bicycle, to whom I made myself known. He was very quick to find me breakfast at the cottage of a fellow soldier of his. The latter refused all payment, and was an excellent fellow. Later I reported myself to the local policeman, and while talking to him heard Fox's voice. He had arrived two hours after me, after crossing the frontier a mile to the north of where I had passed the line. We were delighted to see each other, but at the time were not so tremendously struck by the fact that we had come together again. Of course it was an extraordinary thing to happen really, but we only realised that later. At the moment we only thought of the fact that we were both safely across and would be home in due course, and that we had had the most marvellous luck that could well have come our way. Fox had covered this distance, roughly a hundred and seventy miles as we did it, in twelve and a half days, and I had taken thirteen days and a few hours. CHAPTER XIV CONCLUSION Breakfast was given us by the Dutch police official who had been our welcomer. They were very kind to us at his house, and we managed to get a small wash and we attempted to make ourselves look a little more respectable before going on to Rotterdam. It was the first time I had seen a mirror for fourteen days, and when I saw what it told me I got a fright. A filthy, scrubby object met my gaze, and I was not sorry to get a shave that afternoon at the town before proceeding, and we stayed for the night and got baths. We met nothing but kindness here. Arriving at Rotterdam at noon next day, we said goodbye to our Dutch policeman and came under the excellent care of the British Consul there. We landed in England after an uneventful voyage. * * * * * There are a few remarks to be made in conclusion. Our phenomenal luck was the prime factor in making our attempt successful. Without that all-important item, attempt after attempt may be made without anywhere nearly approaching a success. Our officer-prisoners, as a whole, by continuing their numerous and in many cases desperate attempts to escape, are doing a service to the country, and although nominally counted out of all useful work are doing valuable work, by causing the Germans to employ more guards to watch them than might otherwise be the case. Prisoners are bound to be taken from all armies, and the unfortunates who have to undergo years of captivity should have the sympathy of all thinking persons. I myself feel great sympathy with those Germans who did two hundred miles in an open boat in their attempt to regain their country, and whom we brought back to more durance vile. It is hardly sporting on the part of those people who declare that we should deal harshly with Germans who break away from their camp in this country. Fortunately, by agreement with the German Government, all heavy punishments for attempted escapes have been removed, so "the" one great pastime of prisoners of war will not cost so dear in future. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW. * * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 39: innoculation replaced with inoculation | | Page 178: warner replaced with warmer | | | | Note: On page 183 the word 'started' in the sentence "the | | original report from the camp must have started the | | existence of two separate escapes" would mean proposed in | | this context (see Webster's Revised Unabridged | | Dictionary, 1913 online). | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * 
50425	----	https://archive.org/details/fourfiftymilesto00john Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). A carat character is used to denote superscription. A single character following the carat is superscripted (example: M^c). FOUR-FIFTY MILES TO FREEDOM [Illustration: _From a photo taken at Famagusta, Cyprus, by Lieut. E. F. McAlpine, H.L.I._ (_attached Royal Scots_). THE SUCCESSFUL ESCAPE PARTY, WITH SOME CAPTURED TROPHIES. Left to right--standing: Captains J. H. HARRIS, F. R. ELLIS, A. B. HAIG, Commander A. D. COCHRANE, D.S.O., R.N., Captains V. S. CLARKE and M. A. B. JOHNSTON. Seated: Captains R. A. P. GRANT, M.C., and K. D. YEARSLEY.] FOUR-FIFTY MILES TO FREEDOM by CAPTAIN M. A. B. JOHNSTON, R.G.A. and CAPTAIN K. D. YEARSLEY, R.E. William Blackwood and Sons Edinburgh and London 1919 All Rights Reserved _TO THE_ _REVEREND =HAROLD SPOONER, C.F.=,_ _FELLOW-PRISONER OF WAR IN TURKEY._ CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. KASTAMONI AND CHANGRI 3 II. FIRST PLANS FOR ESCAPE 15 III. AN ATTEMPT THAT FAILED 39 IV. YOZGAD CAMP 55 V. THE FLAG FALLS 83 VI. THE PEACEFUL SHEPHERDS 108 VII. RECAPTURED? 124 VIII. THE ANCIENT HALYS 140 IX. A RETREAT UNDER FIRE 159 X. THE THREE HUNS 176 XI. IN THE HEART OF THE TAURUS 195 XII. DOWN TO THE SEA 211 XIII. ON THE COAST 233 XIV. FAILURE AND SUCCESS 253 XV. FREEDOM 278 XVI. CONCLUSION 293 ILLUSTRATIONS. THE SUCCESSFUL ESCAPE PARTY, WITH SOME CAPTURED TROPHIES _Frontispiece_ AN OLD BRIDGE AT KASTAMONI _Facing p._ 4 COUNTRY KNOWN TO THE LOCAL HUNT CLUB AS "HADES" " 60 YOZGAD CAMP FROM N.W. " 94 UPPER HOUSE, YOZGAD, FROM N.N.E. (WINTER TIME) " 98 THE FLIGHT FROM MOSES' WELL " 162 LIFE IN THE RAVINE " 234 THE MOTOR BOAT " 274 MAP _at end_ Four-Fifty Miles to Freedom. PRISONER OF WAR. When you've halted after marching till you feel you do not care What may happen, for you can't march any more, And the order comes to "Fall in" and to march you know not where, Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war. When you're fighting in the trenches ankle-deep in mud and slush, With the north wind cutting through you keen and raw, While the second hand ticks slowly till it's time to make the rush, Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war. When the order's "Up and at 'em" and the blood beats through your head, When the dead are falling round you by the score, And when all you think and all you feel and all you see is red, Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war. When you're fighting in the desert where the heat waves never stop, And you've never known what thirst has been before, Though you'd sell your soul for water and you know there's not a drop, Then thank God you're not a prisoner of war. We've been handed down a birthright which the bards of ages sing, From the days of Agincourt and long before, That a Briton owns no master save his God and save his king, But you find a third when prisoner of war. It's a feeling right inside you, and it never lets you go, That you haven't been allowed to pay your score: You may still be hale and hearty, but you're missing all the show. What offers for the job? Prisoner of war. M. A. B. J. _Written in_ KASTAMONI, 1916. CHAPTER I. KASTAMONI AND CHANGRI. "Il n'y a pas trois officiers." Such was the memorable epigram by which Sherif Bey, Turkish Captain of the Prisoners-of-War Guard at Kastamoni, and a man regardless of detail, announced to us that four officers, whose escape has been described in 'Blackwood's Magazine,'[1] had got safely away from the camp. Those of us who knew that the attempt was being made were anxiously waiting for news. To others it came as a great surprise. Captain[2] Keeling, in his story mentioned above, does not, for obvious reasons, name any one who helped them. Now it does not matter. Officers sang loudly and long to prevent the nearest sentry from hearing the noise of rusty nails being pulled out of a door not many feet away from him, though hidden from view. More metaphorical dust was thrown in this wretched man's eyes and ears by the incorrigible James, who during these critical moments described to him, in very inadequate Turkish, but with a sense of humour equal to any occasion, the working parts of a petrol motor-engine. Another helper was an orderly, Gunner Prosser, R.F.A., a remarkable man with a passion for wandering about in the dark. The thought of spending a quiet night sleeping in his prisoners' quarters was repellent to him. As far as we could make out, he never missed a night's prowl. A fez, a false beard, and a civilian overcoat were the only "props" he used. This was undoubtedly the man to help Keeling's party out of the town, for the by-streets were better known to Prosser in the dark than they were to other prisoners by daylight. Accordingly, he led the four officers out of Kastamoni. Some one, however, must have seen and suspected them, for less than three-quarters of an hour after their start the alarm was given. Shots were fired and the camp suddenly bristled with sentries. Through this cordon Prosser had to get back to his quarters. A Turkish sergeant, into whom he ran full tilt, was knocked over backwards. Followed by revolver shots from the angry _chaouse_, Prosser darted up one side street, doubled on his tracks by another, and by his own private entrance reached his quarters in safety. Here he disposed of his beard and fez, shaved off his moustache in the dark, and got into bed. When a few minutes later Captain Sherif Bey came round to feel the hearts of all the orderlies, Prosser could hardly be roused from an innocent sleep, and his steady heart-beats allayed all suspicion as to the part he had played. [Illustration: _From a sketch by Major F. S. Barker, R.E._ AN OLD BRIDGE AT KASTAMONI.] The effect of the escape of these four officers on our camp was considerable. We were confined to our houses without any exercise for ten days; sentries were more than trebled on the principle of locking the stable door. This, however, did not affect Prosser, who took his nightly walks as usual. Our commandant, Colonel Fettah Bey, was dismissed in disgrace and replaced by a Sami Bey, whose rank corresponded with that of a brigadier-general. Now came rumours of the closing down of the camp at Kastamoni and a move to Changri (pronounced Chungri)--a mere village about eighty miles due south of us. Keeling's party escaped on August 8, 1917. Each day that followed, Sherif Bey brought official news of their capture in different parts of Asia Minor. One was reminded of Mark Twain's stolen white elephant. The marching powers of the four officers must have been phenomenal: sometimes they covered hundreds of miles in a few hours. Confined to our houses, we amused ourselves taking bets with the Turkish sentries, who were convinced that the fugitives would be brought back to Kastamoni within a week. In their opinion those who had escaped were madmen. What could be more delightful than the life they were running away from,--one could sit in a chair all day quietly smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, far away from the detested war--assuredly they were quite mad! Now it was unwise to bet, because when we lost we paid up, and when the Turks lost they did not feel in any way bound to do so. Our first commandant, Colonel Tewfik Bey, betted heavily on the war ending before Christmas 1916. He went on the doubling system. On losing his bet he deferred payment and doubled his bet for a later date, till by the time he lost his job as commandant he had mortgaged most of Turkey. One half of the prisoners at Kastamoni moved to Changri on September 27, 1917, the other half about ten days later. Three weeks before the departure of the first party we were told to be ready to move in a few days' time. Preparations were made, rooms dismantled, and home-made beds, tables, and chairs pulled to bits for convenience of transport; kit and crockery were packed, and all of us were living in a state of refined discomfort, when we were told that the move had been postponed, owing to lack of available mules and carts. Some of us set to work to rebuild beds and chairs, others resigned themselves to fate and were content to sleep on the floor and sit on boxes. If we remember aright, there were two postponements. At last the day of leaving Kastamoni really did arrive. We had been promised so many carts and so many mules and had made our arrangements accordingly. At the last moment we were told that fewer carts and mules had rolled up. This meant leaving something behind, or marching the whole way--one decided for oneself. Many of us marched every step to Changri. Our departure took place at 1 P.M., and a weird procession we must have looked--carts and mules loaded high with all manner of furniture, stoves and stove-pipes sticking out in all directions. The poor Greeks of the town were very sad to see us go. The Rev. Harold Spooner, through the Greek priest, had been able from time to time to distribute to these destitute people fair sums of money supplied by voluntary subscription among the prisoners. In addition to this, families of little children used to be fed daily by some messes, and so we were able, in a small way, to relieve the want of a few unhappy Christians. Before we left Kastamoni, the Padre showed us a letter which he had received from the head Greek priest, thanking us for having helped the poor. We had, he said, kept families together, and young girls from going on the streets, and he assured us that it would be the privilege of the Greek community to look after the small graveyard we had made for the six officers and men who had died while we were there. By 2 P.M. we were clear of Kastamoni. The change of camp would be a great break in the monotony of our existence, and for the time being we were happy. The journey was to take four days. At night we halted near water at a suitable camping-ground by the roadside, and in the early morning started off again. A healthy life and a great holiday for us. For the first two days the scenery was magnificent, as we crossed the forest-covered Hilgas range, but as we approached our destination the country became more and more barren. On the fourth day, coming over a crest, we saw the village of Changri built at the foot of a steep and bare hill. We went through the village, and a mile beyond us stood our future home. A dirty-looking, two-storied square building it was, surrounded on three sides by level fields edged with a few willows. On the west the ground rose a little to the main Angora road. Close to the barracks were sixty graves, which looked fairly new. This gave a bad impression of the place at the start. On entering, we were too dumfounded to speak, and here it may be added that it took a lot to dumfound us. The square inside the buildings was full of sheep and goats, and the ground was consequently filthy. The lower-storey rooms, which were to be our mess-rooms, had been used for cattle, and the cellar pointed out to us as our kitchen was at least a foot deep in manure. Only one wing of the barracks had window panes, and these were composed of small bits of glass rudely fitted together. Truly a depressing place. Many of us elected to sleep that night in the square in preference to the filthier barrack rooms. The sanitary arrangements were beyond words. The next morning we set to work cleaning up, but it was weeks before the place was habitable. Another great inconvenience was that for many days drinking-water had to be fetched in buckets from the village over a mile away; but for this the Turks finally provided a water-cart. It was at Changri that most of the twenty-five officers who escaped from Yozgad on August 7, 1918, made up their parties. Our party, only six at that time, consisted of-- Captain A. B. Haig, 24th Punjabis; Captain R. A. P. Grant, 112th Infantry; Captain V. S. Clarke, 2nd Batt. Royal West Kent Regiment; Captain J. H. Harris, 1/4 Hampshire Territorials; and the two authors. Throughout the remainder of our narrative these six will be denoted by their respective nicknames: Old Man, Grunt, Nobby, Perce, Johnny, and Looney. Roughly speaking, there were four alternative directions open to us.[3] Northwards to the Black Sea, a distance of 100 miles; eastwards to the Russian front, 250 to 350 miles; to the Mediterranean, 300 miles southward, or 400 miles westward. Compared to the others the distance to the Black Sea was small, but outweighing this advantage was the fact that Keeling's party had got away in that direction, and the coast would be carefully guarded if another escape took place. The position of the Russian front, so far as we knew, was anything up to 350 miles away, and the country to the east of us was very mountainous. In addition, an escape in that direction would entail getting through the Turkish fighting lines, which we thought would prove very difficult. The Salt Desert, at least 150 miles across, frightened us off thinking of the southern route. The remaining one was westward: it was the longest distance to go, it is true, but for this very reason we hoped the Turks would not suspect us of trying it. The valleys ran in the direction we should be travelling, and if we did reach the coast, it was possible that we might get in touch with one of the islands in Allied hands. Having made up our minds, we sent code messages home to find out which would be the best island to make for in the following early summer. We also asked for reduced maps to cover our route from Changri to the selected island, and requested that a look-out should be kept from it in case we signalled from the coast. Shortly after we had made our decision the question of giving parole cropped up. To any one who gave it the Turks offered a better camp and more liberty. It was a question for each to decide for himself, and we did so. On the 22nd November 1917, therefore, seventy-seven officers went off to Geddos. It was very sad parting from many good friends, and when the last cart disappeared round the spur of the hill, one turned away wondering if one would ever see them again. There were still forty-four officers and about twenty-eight orderlies in Changri. These officers were moved into the north wing of the barracks, and there they remained for the next four and a half months. At this period we had a great financial crisis--none of us had any money, prices were very high, and it came to tightening our belts a little. Our long and badly-built barrack rooms were very draughty, and as we had no money there was not much likelihood of getting firewood. Some cheerful Turk kindly told us that the winter at Changri was intensely cold, and that the temperature often fell below zero. Altogether the prospect for the next few months was anything but pleasant. During our most depressed moments, however, we could always raise a smile over the thought that we were "The honoured guests of Turkey." Enver Pasha himself had told us so at Mosul, where we halted on our four-hundred-mile march across the desert, after the fall of Kut-el-Amara.[4] So it must have been true. At the time we write this unscrupulous adventurer, Enver--a man of magnetic personality and untiring in his energy to further his personal schemes--has but lately fled to Caucasia. He is a young man, and having held a position of highest authority in Turkey for some years, presumably a rich one. Doubtless he will lead a happy and prosperous existence for many years to come. There are thousands of sad hearts in England and in the Indian Empire to-day, and hundreds of thousands in Turkey itself, as a result of the utter disregard for human life entertained by this man and a few of his colleagues. Of the massacre of Armenians we will not speak, although we have seen their dead bodies, and although we have met their little children dying of starvation on the roadsides, and have passed by their silent villages; but we should fail in our duty to the men of the British Empire who died in captivity in Turkey did we not appeal for a stern justice to be meted out to the men responsible for their dying. It may perhaps be said with truth that it was no studied cruelty on the part of the Turkish authorities that caused the death of so many brave men who had given themselves to the work of their country: yet with equal truth it may be said, that it was the vilest form of apathy and of wanton neglect. Where the taking of a little trouble by the high officials at Constantinople would have saved the lives of thousands of British and Indian soldiers, that trouble was never taken. Weak with starvation, and sick with fever and dysentery (we speak of the men of Kut), they were made to march five hundred miles in the burning heat across waterless deserts, without regular or sufficient rations and without transport--in many cases without boots, which had been exchanged for a few mouthfuls of food or a drink of water. We officers, who had not such a long march as the men, and who were given a little money and some transport, thought ourselves in a bad way. But what of the men who had none? There were no medical arrangements, and those who could not march fell by the desert paths and died. The official White Book gives the number 65 as the percentage of deaths amongst British soldier prisoners taken at Kut, a figure which speaks for itself. It is a law of the world's civilisation that if a man take the life of another, except in actual warfare, he must pay forfeit with his own life. Take away bribery and corruption and that law holds good in Turkey. Now when a soldier is taken prisoner he ceases to be an active enemy, and the country of his captors is as responsible for his welfare as for that of her own citizens. What if that country so fails to grasp the responsibility that its prisoners are allowed to die by neglect? Should not its rulers be taught such a lesson that it would be impossible for those of future generations to forget it? It is not enough to obtain evidence of a cruel corporal at that prisoners' camp, or of a bestial commandant at this, and to think that by punishing them we have avenged our dead. These men are underlings. The men we must punish first are those few in high authority, who, by an inattention to their obvious duty, have made it possible for their menials to be guilty of worse than murder. We pride ourselves on the fact that we are citizens of the most just country of the world. Let us see to it that justice is not starved. FOOTNOTES: [1] "An Escape from Turkey in Asia," by Captain E. H. Keeling. 'Blackwood's Magazine,' May 1918. [2] Now Lieutenant-Colonel. [3] _Vide_ map at end of volume. [4] "Kut," correctly pronounced, rhymes with "put." CHAPTER II. FIRST PLANS FOR ESCAPE. With the departure of the party for Geddos, the camp at Changri did what little they could to render the long bare barrack rooms somewhat more endurable as winter quarters. Each room was about 80 feet in length, and consisted of a central passage bordered on either side by a row of ugly timber posts supporting the roof. Between the passage and a row of lockers which ran along the walls were raised platforms, affording about six feet of useful width. Each platform was divided in two by a single partition half-way along the room. Viewed from one end the general effect resembled that of stables, to which use indeed all the lower rooms had been put previous to our arrival. Each length of platform was allotted to a group of three or four officers, who were then at liberty to beautify their new homes as ingenuity might suggest. Planks were hard to come by, so for the most part old valises, blankets, and curtains were strung from post to post to screen the "rooms" from the passage, and thereby gain for the occupants a little privacy. As the severity of the winter increased, caulking floor-boards became a profitable occupation, for an icy draught now swept up through the gaping cracks. By the time the financial difficulties to which we have referred were at an end, it was no longer possible to obtain in the bazaar a sufficient quantity of firewood for anything except our kitchen stoves. It was not, however, until snow was lying deep upon the ground that Sami Bey could be prevailed upon to let us cut down a few of the neighbouring willow-trees, for which it need hardly be said we had to pay heavily. Apart from the exercise thus obtained--and it was good exercise carrying the wood into the barracks--an odd visit or two to the bazaar, and a few hours' tobogganing as a concession on Christmas Day, were the only occasions on which we saw the outside of our dwelling-place for three long months. Nor was there anything in the way of comfort within. The number of trees allotted to us was small, and the daily wood ration we allowed ourselves only sufficed to keep the stoves going in our rooms for a few hours each day. The fuel, moreover, being green, was difficult to keep alight, so that we spent many hours that winter blowing at the doors of stoves; and the stoker on duty had to give the fire his undivided attention if he wished to avoid the sarcastic comments of his chilled companions. It was a special treat reserved for Sundays to have our stoves burning for an hour in the afternoon. For over a month the temperature remained night and day below freezing-point, and the thermometer on one occasion registered thirty-six degrees of frost. An officer who used to fill up an old beer-bottle with hot water to warm his feet when he got into bed, found one morning that it had slipped away from his feet and had already begun to freeze, although still under the clothes! But enough of the miseries of that winter: in spite of such unfavourable conditions, the camp was a cheerful one. We were all good friends, and united in our determination not to knuckle under to the Turk. Our senior officer, Colonel A. Moore, of the 66th Punjabis, was largely instrumental in making our lot an easier one. This he did by fighting our many battles against an unreasonable and apathetic commandant, and in all our schemes for escape he gave us his sound advice and ready support. Compared to his two predecessors, this commandant, Sami Bey, was a very difficult person from whom to "wangle" anything. Although he could lay claim to no greater efficiency for his task of commanding a prisoner-of-war camp than they, he made himself very obnoxious to us by his policy of pure obstruction. If we applied for any sort of concession, however reasonable, he safeguarded himself by saying he would have to wire to Constantinople for orders, and of course no orders ever came. With the two commandants we had had in Kastamoni, a threat by our own senior officer to report any matter under discussion to the Turkish Headquarters was enough to make him give in over any reasonable request without further ado. Sami, however, would look the question up in his Regulations. On one occasion we bombarded him from every quarter with demands to be allowed to go out tobogganing. Finally the answer came back: "The Regulations do not mention the word 'toboggan'; therefore, I cannot allow you to do so." Even the Turk, then, though he uses sand instead of blotting-paper, has his office "red tape"! The average Turkish officer is an ignoramus, and the following story of Sami Bey will serve to show that he was no exception to the rule. At the time that the German gun "Big Bertha" was bombarding Paris at long range, he was very proud to produce a picture of it in a German paper. It was one of those semi-bird's-eye views, showing Paris in the left-hand bottom corner, and along the top the Straits of Dover and the English Channel. The gun was about half-way down the right-hand edge, and the curved trajectory of the shell was shown by a dotted line from the moment it left the muzzle to the moment when it entered Paris. To a British officer to whom he was showing the picture, Sami explained at great length how the shell passed through St Quentin, Cambrai, Douai, up to one of the Channel ports, and then down again viâ Amiens, until it finally arrived at its destination in Paris and exploded! This Turkish brigadier-general believed this to be a solemn fact, and his "ignorant" British hearer was polite enough not to undeceive him. Ours claimed to have been the first party formed with a view to escape, but it was not long before there were several others, and it became evident that some plan would have to be devised by which a large number might hope to make their way out of the barracks fairly simultaneously. Since these had been designed for Turkish soldiers, every window was already barred. But we were in addition a camp of suspects, who had refused to give their parole; so at night, in addition to sentries being posted at every corner, visiting patrols went round the building at frequent intervals. Three or four fellows, of course, might cut the bars of a window and slip through, but hardly five or six parties. At this moment an old magazine came into our hands containing an article which described how thirty or forty Federal officers had escaped from a Confederate prison by means of a tunnel. This was at once recognised as the ideal solution of our problem if only we could find a suitable outlet and the means of disposing of the earth. While the general plan was still under discussion, we were reinforced by the arrival of three officers from Geddos. They had refused to give their parole in spite of the Turks' threat that they would be moved to Changri if they did not change their minds. Here then they arrived one cold December morning, looking very racy in their check overcoats, supplied to them by the Dutch Legation. These coats were doubtless the last word in Constantinople fashions, and in the shop windows had probably been marked "Très civilisé," for it is the highest ambition of the Turk to be considered civilised. Nothing hurts his feelings more than to be the object of ridicule on account of any lack of up-to-dateness, as the following story will serve to illustrate. While we were at Kastamoni, a chimney in one of the houses occupied by the prisoners of war caught fire, and, with a great flourish of trumpets, the town fire-brigade was called out to extinguish the conflagration. Let not the reader, however, picture to himself even the most obsolete of horsed fire-engines. In this town, with a pre-war population of something like 25,000 souls, and with houses almost entirely built of timber, dependence in the event of a fire was placed on what can best be described as a diminutive tank carried on a stretcher, and provided with a small pump worked by a lever, seesaw fashion. The tank was kept filled by buckets replenished at the nearest spring. The sight of two men in shabby uniform solemnly oscillating the lever by the handle at either end, and of the feeble trickle of water which resulted at the nozzle of the hose, was too much for the sense of humour of the British officers who happened to be present at the time. At this moment the commandant, then one Tewfik Bey, appeared on the scene. Horrified at such ill-timed levity on the part of the onlookers, he seized upon a major standing by and had him escorted to his room, there to be confined till Tewfik's anger should abate. To the Turk this tank was the latest thing in fire-engines. To carry the story to its happy ending, we may add that, after three days of confinement, the major addressed a letter to H.E. Enver Pasha through the commandant, which ran somewhat as follows:-- "SIR,--I have the honour to report that, owing to the close confinement in which I have been kept, my health has now entirely broken down. I therefore request that, with a view to providing some slight possibility of recovery, I may be allowed to go to England on one month's sick leave, and that as far as the port of embarkation I may be accompanied by _posta_[5] 'Ginger,' as he alone in all Turkey really understands my temperament.--I have the honour to be, sir, your most obedient prisoner of war, X." Whether this letter ever reached His Excellency we shall probably never know. From our knowledge of the Turk's total lack of humour, however, we should say that it is more than probable that Tewfik Bey solemnly forwarded it on through the proper channel. That no answer was received proves nothing; for it is a matter of years to get a reply to an application like this from the authorities at Constantinople, and the letter was only written three years ago. At least it had this good effect, that the major was released from confinement forthwith. But we must return to our real subject. Amongst the three officers from Geddos was one Tweedledum, so named from a certain rotundity of figure, which even the scanty provisions said to be obtainable there had failed to reduce. From his lips we first heard of the wonderful capabilities of the Handley-Page passenger aeroplane. Such machines, he said, could carry fifteen to sixteen passengers, and three of them had recently flown from England to Mudros, with only one intermediate landing in Italy. A pilot of one of them had been a prisoner with him at Geddos. A few evenings later Nobby had a great brain-wave; fetching a 'Pears' Annual,' he turned up the maps of Europe and Asia Minor, and, after a few hurried measurements, unfolded to his stable companions, Perce and Looney, what was afterwards known as the "aeroplane scheme." These three had, with much expense and trouble, managed to collect enough planks for a real wooden partition to their "room," and it was behind this screen that this and many another devilish plot was hatched. Briefly, Nobby's idea was for a flight of five or six Handley-Pages to be sent from Cyprus, swoop down on Changri, and pick up the whole camp, both officers and men--and Sami too. We should, of course, have to take over the barracks from our guards, but this should be easily effected by a _coup de main_, and probably without having to resort to bloodshed. At first the idea appeared a trifle fantastic, for after being cut off from the outside world for two whole years it took time for us to assimilate the wonderful advance of aeronautical science which the scheme assumed; but given that Tweedledum's statement was correct, the scheme was feasible, and we soon took up the question seriously. Our representative of the R.F.C. pronounced the surrounding fields practicable landing grounds; a committee confirmed the possibility of taking over the barracks by surprise; and the whole scheme, illustrated by a small sketch of the vicinity, was soon on its way home. We were fortunate in having a method of sending secret information without much risk of detection. The censorship of our letters, like most things in Turkey, was not very efficient. Looney's brother in England was the inventor of the secret means. The first code which he devised consisted merely of diminutive gaps between pairs of letters in an apparently ordinary communication. That there was a message contained was indicated to the addressee by the writer adding after his signature his address as "Codin House, Thislet Terrace."[6] The exact nature of the code then had to be discovered by guess-work. After two letters had been received, Nobby noticed the gaps, and the clue was discovered. By stringing together all the letters preceding the gaps, one obtained the concealed message. The way thus opened, more effective means of communication could be developed. One of these was to send out messages written on a slip of paper, wrapped up in silver tissue and then inserted in a full tube of tooth-paste. As parcels, however, took anything from eight months to over a year to reach the camp, the value of the news contained was considerably diminished. Moreover, this method was not available for sending news from Turkey to England. The final method was simple, yet perfectly effective for smuggling news into a country such as Turkey. It consisted of pasting together two thin post-cards, the gummed portion being confined to a border of about an inch in width round the edges. The central rectangle so left ungummed was available for the secret message, which was written very small on the two inner faces of the cards before they were stuck together. Further space for writing was obtainable by adding another slip of paper of the size of the rectangle, and including this within the cards when gumming them up. After being pressed, the final post-card was trimmed so as to leave no sign of the join. The position of the rectangle containing the message was indicated on the address side by at first two lines, and later by the smallest possible dots at the corners. Well over a score of such cards must have passed from England into Turkey, and more than half that number in the reverse direction, without discovery ever being made by our captors. In the camp, to avoid the risk of being overheard talking about "split post-cards" by one of the interpreters, these cards were known as "bananas"--an apt name, as you had to skin them to get at the real fruit inside! This explains the method by which it was possible to suggest the aeroplane scheme to the home authorities. Unfortunately it used to take at least four months to receive a reply to a letter. For this reason we could not afford to wait until a definite date was communicated to us, so we ourselves named the first fifteen days of May as suitable for us, and agreed, from 6 to 8 A.M. on each of these days, to remain in a state of instant readiness to seize the barracks should an aeroplane appear. For the sake of secrecy, the details of the _coup de main_ itself were left to be worked out by a small committee, and the report spread amongst the rest of the camp that the scheme had been dropped. The true state of affairs would not be divulged until a few days before the first of May. The committee's plan was this. There were at Changri 47 officers and 28 orderlies--a total force of 75 unarmed men with which to take over the barracks. Our guard, all told, numbered 70 men. At any one time during daylight there were seven Turkish sentries on duty: one outside each corner of the barracks, one inside the square which had an open staircase at each corner, one at the arched entrance in the centre of the north face, while the seventh stood guard over the commandant's office. This was a room in the upper storey over the archway and facing on to the square. On each side of the commandant's office, therefore, were the barrack rooms inhabited by the British officers, and to go from one side to the other it was necessary to pass the sentry standing at his post on the landing in between. From here a flight of steps gave on to the road through the main archway; on the other side of this again, and facing the stairs, was the door of the ground-floor barrack room used by our guard. This room was similar to those in the upper storey already described, and we found out by looking through a hole made for the purpose in the floor of the room above, and by casual visits when we wanted an escort for the bazaar, that the rifles of the occupants were kept in a row of racks on either side of the central passage-way. By 6 A.M. on each morning of the first fifteen days of May every one was to be dressed, but those who had no specific job to do were to get back into bed again in case suspicion should be caused in the mind of any one who happened to come round. The aeroplanes, if they came, would arrive from the south. Two look-out parties of three, therefore, were to be at their posts by 6 A.M., one in the officers' mess in the S.E., and the other in the Padre's room next to the chapel in the S.W. corner of the barracks. The staircases at these two corners of the square were to be watched by two officers told off for the purpose, one in each half of the north wing. When the look-outs in the south wing had either distinctly heard or seen an aeroplane, they were to come to their staircase and start walking down it into the square. Our look-outs in the north wing would warn the others in their rooms to get ready, and the officer who had the honour of doing verger to the Padre, and who used to ring a handbell before services, would run down the north-eastern staircase and walk diagonally across the square towards the chapel, ringing the bell for exactly thirty seconds. The stopping of the bell was to be the signal for simultaneous action. The sentry on the landing could be easily disposed of by three officers; most of the rest were to run down certain staircases, cross the archway, dash into the barrack room and get hold of all the rifles, a small party at the same moment tackling the sentry at the main entrance. On seeing the rush through the archway the look-out parties from the south wing would overpower the sentry in the square. The arms belonging to the three sentries and one other rifle were to be immediately taken to the corners of the barracks and the outside sentries covered. The orderlies, under an officer, would meanwhile form up in the square as a reserve. Surprise was to be our greatest ally, and we hoped that, within a minute of the bell stopping, the barracks would be in our hands. Having herded our Turkish guard into a big cellar and locked them in, we would then signal to the aeroplanes that the barracks were in our possession by laying out sheets in the square; while small picquets, armed with Turkish rifles and ammunition, would see to it that the aeroplanes on landing would be unmolested from the village. We are still convinced that the plan would have succeeded. Even those in the know, however, put little faith in the probability of the aeroplane scheme being carried out, realising that the machines necessary for such an enterprise were not likely to be available from the main battle-fronts. Preparations, therefore, continued for working out our own salvation, as though this plan for outside help had not entered our heads. With the first signs of spring the tunnel scheme began to take concrete form. As already mentioned in the description of the barracks, the ground to the west rose gently up to the Angora road. In this slope was a shallow, cup-like depression at a distance of forty yards from the building. If only a convenient point for starting a tunnel could be found in the nearest wall, the cup would form an ideal spot for breaking through to the surface. A night reconnaissance was made in the downstairs room on the western side of the barracks. As a result of this there seemed a likelihood that under the whole of the platform in this room we should find a hollow space varying from one to three feet in depth. If the surmise were correct and a tunnel could be run out from here, there would be no difficulty in getting rid of all the excavated earth into this hollow space. Unfortunately the lower room, though not in use, was kept locked. It was discovered, however, that the walls of the barracks consisted of an outer and inner casing, each a foot thick, and built of large sun-dried bricks, the space between being filled up with a mixture of rubble, mortar, and earth, and a few larger stones. This was in the bottom storey. Above that the construction of the wall changed to two thicknesses of lath and plaster attached to either side of a timber framing, and the thickness of the wall diminished to only nine inches. The total width of the wall below was five feet; therefore the lockers in the upper room were immediately above the rubble core of the heavier wall. It would thus be possible to get down through the lockers and sink a shaft through the rubble to a trifle below the level of the ground, and from there to break through the inner casing and come into the empty space below the ground-floor. Work was commenced in the middle of February 1918. For the next few weeks an officer was usually to be seen lolling about at either end of the first-floor rooms, and, on the approach of an interpreter or other intruder, would stroll leisurely down the passage, whistling the latest ragtime melody. Within the room all would now be silent; but when the coast was again clear there could perhaps be seen in the barrack room a pair of weird figures, strangely garbed and white with dust. Somewhere in the line of lockers was the entrance to the shaft-head. The locker doors being only a foot square were too small to admit a man, and so the top planks at the place where we wished to work had been levered up and fitted with hinges to form a larger entrance. To give additional room inside, the partition between two consecutive lockers was also removed; the floor of one locker and the joists supporting the platform at this point were then cut away, and we were free to commence the shaft. For this job six officers were chosen, of whom three belonged to our escape party. The six were divided into three reliefs, and each worked for two hours at a time. The hole was of necessity only just large enough for one man to work there, so of the pair one did the digging, while his partner, when the shaft had progressed a little, sat inside the locker at the top of the hole. When actually at work, the time went quickly enough; but sitting in the locker was very wearisome, as one's only duties were to pass on the alarm when the ragtime was whistled, and from time to time to draw up by a rope the small sacks filled by the digger. When all the available sacks were full, work was stopped, and the two would emerge from the locker. The sacks of rubbish were then carried a few yards along the room and emptied into a space underneath some planks which had been loosened in the platform. At the end of their relief, the two would go off to change their clothes, leaving the work to be continued by the next pair. During the time spent in the locker, one of the six learnt 'Omar Khayyám' by heart. Reading a book was almost impossible owing to the lack of light; even if it had been permissible, in view of the risk of the reader becoming so interested as to miss the signal of the alarm. 'Omar,' however, was a different thing. A verse could be read line by line at the streak of light entering by a chink in one of the ill-fitting locker doors, and then committed to memory--not a very engrossing task, but it helped to pass the time. The working kit was a light one: a shirt and "shorts," sand-shoes, and a Balaclava cap. Round his mouth the digger usually tied a handkerchief, so as not to swallow his peck of dust at one time, while the cap prevented his hair and ears getting quite full of rubbish. Let us work for one relief. You are dressed for the occasion. The tools, consisting of two chisels, are at the bottom of the hole, which is, say, twelve feet deep. A couple of candles and a box of matches is all you need take with you. It is your turn to dig. You get into the locker and climb down the rope-ladder as quickly as possible, but you must take care not to touch the outer casing of the wall as you go, or you may find yourself staring at an astonished sentry outside: there are already a few holes in the wall through which daylight can be seen. The candle lighted, you have a look round: but this is absurd! No one has done any work since you were down there yesterday morning. That beastly stone in the corner looks as tightly embedded in the mortar as it was then. You bend down to pick up a chisel and you bump your head against a projecting brick. You try to sit down, but there is not enough room to sit and work at the same time. You try kneeling, but it can't be done. After twisting your limbs in a hitherto undreamt-of fashion you begin to chip away at the mortar round your old friend. Nothing seems to happen; then suddenly your candle falls down and goes out, leaving your chamber of little ease in Stygian darkness. You think you hear your partner say "Stop!" and you look up just in time to get your eyes full of grit, for he has merely shifted his legs, which are dangling above you. After untying yourself you relight the candle and again get down to the stone. You pick and scrape and prise, and then as the chisel slips you bark your knuckles; and so you go on. All sense of time is lost, and your one thought is to get that stone out. Now it moves. You work with redoubled energy, with the result that you break into a profuse perspiration. How you hate that stone! Finally up it comes when you don't expect it, and the bruise at the back of your head is nothing compared to the joy of the victor, which is equally yours. The rock is too big, however, to go into a sack, so you shut your eyes and whisper to your partner above you. He then lets down an old canvas bath kept in the locker for this purpose. The periphery of the bath is attached to a rope by several cords, the resulting appearance as it is lowered towards you being that of an inverted parachute. The stone is difficult to lift and your feet are very much in the way, but in the end the load is ready. There is not enough room in the shaft for the stone and the bath to be pulled up past your body, so you climb up the ladder and help your partner to haul. This done, work is resumed. A small sack is filled with bits of mortar picked away from round the stone, and this too is pulled up the shaft, but the sack being small you need not leave the hole. Now your partner tells you that it is time for the next shift. You leave the chisels in an obvious place, blow out the candle, and climb to the locker. Here your partner is tapping gently against the door. If your look-out says "All safe!" you push open the lid and emerge. The big stone is hastily carried to an empty locker and the rubbish from the sack disposed of as already described. The plank in the platform is replaced, the bath and sack returned to the locker, the lid closed, and the place once more assumes its normal aspect. You then nip along to the nearest inhabited room, where you find your relief waiting for you. One of these two is almost certain to greet you with the words: "I suppose you got that stone in the corner out straight away. I practically finished it off last night. It only wanted a heave or two." It is useless to point out that, had it not been for the masterly manner in which you had worked, the stone would still be firmly embedded there. You merely bide your time, certain that within a few days you will be in a position to make a similar remark to him. Work was now being carried on continuously throughout the day. Besides the diggers, there were 24 officers who took their turn as look-outs. It was not possible to keep the work going at night, for from time to time the sentries outside would patrol this wing of the barracks. In the daytime, when they approached the point where we were at work, our look-outs could stop the diggers, but this would have been impossible after dark. Moreover, light from a candle would then have been visible from outside through the cracks in the outer casing. At this stage our plans received a rude shock. We were suddenly informed that we were to be moved to the Prisoner-of-War Camp at Yozgad (pronounced Useguard), eighty miles south-east of us. We were to be ready, said Sami Bey, to start within a week. After our experience of the departure from Kastamoni, we came to the conclusion it might equally well be a month before the necessary transport was collected. We determined, therefore, to push on with the tunnel at high pressure, and if necessary to bring it out to the surface short of the spot originally intended, and then one dark night to make a bolt for it. So the work went on. For the first three feet of the shaft we had found merely loose rubble and stones easily excavated, for the next thirteen we had had to dig out stones embedded in very hard mortar. Here we progressed only a few inches a day. Below this there was solid concrete. Every few feet we came to wooden ties holding the inner and outer casings together; but fortunately these were on one side of the hole, and we did not have to cut through them. At the time the move was announced we were at a depth of 16 feet, just entering the concrete. Here we were below the level of the lower storey, so we broke through the inner casing into the space beneath the platform. We now found, to our disgust, that the ground was on an average barely a foot below the joists, and the surface, being composed of dust which had been falling for eighty years between the boards of a Turkish barrack-room floor, was very unpleasant. Our disappointment, however, was counteracted by a stroke of good luck. At each end of the barrack room above there was an alcove, and we found beneath the nearer of the two alcoves an empty space 8 feet by 6 by 5. In this we could dispose of a good deal of the spoil from the tunnel. To get rid of the rest we should have to make a main burrow below the floor, filling up the remaining space on either side between the ground and the floor, and eventually packing the burrow itself with earth excavated from the mine. Should this again not suffice, the surplus earth would have to be pulled up by way of the shaft, and distributed under the boards of the upper-room platform. All that now remained for us to do before actually starting on the tunnel itself was to sink a secondary shaft about 6 feet deep, so as to get below the level of the concrete foundations. After this we could strike horizontally towards the Angora road. The method of moving about in the confined space was that employed by the caterpillar that loops its back, draws its hind legs under it, and then advances with its forefeet; and we found it a slow means of locomotion. The burrow to the hollow under the alcove was completed, and another in the opposite direction to the farther alcove was well on its way when we started to work on the second shaft. Three feet down we came to water. It was a great blow to us; and although with unlimited time at our disposal the difficulty might have been overcome, under present circumstances we had to consider ourselves defeated in that direction, especially as we heard, a few days later, that transport was already on its way from Angora. The early move would also, of course, upset the aeroplane scheme, and we sincerely hoped that the authorities at home would hear that we had left Changri in time to prevent aeroplanes being sent. Although the scheme sent to them had provided somewhat for this contingency by arranging that the aeroplanes were not to land till they saw the special signal from us, it was not pleasant to think that we might be the cause of risk to valuable pilots and machines, and all to no purpose. Apart from the move, however, it eventually turned out that the scheme could not be entertained at home, as in April and May 1918 every available machine was being urgently required for making things unpleasant for the Germans behind the main battle-front. FOOTNOTES: [5] = soldier. [6] = code in this letter. CHAPTER III. AN ATTEMPT THAT FAILED. Thus disappointed of two of our schemes, we looked around for other ways and means of escape. Nobby had another of his brain-waves. In search of dry firewood he had made several tours inside the roof of the barracks: for the ceilings and tiled slopes were carried not by modern trusses, but by the primitive and wasteful means of trestles resting on enormous horizontal baulks, running across from wall to wall at close intervals. Having entered the roof space by a trap-door in the ceiling, it was possible to walk on these completely round the barracks, and eke out the miserably green firewood we collected ourselves by chips and odd ends of comparatively dry wood, left up there presumably several decades before, while the barracks were in building. Why not, said Nobby, disappear up there one night and leave the Turks to infer that we had escaped, encouraging them in the belief by leaving the bars of some window cut and forced apart? We could then wait until the rest had left for Yozgad and slip out from the deserted barracks at our pleasure. There were, however, two obvious objections to this scheme. It was hardly feasible as a means of escape for more than one or at most two parties: the Turk might be deceived into thinking half a dozen fellows had slipped past his sentries, but hardly twenty or more. Secondly, it was quite conceivable that the escape of even a small party would lead to the move being cancelled altogether: it is true it would be possible for the stowaways to be fed in the roof by their companions below, but the prospect of spending "three years or the duration of the war" in that dark and musty garret took away from the otherwise considerable attractions of the scheme. In the end a very much modified form of the roof scheme was permitted by a committee of senior officers, and our party of six, having been adjudged by this committee to have the best chances of success on account of our prearranged scheme when we reached the coast, was given the privilege of making the attempt. As will be seen, however, it was less an actual attempt than a waiting upon favourable circumstances which would arise should our captors make a certain mistake. In any country except Turkey the whole conception would have been absurd; but we had seen enough of Turkish methods to know that there anything is possible. By good luck the party's preparations for escape were already far advanced, although, apart from the move, we had not proposed starting until June: the rains continue off and on till then, and the crops would be in too immature a state at an earlier date. At the cost of a good deal of time, temper, needles and thread, we had each succeeded in making ourselves a pack: to furnish the canvas we sacrificed our valises. Up till almost the last night, however, we were busy repeatedly cutting off straps and sewing them on again in a different place, in a wild endeavour to persuade our equipment to ride with a reasonable degree of comfort. Food was an item of vital importance in any plan of escape, and we had decided to follow the example of Keeling's party and pin our faith mainly to a ration of biscuits. We had also for some months past been collecting from our parcels all tinned meat, condensed milk, and chocolate. We brought our biscuit-making to a fine art. One of the ground-floor rooms had been set apart as the officers' shop for carpentry and bootmaking--for we had long taken to making our own furniture and repairing our own boots. Here then was started the "Bimbashi"[7] Biscuit Department of Escapers, Limited. At one bench would be Grunt and Johnny busily engaged in the uncongenial task of taking the stalks off sultanas, and the pleasanter one of eating a few. At another stood Perce with his bared forearms buried deep in a mixture of flour, sugar, and sultanas, to which from time to time Nobby would add the requisite quantities of water and eggs. The Old Man presided at the scales and, weighing out the dough into lumps sufficient for twenty biscuits, passed them on to Looney. Armed with rolling-pin, carving-knife, and straight-edge, the latter would flatten out each lump until it filled up the inside of a square frame which projected slightly above the bench to which it was fixed. When a level slab had been obtained, the ruler would be placed against marks on the frame and the slab cut five times in one direction and four in the other. It then only remained to transfer the twenty little slabs to boards, prick them with any fancy pattern with a nail, and send them to be baked by one of our orderlies. The biscuits were each about the size of a quarter-plate and half an inch thick, and when cooked weighed five to the pound, and were as hard as rocks. Their best testimonial was that, without being kept in tins, they remained perfectly good for six months. The biscuit-making concern was run regardless of expense. A pound of flour was costing at that time two shillings, sugar ten shillings, sultanas five; and eggs three pence apiece. (These, by the way, were only about half of what we soon after found ourselves paying at Yozgad.) The final cost was something like half-a-crown a biscuit. For their escapes Keeling and his companions had decided, if questioned, to say that they were a German survey party, and for this purpose had forged a letter purporting to come from the commandant of the Angora Division, and ordering all whom it might concern to help them in every way. They had written to say this letter had been of the greatest assistance to them. As we were going in a different direction, we thought that the same story would serve again. Grunt, being the best Turkish scholar of the party, accordingly drafted a suitable legend in a crisp style such as might be expected to emanate from Enver Pasha's pen; while Johnny, aided by infinite patience and a bit of blue carbon paper, set to work and produced a faithful imitation of an office stamp found on a Turkish receipt. We hoped that the elaborated lettering of such a crest would be as little intelligible to the average Ottoman as it was to ourselves, but as a matter of interest decided to show the original to our Greek interpreter and casually ask its meaning. It was as well we did so, for it was the stamp of the Prisoners-of-War Camp, Changri. After this unfortunate set-back, our pair put their heads together, and finally evolved a design of their own, bearing the inscription: "Office of the Ministry of War, Stamboul." All this time, of course, we were subjecting ourselves to a course of rigorous training--football, running in the early mornings, Müller's exercises, and cold baths. We spent half the day walking round and round the exercise-field, wearing waistcoats weighing twenty pounds. These, if disclosed from under the coat, would have reminded any one but a Turkish observer of one of those advertisements of a well-known firm of tyre-makers; for each waistcoat was lined with a series of cloth tubes filled with sand. Nobby, who detested sewing more than any of us, went to the trouble of making a practice rucksack holding sixty pounds of earth. The whole of our last few weeks at Changri, one may say, were spent by the party in preparing for the escape in one way or another. On the evening of the 10th April 1918 the cart transport for our journey drove into the barrack square and there parked for the night. Orders came from the commandant that we were to start next day, so we decided that before we went to bed our preparations should be completed. A light ladder was made by which to climb up into the roof; drinking-water was taken up in buckets and hidden there; a window-frame in the east wing was prepared so that the iron bars could be withdrawn; and we made certain, by going through a list, that our packs contained all that we had decided to take. The latter were then unpacked and they and their contents placed in two boxes, each of which had a false bottom. Here were concealed our most incriminating and at the same time our most precious aids to escape: our maps, helio-mirrors, fezes, and compasses. The boxes were then locked, strongly bound with rope, and labelled very appropriately, "Trek Stores." For the work on hand that night the occasion was an excellent one. Every one was busy packing, having left this unpleasant duty till the carts actually arrived. There was a lot of noise being made--to wit, a blend of singing and sawing; and when at 1 A.M. we could at last go to bed, there was still much activity around us. Next morning we showed ourselves as much as possible, and took care to find an opportunity of talking to the two camp interpreters. It was conceivable that they might take our names in the barracks as usual each morning, and the commandant, being satisfied that every one was present, might omit to call roll when the move actually took place; or alternately, in the excitement of the moment, there might be no roll-call whatsoever. On one or other of these possibilities depended the success of the modified scheme, which stipulated that until the carts were definitely on the move we were not to hide ourselves in the roof. Should the party go off without a roll-call, we were allowed to leave ourselves behind. If, on the other hand, roll was called, we had to turn up for it. This explains the necessity for the two boxes of "Trek Stores": if we were left behind, these could be quickly taken up into the roof; and if roll should be called, we could hastily, and without losing our valuable escape outfit, join the carts, carrying two boxes apparently containing food only. After loading up our own carts with the rest of our kit in case the scheme miscarried, we took these boxes into the mess-room at the S.E. corner of the barracks; and as the time of departure drew near, went there ourselves and sat round a few bits of bread and an empty jam-pot. Our excellent friend H---- promised to come and warn us should there be a call over. From the windows facing south could be seen the Angora road, and this we watched eagerly. The barracks were quite quiet. After many minutes a loaded cart appeared on the road followed by another. Our hopes began to rise. The one-in-a-thousand chance might yet come off. There were more carts moving on the road now, but to our disappointment they suddenly stopped. A few seconds later H---- dashed in. They were calling the roll. We carried the boxes outside, there to be met by several officers who had come back, so they said, to collect some firewood for the journey, but really to make our late appearance as unsuspicious as possible. No wonder we were as happy at Changri as it was possible to be, having men like these for our companions. You may think that it was not worth our while to have taken so much trouble for so small a chance, yet you probably take a ticket in the Derby Sweep. It was, we admit, a small chance, but the prize was a great one, so we were unwilling to let it slip by. Although a roll-call was held, we heard afterwards that it was only as an afterthought on the part of Sami Bey, and despite our disappointment after coming so near to success, we had at least the satisfaction of finding that our late arrival caused no suspicion in the minds of our captors. After a little difficulty in finding carts which were not too overloaded to take our two precious boxes, our party was soon marching southwards with the rest of the prisoners. Although the direct distance from Changri to Yozgad, as the crow flies, is barely 80 miles, the only road open to our wheeled transport was that which runs by way of Angora: our march was then about 100 miles longer. For the first sixty, that is to say to Angora, the country was familiar to us, as we had marched along this route in the opposite direction on the way to our first camp, Kastamoni, nearly two years before. It was impossible, unfortunately, to induce our commandant to say beforehand each day where would be the halts for the midday meal and the next night; in fact, he did not know himself, as this was a matter to be fought out with his brother officer in charge of the transport. In other respects this march, like that from Kastamoni, was a pleasing innovation after the monotony of our long confinement. After the first few hours the escort wearied of their primary keenness, and allowed us to march pretty well at our own pace, except for occasional halts to allow the carts to come up. In fact, precautions against escaping _en route_ were unexpectedly lax. On the very first day, for instance, it was not until after dark that we halted for the night, and a dozen officers might easily have slipped away from a party which went to the river a few hundred yards distant to fetch water: roll-call was not held until we marched off next morning. We had agreed amongst ourselves, however, that we would now wait until we reached Yozgad, and could contrive some plan by which all parties might once more have an equal chance of escaping. It was for this reason that the above and later opportunities to make off while on trek were allowed to slip by. Half-way to Angora we came to the village of Kalijik, where we were offered billets in the local jail, already well peopled with Turkish criminals. On our refusing this offer, we were housed for the night in an empty building on the edge of the village. We reached Angora four days after leaving Changri, and were accommodated in up-to-date buildings, designed by Germans as a hospital, but since used as Turkish barracks. Luckily the particular house in which we were billeted had not as yet been used by Turks. During our two days here, we were allowed very fair liberty in visiting the bazaars, the shops of which, after our six months at Changri, appeared almost magnificent in the profusion of their wares. In one of these Nobby espied a pair of real Goerz field-glasses. Telling his companion to lure away the _posta_ who escorted them, he entered the shop, and succeeded in purchasing the glasses, and a schoolboy's satchel in which to conceal them, for about £18--a tall price, and yet, if the prices of other things had been in no higher proportion to their real value, living in Turkey would have been comparatively cheap. In the end these glasses were of inestimable value to our party. While we were in Angora some of us went to see Sherif Bey, whose propensity for epigram was touched upon in the opening words of our story. As second-in-command he had accompanied us in our move from Kastamoni to Changri. There he had been perpetually at loggerheads with our new, as indeed he had been with our two former, commandants. Having eventually relinquished his ambition of superseding Sami Bey, he had recently accepted the less remunerative post of commandant of the British rank-and-file prisoners in the Angora district. Some of the men whom we succeeded in meeting had certain complaints to make against their previous commandant. A deputation of officers, therefore, waited upon his successor, who received them with a show of great friendliness, and assured them that under his benevolent sway such things as the looting of parcels would be impossible. Whether he fulfilled his promises we are not yet in a position to say; the fact remains that he treated very badly the five officers who stayed behind a few extra days for dental and medical treatment, asserting that they had only stopped in Angora with a view to escape. Moreover, there were at this very time under Sherif Bey's orders two submarine officers who had been sent from the camp at Afion-Kara-Hissar, and were to join our convoy when it went on to Yozgad. Since their arrival in Angora a week before, they had been confined to the only hotel and had not once been allowed to visit the bazaar. One of the two was Lieut.-Commander A. D. Cochrane (now Commander Cochrane, D.S.O.), who was destined to play the leading rôle in the eventual escape of our particular party. The other was Lieut.-Commander S----. These two had, with one other naval officer, attempted to escape from the camp at Kara-Hissar, but had been recaptured when within sight of the sea; they had since spent ten months in a common Turkish jail. Lieut.-Commander S---- had also been sent to Constantinople under somewhat amusing circumstances. Whilst he was in the P.O.W. camp at Kara-Hissar an order arrived one day ordering that two officers of high birth and closely connected with the British aristocracy should be selected and sent to Constantinople. Thereupon a list was prepared of officers related to Labour Candidates, Dukes, Members of Parliament, &c. Thinking that this promised at least a jaunt in Constantinople, S---- had claimed descent from the bluest blood of England. After consideration of the rival claims, he and one other were selected. Their self-congratulations, however, were a little premature, as the commandant now informed them that the Turkish Government, having heard that their own officer prisoners in India were being badly treated, proposed taking reprisals on these two until their powerful relations in England should think fit to remedy matters on both sides. In vain the unfortunate dupes protested that the report was obviously false, asking that further inquiries should be made before reprisals were carried into effect. The reply was that the order was Enver Pasha's and could not be questioned, but that if they agreed to go quietly to Constantinople, they would at once be led into the presence of the Generalissimo, where they could forward their protest in person. To this they had perforce to agree, but on arrival in the capital were at once flung into prison, kept in solitary confinement, and fed on bread and water. In this state they remained for some three weeks, after which the Turkish authorities discovered, as was only natural, that there had not been an atom of truth in the report upon which they had acted. By way of redress they allowed the innocent sufferers six days' absolute freedom in Constantinople, after which they were taken back to their old camp. From Angora onwards we were escorted by parties of the local gendarmerie; of the Changri guard who had so far accompanied us only a few came on with us to Yozgad; and they, ill-trained, ill-fed, and ill-clad, were rather passengers who called for our pity than guards capable of preventing us from decamping. The gendarmes were, for the most part, remarkably well mounted, and in charge of them was a benevolent old gentleman of the rank of _bash-chaouse_, or sergeant-major, who was for ever holding forth upon his friendship towards the English and his utter inability to understand why we were not fighting side by side in this war. The sergeant-major talked much to us, punctuating his remarks with "Jánom" (My dear). He was jovial, he was pleasing to look at, he was interesting. He had been through several Turkish wars, and he discussed the Great War with more intelligence than many of the Turkish officers we had met. One day as two of us were marching beside the horse he was riding, the dear old man pointed out a deep ravine some few hundred yards to our right. His face lighted up with pride of achievement and pleasant recollection. "Do you see that ravine?" he said. "Well, there I helped to massacre 5000 Armenians. Allah be praised!" The 120-mile march from Angora to Yozgad occupied eight days. As usual we bivouacked each night in the open, on one occasion coming in for a tremendous thunderstorm. Our best day's march was one of thirty miles, and brought us down to the Kizil Irmak, better known to Greek scholars as the ancient river Halys. We camped on the western bank opposite the village of Kopru-Keui (= Bridge-Village), so called from the picturesque old stone bridge which here spans the largest river in Asia Minor. We were all glad of a bathe, although this was only safe close to the bank, where the water was hardly deep enough to swim in. The main stream was a swirling torrent of brown and muddy water, dashing between enormous rocks, which protected the bridge from its fury. It passed under only two of the nine arches and so onwards through a narrow gorge between high precipitous cliffs. The bridge itself, with narrow and steeply cambered roadway, and pointed arches of varying height and span, seemed almost one with the rocky cleft it spanned. The rest of our trek to Yozgad was uneventful except for the upsetting of two carts, owing to reckless driving on the part of the Turkish Jehus. Our last day's march began on the 24th April 1918, when we set out from a small village twelve miles from our destination. The way climbed gradually till we topped a high ridge. Over this we marched, swinging down the farther slope at a quicker step. The winding road curled round spurs and valleys, and from one such spur we obtained our first sight of the town of Yozgad. Unprepossessing it looked lying in a valley surrounded by barren hills, a few poplars here and there, the usual timber-built houses, a few mosques. Four months later we looked at it for the last time. We could only see a few twinkling lights to the east in a curtain of starlit darkness; but we were well content as we turned away, for we had shaken the dust of prison from our feet. FOOTNOTE: [7] A Turkish word meaning "Major." CHAPTER IV. YOZGAD CAMP. With our arrival at Yozgad was renewed many an old friendship, dating back to the earlier days of the campaign in Mesopotamia; for, like ourselves, the majority of the eighty officers whom we found there were victims of the siege of Kut-el-Amara. A few days later about twenty officers of the original camp were transferred to Afion-Kara-Hissar, leaving us now a combined total of roughly 100 officers and 60 orderlies. The "camp" occupied six detached houses, divided into two groups of three houses each, the one on the western, the other near the south-western limits of the town. With a single exception each house stood in its own grounds, which comprised something under an acre of garden apiece. These were in most cases planted with fruit trees, and in all cases surrounded by high stone walls. The first comers had by April 1918 converted these previously unkempt areas into flourishing vegetable gardens. For our safe custody there were on the average two sentries over each house; these had their sentry-boxes in the garden or at the entrance to the enclosure wall. There was also a post on the four-hundred-yard length of road which connected the two groups of houses. As had been our impression on arrival, the town of Yozgad could by no manner of means be called picturesque. It is squalidly built on the steep slopes of a narrow valley, surrounded on all sides by bare and rugged hills. The larger houses, it is true, have a few fruit trees in their gardens, and tall poplars line the river bank; the country around, however, is destitute of trees except for a small pine wood on the high ridge south of the town. The camp was both higher and less accessible than any other in Turkey; for Yozgad stands some 4500 feet above sea-level, and in the heart of the rugged mountain system of Anatolia, seven days' march from the nearest railway station. The town itself is said to have had a population before the war of some 20,000 souls. At the time of our arrival it could hardly have contained one-fifth of that number; for, shortly before the formation of the camp in July 1916, most of the Armenians had been massacred; and they had formed a large proportion of the inhabitants. Their shops had been pillaged, and whenever there was a shortage of firewood the Turks merely proceeded to pull down another of the Armenian houses, which, as usual throughout Anatolia, were largely constructed of wood. The crash of falling timber as a building was demolished was a sound so common as to pass almost unnoticed by the prisoners. Of Turkish brutality, however, we had an even more constant reminder than the sound and sight of ruined buildings; for every day there were to be seen numbers of Armenian children dying as they lay in the narrow streets, starved, emaciated, and clad in rags. For us to provide relief on the large scale required was impossible, owing both to the difficulties of obtaining money and the necessity of screening our philanthropy from the commandant and other Turkish authorities. To the credit of the Turkish soldier be it said, however, that he at any rate did not prevent us from helping these poor miserable creatures; and it was thanks to connivance on the part of our sentries and escorts that we were able towards the end of our time to give away money and bread daily in the streets. The White Paper published in November 1918 on the subject of the Treatment of British Prisoners of War in Turkey describes the commandant of the camp at Yozgad as a "Turk of the old school--polite, honest, and silent." Silent, or, we would rather say, taciturn, Kiazim Bey undoubtedly was, for it needed many applications before an inquiry or request received an answer at all. Polite, too, for when he did vouchsafe to reply he would promise almost anything; but is it not known to those who have dealt with a Turk, albeit one of the old school, that in his estimation a promise costs nothing and involves no obligation of fulfilment? It is merely his method of temporarily soothing your feelings, and is not this of the essence of politeness? As to his honesty, if he did not loot our parcels or steal our money, he was not averse from accepting a regular commission from every shopkeeper who wished to supply his wares to the camp. Even our sentries had to bribe him before they were allowed on leave. Ten Turkish pounds, or an equivalent in kind, passed hands before a fortnight's leave was granted. The following story can be vouched for. One of our guard, when desiring a holiday, turned up at the commandant's office, but he was out. His son, however, a boy of fourteen, was there, and to him the simple soldier gave his money to be handed on to Kiazim Bey. Such an opportunity did not often occur; so the boy spent the rest of that day gorging costly sweetmeats in the bazaar. After several days the soldier made further inquiries about his leave, and the truth was out. The story ends with a good beating for the boy and no leave for the soldier. Another of our guards used to mend boots for us, but finally gave it up, declaring openly that the commission demanded by his commandant made it no longer worth his while. By the time of the arrival of the party from Changri, a number of so-called privileges had been granted by this polite, honest, and silent old Turk--although, it must be admitted, rather in the spirit of the unjust judge worried incessantly by the importunate widow. The most useful of these concessions was the permission to go out coursing on two days a week. The "Yozgad Hunt Club" boasted a pack of no less than three couple of "hounds." These were of a local breed, and had the shape of small and rather moth-eaten greyhounds, mostly, however, with black, or tan and white, markings. Nevertheless, they were clean and affectionate, and, thanks to the master and whips, became wonderfully good coursers. Seldom did they fail to account for at least one hare or fox between the hours of 4 and 9 A.M. each Monday and Thursday in the spring and summer of 1918. One exception we remember was the day when the master appeared for the first time in a pink coat of local style and dye, and then we drew blank. The field themselves were dazed, so the hounds had to be excused. Some of the happiest recollections of our captivity are of those glorious early mornings in the country, far away from the ugly town which was our prison. Here for a few brief hours it was almost possible to forget that we were prisoners of war, until reminded that this was Turkey by the monotonous drawl of one of our greatest exponents of the Ottoman tongue. Wafted on the soft morning breeze as we wended our way back to bath and breakfast, would come at intervals of half a minute some such sounds as those which follow: Er ... er ... posta ... bou ... bou ... bourda ... er ... er ... aie ... der.... Such fluency almost suggested that Turkish was a simple language, instead of one of the most difficult in the world, second only, it is said, to Chinese. Although attempts were made to play football, no suitable ground existed in or near Yozgad, and four-a-side hockey became the form of recreation which for the majority in the camp provided the best means of combining pleasure and hard exercise. Hockey was available at any time of day, as the ground was within the precincts of the camp, being in fact the lowest of a series of terraces in one of the gardens belonging to our houses. It was a bare plot, with a hard but dusty surface, and surrounded on three sides by stone walls: the area available for play was, perhaps, the length of a cricket pitch and about ten yards across, so that there was not room for more than a total of eight players. [Illustration: _From a sketch by Capt. E. B. Burns, E. Kent Regt._ COUNTRY KNOWN TO THE LOCAL HUNT CLUB AS "HADES."] The equipment consisted of a soft leather ball, and for each combatant a stick made from selected pieces of firewood, shaped according to fancy, subject to the finished article being passed through a 1½-inch ring. The resultant game was always fast and often furious, its only drawback as a means of training for would-be escapers being the not inconsiderable risk of losing an eye, finger, or portions of an ankle or knee. The excitement created by such matches as the old camp, Yozgad, _versus_ the newcomers from Changri, 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th teams, reached at times a pitch rarely attained in the most hotly-contested house-match at an English public school. For those debarred for any reason from this strenuous form of exercise there were walks each evening, except on hunting days and Wednesdays. On the latter days there were, during the summer months, weekly picnics in the neighbouring pine woods, to which about 50 per cent of the camp would go. During daylight intercommunication was allowed between the two groups of houses: nominally an escort was necessary to accompany such visitors along the intervening road, but in practice this rule was a dead letter. So hard-won, however, had been these few privileges, that the prospect of any one attempting to escape and thereby causing their suspension was looked upon by the majority of the original camp almost with horror. And this was not altogether without reason, for some of them had gone seriously into the question of escape, and had come to the conclusion that, from so hopelessly inaccessible a spot, all attempts, at least without outside assistance, were doomed to failure. Those of us who had come from Changri, however, were not likely to give up our long-cherished hopes without a struggle, but in the meantime kept our nefarious intentions to ourselves, except for half a dozen Yozgad officers whom we knew for certain to be keen to escape. The arrival of Cochrane had more than countered the additional difficulties involved by our move from Changri to Yozgad. While at Kara-Hissar, he had arranged a scheme with the powers that be in England by which a friendly boat should remain off a certain point on the coast of the Mediterranean for a definite number of days at the end of August 1918. Cochrane now placed this scheme at the disposal of the Changri division. There was some reluctance to give up old plans, but in the end four parties decided to take advantage of "Rendezvous X," as Cochrane's meeting-place was called--suffice to say that it was on the Adalian coast nearly due south of Kara-Hissar. Of these four parties ours was one. Our route to the island of Samos--our original scheme--would now be some 450 miles. Actually this was only 50 miles farther than to Rendezvous X, for the only feasible route to the latter was _viâ_ Kara-Hissar, owing to the desert and mountains which would have to be crossed on a more direct route. Cochrane's scheme, however, promised an almost certain ending to the march to any one who reached the coast; whereas, even if we reached the western shore of Asia Minor, we should still have the problem of getting across to the island, and that from a coast which must inevitably be very carefully guarded. Our six therefore decided to give up the old plan, and soon after were joined by Cochrane himself and Captain F. R. Ellis, D.C.L.I. This was a tremendous advantage to us, as Cochrane not only had the experience so hardly gained by his previous attempt, but had actually seen some of the country over which we should have to march if we succeeded in passing Kara-Hissar. It was of course impossible for him to do guide to all four parties, as large numbers marching together would be immediately tracked; so he gave what suggestions he could, and the other three parties were to make their way to the rendezvous independently. Our party therefore numbered eight, all of whom have now been introduced to our readers. We were the largest, and may claim to have been the most representative party, including as we did one naval officer, one gunner, one sapper, one British Infantry, two Indian Army, and two Territorial officers. The other three parties making for Rendezvous X numbered in all nine officers and Gunner Prosser. Besides these there were two parties having other schemes. The first, consisting almost entirely of Yozgad officers, intended marching for the Black Sea and crossing to Russia, the full facts of whose chaotic state were not known to us at the time. There were six officers in this party. Lastly, a party of two more officers determined to set out eastward, and hoped to make their way into Persia.[8] There had been three or four other officers beside these who had seriously contemplated escape while at Changri, but who were now forced to change their mind through sickness or temporary disablements, such as crocked knees, &c. The 26 starters--25 officers and 1 man--were scattered over five out of the six houses comprising the camp. It was necessary, therefore, for those in each house--in no case all of them members of the same party--to devise their own particular means of getting out of the camp precincts, and then for a committee composed of a representative from each party to co-ordinate their respective schemes as far as possible. The first thing was to settle on a definite date for the attempt. As the majority were to make for Rendezvous X, to fit in with Cochrane's prearranged scheme, the date had to be later in the year than had been our idea while at Changri. It was decided that the night chosen should be the one towards the end of July most suitable as regards the moon. To enable the members of the various parties to join up at some convenient local rendezvous, and then put as great a distance as possible between themselves and Yozgad before the following dawn, the ideal was for the moon to rise an hour or so after we had all left our houses. Great credit is due to Captain T. R. Wells for correctly computing the times of rising and setting of that irregular planet. The only material available was a Nautical Almanac some four years old. From his predictions, the 30th July was eventually fixed upon as the best night. The moon would rise about 10.30 P.M., and 9.15 was fixed upon as a suitable time for all to leave their houses--if they could. This meant all would have been present at the evening roll-call, which took place during dinner at about 7.45 P.M.; and their absence, if no alarm occurred, would not be discovered until the check taken at dawn next day. The advent of Cochrane to our party led to a reconsideration of the whole question of the food and kit we should carry on our momentous journey. His previous experience and that of Keeling's party was that 35 lb. was about as much as one could expect to carry across country consistently with making reasonable progress. In the end, however, we found that there were so many essentials that we should have each to take about 43 lb., exclusive of the weight of packs, haversacks, &c., to carry them. The following list gives some idea of our final equipment. Each member of the party was to take the following:-- _Food_-- Sixty-eight biscuits, made by "Escapers Ltd.," five to the lb. Six soft biscuits, four to the lb. Sultanas, 4 lb. Cheese, ½ lb. Fresh meat (for the first two days only), ½ lb. Rice, 2 lb. Cocoa _or_ Ovaltine, 1 lb. Soup tablets (Oxo), 12 cubes. Chocolate, 1 lb. Tea, ¼ lb. Salt, about 1/8 lb. Emergency ration of chocolate, Horlick's malted milk tablets, _or_ Brand's essence, about ½ lb. _Clothing_-- Spare pair of boots, or several pairs of native sandals. Spare shirt. Towel. Several pairs of socks. Felt mufti hat or service-dress cap. Vermin-proof belt. Spare bootlaces. Handkerchiefs (mostly in the form of bags round the food). _Miscellaneous_-- Share of medicines, mainly in tabloid form. One large and one small bandage. Matches, two or more boxes, one being in a water-tight case. Flint and slow-match cigarette lighter. Cigarettes or tobacco, according to taste. Soap, one piece. String. Mug and spoon. Wool for repairs to socks. Spare razor-blades. Compass. Clasp-knife. Whistle. Tooth-brush. Comb. Notebook and pencil. In addition, the following were to be distributed in more or less equal weights among the party as a whole:-- 1 pair of field-glasses. 6 skeins of ¾-inch rope. 2 boot-repair outfits. 1 housewife. 3 chargals (canvas bags for water). Map, original and copies; and enlargements from a small map. Cardboard protractors. "Sun compass." Book of star charts. Extra tea in the form of tablets. 1 aluminium "degchie" or "dixie" (cooking-pot). 1 very small adze (a carpenter's tool used in the East). 2 pocket Gillette shaving sets. 4 candles, } for giving red-light signals at red cloth } Rendezvous X. 2 pairs of scissors. 2 iron rings, for use in the event of having to tow our kit across an unfordable river. 1 sausage of solid meat extract. Opium. 1 bottle of "Kola" compound. 1 lb. tapioca. Small reel of fine steel wire. One ½-pint bottle of brandy. Fishing tackle. The actual clothes to be worn on starting were left to individual fancy. It was a question first of what one possessed; secondly, of what one anticipated would suit the temperatures we should meet, and best resist the wear and tear which our clothing would have to withstand. Some decided on Indian khaki drill, others on home service serge uniform; others again on a mixture of the two. One had a rainproof coat cut down and converted to a tunic, which in practice was found to answer well. "Shorts," we knew, would be very comfortable, but unfortunately they are a peculiarly British style of garment; so they were vetoed, at any rate for wear by day. One or two, however, rendered their trousers convertible to "shorts," for use during darkness, by slitting each leg along one seam to a point above the knee, adding buttons and cutting button-holes at the correct places to enable them to be turned up and fastened, so as to leave the knees free. Most of us, however, preferred not to risk the loss of any protection against cold such as this plan involved, and eventually started off wearing trousers tied below the knee with a piece of cord, in true navvy fashion. It was realised that we could not hope to pass for Turks by day, so no elaborate disguise was attempted. At night, however, a Turk's silhouette does not much differ, except for his headgear, from that of a European--for a Turk is not a European, even though he is allowed a bit of European soil. We accordingly decided to wear fezes, so that any one passing us at night would mistake us for Turks and ask no questions. For the daytime we would hold to our original Changri scheme of pretending to be a German survey party, and for this purpose would carry either Homburg hats or British field-service caps. As to the best means of taking along all this kit, opinions were most diverse. The weary experiments which had been commenced whilst at Changri were continued with renewed zest at Yozgad, until by a system of trial and error each had worked his own particular idea into a more or less practical form. Our difficulties were enhanced by the necessity of concealing our experimental models from the eyes not only of brother Turk, but also of brother officers, so that all our tests were carried out in the somewhat confined space of the room cupboards. While so situated there was the risk of finding oneself shut in for half an hour if an officer not in the know came into the room to describe the events of the latest fox-hunt. Eventually the equipment of our party varied from a simple but enormous rucksack, with water-bottle slung separately, to a rather complicated arrangement by which the pack was balanced to some extent by biscuit-pouches, haversack, and water-bottle attached to the belt. In all cases the total load carried, with water-bottles filled but chargals empty, amounted to close upon 50 lb.; of this 25¼ lb. were food, 5 lb. water-bottle, and 12 lb. accessories and spare clothing; and the remainder the weight of the equipment itself--in one case as much as 8 lb. A few notes as to the above food and equipment may be of interest. The soft biscuits were obtained at the last moment from an officer who had intended to decamp but was prevented from so doing by a game leg. They took the place of 1½ lb. of a kind of sun-dried meat known locally as "pastomar," similar to "biltong," but seasoned with garlic. This we had bought two or three weeks previous to the date of departure, for it was not always obtainable in the bazaar. Hence it was necessary to take it while the chance offered, in spite of the unpleasantness of having to keep such evil-smelling stuff in a living-room. Its taste to any one but the garlic-loving Oriental is as disagreeable as its scent, so that it was not altogether without relief that we found at the last moment that most of the pastomar was already breeding maggots, and we replaced it with the odd six biscuits apiece. Having read during our captivity a good deal about Arctic exploration, we had also experimented with the local pemmican, but found it would not withstand the heat. The cheeses were from home parcels, and to save weight were taken out of their tins on the last day. The same was also done with the cocoa and Ovaltine, which were then carried in bags made from handkerchiefs. Two of the party also carried an extra pound of chocolate and some Oxo tablets, on the understanding that they were to be thrown away if the loads proved too heavy, for most of us felt that the last straw was already nearly reached. Spare clothing was left for individuals to decide for themselves, and some carried a little thin underclothing and a "woolley" in addition to the spare shirt and socks. The medicines comprised quinine, aspirin, cascara sagrada, Dover's powders, and iodine, these being supplied to us by our own doctors. Also some arrowroot and Ovaltine in case any one had to diet himself. We had in addition, while at Changri, managed to obtain from the local chemist about fifteen opium pills per head. Most of us further carried either boric powder or ointment for the feet. The vermin-proof belts were to be more useful as a safeguard against chill than against vermin, as in the end we on no occasion slept inside a Turkish dwelling. With one exception, all the compasses were of the poorest description, being of the more or less toy variety with a mirror on the back. Changri, however, produced one of superior pattern, which we purchased without arousing suspicion, and attempted to make more efficient with the luminous paint off the face of an old watch, but without very lasting success. It is not easy to make a bag of canvas which will hold water, but by dint of fine stitching and a special kind of beeswax, our naval leader succeeded in producing three chargals which did yeoman service. The map on which we were to rely was a French one, forty years old, and on a scale of about twenty-four miles to the inch. An officer had bought it for five pounds from a Greek dentist at Kastamoni. As it happened it was not bought primarily for escape purposes, but we persuaded him to sell it to us on his leaving Changri for Geddos. In this the hill features were very indistinctly shown by vague hachuring, and even a big river such as the Kizil Irmak was in several places shown dotted, signifying not that this dried up during parts of the year, but that no one had surveyed it. An up-to-date but very small map had been received from home by means of a series of six "bananas," each containing a tiny section; but, owing to our change of plan, this showed little of our proposed route. The "sun compass" needs some explanation. This was an invention of Captain A. B. Matthews, D.S.O., R.E., who had been a prisoner of war at Yozgad since the fall of Kut-el-Amara. Wishing to make a rough survey of the immediately surrounding country for the use of the Hunt Club, and finding that local magnetic attraction made a compass altogether unreliable, he bethought him of a simple means of utilising the sun, which in the wonderful climate of Asia Minor is rarely obscured throughout the spring, summer, or autumn. The "sun compass" consists merely of a thin wooden disc of say 5 inches diameter, with the outer edge divided into 360 degrees, and with a hole at the centre through which can be inserted a piece of stiff straight wire. A table of the sun's bearing at any hour on any day completes the instrument. In actual use the disc is held horizontally, with the graduations upwards, and the wire kept vertical and protruding above the disc. Then, by turning the latter till the shadow of the wire falls on the sun's bearing plus 180 degrees, you have the disc set to read off true bearings in any direction. Captain Matthews was also responsible for the star charts. By means of two maps of the heavens obtained from a book on travel, published by the Royal Geographical Society, he devised from first principles a "bus" consisting of three concentric cardboard discs. By means of these it was possible, almost mechanically, to read off the bearings of the brighter stars in the main constellations for any hour and any night of the year. It was thus possible to obtain a series of charts showing on which star one should march for any required bearing, and at any particular time. We prepared them for all hours of the nights from the 1st August to the 15th September 1918. This chart-book was of value as a check on a magnetic compass by night, but assumed an elementary knowledge of at least those constellations which would be of use for the particular purpose in view. Although it was expected that if we wished to evade recapture we should have to avoid replenishing our supplies at any villages, it was necessary to take money in case we were compelled to do so as a last resource. For this purpose a certain amount of gold and silver was essential: otherwise it was quite possible that, in payment for anything in an out-of-the-way district, the paper money would be received at its true value, namely, nothing at all. A certain amount of paper money was, however, advisable in view of the conditions we might expect if we were recaptured, as paper money was less likely to be taken away from us than gold and silver. It was decided then to start if possible with at least £2 each in gold, £30 in paper, and two medjidies (worth four shillings each) in silver. This we succeeded in collecting, thanks to being able to cash a few cheques locally: for both the gold and the silver, however, it was necessary to pay five times their face value in paper. We bought silver coins, a few at a time, from various sentries. These men thoroughly understood our desire for them when we hinted at a pretty girl in England who would look very handsome with a necklace of medjidies round her neck. While at Changri our party had succeeded in obtaining from other officers two _pukka_ helio-mirrors, which had escaped destruction on the fall of Kut-el-Amara. With these we had fitted up a duplex heliograph, complete with signalling key and adjusting screws. Whereas, however, for the Samos scheme it would have been invaluable, for Rendezvous X its use was more problematical; and in view of the way in which essentials had gradually mounted up, it was in the end rather reluctantly decided that the helio must go by the board, as it weighed about three pounds. Another decision now made was that in our party we should not use violence in order to make our escape, unless it should be necessary on the coast itself to avoid throwing away a really good chance. It was recognised that if bloodshed occurred, the Turks would be quite capable of killing off the whole of our party, and possibly others, if recaptured. For this reason no attempt was made to procure firearms, though this would probably have been no more difficult than obtaining the fezes, compasses, and field-glasses. During the four months we were at Yozgad, Grunt, being one of the best Turkish scholars in the camp, started a class for any who chose to learn Turkish. About five times a week, therefore, all the original six of our escape-party and a few others used to meet in Grunt's room for an hour's instruction. In the case of would-be escapers, the main attraction of these lessons was this: if any of us were recaptured, as some were practically certain to be, it would be possible to make oneself understood to some slight extent, and thereby perhaps alleviate the unpleasantness of prison life by being able to let our jailers know our wants. Since, also, to judge by the experience of those who had been recaptured, we should, if equally unfortunate, spend several months in the close company of some of the worst criminals in Turkey, it would be a pity not to take the opportunity of picking up a really good conversational knowledge of the language under exceptionally favourable circumstances. For this a grounding in grammar would be invaluable. Nothing else but these considerations would have induced the majority of us to attempt so difficult a task as learning even the rudiments of the Ottoman tongue. As the time grew near for the great adventure, the last stage of our training was entered upon. Every opportunity was taken of going out hunting, although the field was limited to a total of thirty. Keenness in hockey died off, as many of us were afraid of sustaining some injury which might incapacitate us on the actual day. Running and hard walking round the garden became a regular institution in some houses; and several cupboards, if suddenly opened at almost any hour of the day and at many in the night, would have disclosed a member of an escape-party loaded up in the most extraordinary manner, and performing gymnastic exercises for the strengthening of leg and shoulder muscles. In view of the inevitable hard marching, towards the end several of the party even went so far as to soak the feet several times a day in a strong solution of alum, in the hope of hardening the feet and avoiding blisters. At the same time efforts were made to build up the stamina necessary for a 400-mile march by eating the most nourishing foods obtainable, irrespective of the fact that the price of any food seemed to go up as the cube of its body-building value. To give one instance, sugar at this time cost a sovereign the pound. It was almost inevitable that, with so many preparations in progress, the secret of our intentions should leak out in the camp; and once suspicions were aroused many of our actions would go to confirm them. Thus it came about that a few days before the 30th July, the whole of the camp at Yozgad knew pretty well that attempts to escape were on foot; the shopping lists for the Changri division were alone enough to have set people talking. Everybody wanted bootlaces, straps, hobnails, rope, &c., in prodigious quantities. Unfortunately the Turks also appeared to have got wind of it. For the last week of July, sentries were visited and awakened with unheard-of frequency. Even the commandant himself occasionally visited the different houses after dark. In the case of one house, an extra sentry was suddenly posted in the garden. However, our preparations went quietly on; our "hosts" might have nothing really definite to go upon, and the more keen the sentries were now, the more weary they would be by the time the real day arrived. We therefore continued to make holes in walls, loosen iron bars, dig unnecessary irrigation channels in the garden, &c., &c., all as aids to egress from one house or another on the final night. In the particular house of our original six, (Cochrane and Ellis lived in another), we had come to the conclusion that our best chance was to prepare a hole through the outer wall of the kitchen belonging to our mess. This kitchen, it is necessary to explain, was built along the high enclosure wall of the garden, and was separated from the house itself by a narrow alley-way, over which one of the sentries stood guard. Next to the kitchen in the same outhouse was a little room with one small window opening on to the alley, the entrance being _viâ_ the kitchen itself. This second room was used as a fowl-house, and it was here that we made up our minds to prepare a hole three-quarters of the way through the outer wall. How exactly those escaping from our house were to get across into the kitchen and finish off the hole on the final night was a problem of which the solution was only settled in detail at the last moment, and we will therefore leave our readers in a similar state of suspense. The essential was that all should be present at the evening roll-call, and yet the hole must be completed and everybody be across at precisely 9.15 P.M. So uncertain were we of the means of effecting this that we had a second alternative in case the first scheme could not be carried out. This involved getting over the wall by ladders. A day or two before the 30th July, representatives of the various parties met once again in solemn conclave to ensure that the various plans should not clash, and a few general instructions were issued to parties with a view to obtaining as long a start as possible. Every one was to be represented in bed on the night by a dummy; boots were to be padded, likewise the ends of khud-sticks (these were a _sine qua non_ of our equipment for night-marching); water-bottles were not to be filled because they gurgled; every man's equipment was to be finally tried on to make certain that it would not make any noise. Lastly, a lamp-signal was arranged between houses in case any party should be caught just prior to leaving their house, for instance while completing a hole. If that signal were given, it would no longer be necessary for the other parties to wait until 9.15 before they started; on the contrary, they were advised to start away at once before the alarm reached the sentries in the other houses. The 30th July arrived, but with it an unexpected complication. Vague news had just come through that an exchange ship was being sent out from England to fetch some of the worst cases of sick and wounded from among the British prisoners in Turkey. The boat, said the rumour, was due to arrive at some port at about the end of August, and the question therefore arose at the eleventh hour whether, if we set off now, it might not give the Turks the pretext that our Government had informed us of the visit of this vessel, and that we were making off in the hopes of getting aboard her secretly. The argument was of course, on the face of it, ridiculous, but then so is the Turk, and it would be a terrible responsibility for us if by our escape we destroyed the hopes of these poor sick and wounded men. A vote was therefore taken as to whether we would postpone the date, with the result that the motion was carried by a small majority. This was a terrible disappointment, for it meant, we thought, another month of indecision. Moreover, there would be no hope of finding a boat still awaiting us at Rendezvous X, and it would be too late in the year for much chance of our finding crops to eat or hide in. It was the moon, however, which in the end decided that the postponement could not be for so long. On working out its time of rising, it was found that if we waited till the end of August the moon would only rise late enough to let us leave our houses at 9.15, when within four days of its disappearance. In this way we should be handicapped by having the maximum of dark, or practically dark, nights for our journey. The whole question was therefore revised in this new light, and it was decided that we must either start before the new moon came or else give up all hope of leaving in this year at all. The night 7th-8th August was then chosen. This would be a Wednesday, and the following morning a hunt-day, when the check taken at dawn was confused by the movements of thirty officers dressing in haste for the day's sport. The week's grace was spent in perfecting all our arrangements. One refinement was to collect our own and other people's hair when cut by an officer barber, and paste it on to the outside of a cloth bag stuffed with rubbish or towels made up to about the size of a man's head. These were to be the heads of our dummies. Meanwhile we were more careful with our shopping orders, and were relieved to find suspicions in the camp dying down. On the morning of the 31st July an officer, who was supposed to know nothing of the escape, had been called by his orderly and told, "They ain't gone after all, sir!" FOOTNOTE: [8] The following is a list of the officers who attempted to escape, but were unhappily all recaptured, mostly within a few days of starting, but in the case of one party not until they had been at large for eighteen days and covered over 200 miles: Major C. H. Stockley, 66th Punjabis; Captains C. Manners, 104th Rifles; A. B. Matthews, D.S.O., R.E.; E. W. Burdett and C. A. Raynor, 48th Pioneers; T. R. Wells, R.A.F.; R. O. Chamier, 110th Mahrattas; H. H. Rich, 120th Infantry; E. T. M. Patmore, Hants Regiment, T.F.; Lieutenants Tudway, R.N.; J. H. Brabazon, Connaught Rangers; A. V. Barlow, R.A.F.; H. D. Stearns, I.A.R., 117th Mahrattas; A. Macfadyen, I.A.R., 110th Mahrattas; F. S. Sheridan, I.A.R., Gurkhas; J. Dooley, I.A.R., M.T.; M. L. C. Smith, I.A.R., 7th Rajputs. CHAPTER V. THE FLAG FALLS. At last the long-deferred day had dawned--the cause rather of relief than excitement to our party, after their planning and scheming for eleven long months and active preparations for as many weeks. Our only prayer now was that we should at least have a run for our money, and be spared the ignominy of being led back into the camp at Yozgad without the taste of even a few days freedom. The 7th August being a Wednesday, at 11 A.M. the usual picnic party set off for the pine woods. The majority never dreamt for a moment of the intention of twenty-five officers--a quarter of all the officers in the camp--to escape that night. Their departure was the signal for feverish activity in completing preparations which, by their nature, had to be left until the last day. Such, in the house then occupied by the present writers, called Hospital House, was the screwing together of the ladders required in case an alternative scheme for getting out of the camp should prove necessary. Then there were rucksacks and haversacks to be finally made up, and the whole "Christmas Tree" to be tried on to ensure that there was no rattling. For reasons which will appear, it was necessary too for the Old Man and Looney to convey their kits across the alley into the fowl-house and there leave them concealed, the one in a blanket and the other in a box. Meanwhile, Grunt and Perce put the finishing touches to the hole commenced, as previously described, in the fowl-house wall, until daylight could be seen through every joint in the outer skin of masonry, and until it was as certain as such things could be that the remaining stones would come away easily. Watches had to be synchronised to ensure that all six parties should start simultaneously; the fresh meat for the first two days to be issued, and so on almost _ad infinitum_. It was at this stage that we discovered the maggots in the "pastomar" or "biltong," to which reference has already been made. That evening, before the hour when intercommunication between houses was supposed to cease, there were many visits from well-wishers living in other houses who knew of our intentions, and last arrangements were made with our British orderlies to play their part. Doubtless they did it well. One can imagine the delight with which they would put some of our dummies to bed after our departure, and as we left we heard their efforts in the house to cover our exit with the noise of a sing-song. If no alarm occurred before daylight, they were to remove the dummies after these had served their purpose at the 4 A.M. "rounds." One orderly had also volunteered to build up the hole in the wall as soon as the house and kitchen doors were unlocked next morning. At last all was ready, and we sat down to what, we hoped, would be our last full meal for many a day. Twenty minutes to eight came and went, the time when the _onbashi_, or Turkish corporal, usually took roll-call; but it was not till eight o'clock that evening that the six of the party in our house, who, with a Major A---- and the "King of Oireland," another escaper, formed the mess on the top floor, heard his footsteps on the stairs. We returned his good-night with rather more than usual gusto, and waited till he had disappeared, as his custom was, into the next room. Now was the moment. Old Man and Looney slipped out of the room and downstairs into the kitchen, the door of which, with the side-door of the house, was allowed to remain open every night until our orderlies had "washed up." These two were to go across in their shirt sleeves and carrying plates, so that, if he noticed them at all, the sentry posted over the alley separating the main building from the outhouse would naturally mistake them for orderlies. In the excitement of the moment, however, Old Man had forgotten to bring down his coat; and Looney, now safely ensconced in the fowl-house, wondered why he had not followed him across. Next minute there was a tremendous crash and a tinkle of broken crockery. The Old Man, discovering his loss, had turned back and slipped on the stairs. Nothing could have exceeded in realism this unintentional imitation of an orderly. As he picked himself up, he saw the feet of the _onbashi_ descending the stairs above him, with the result that he lost no further time in crossing to the kitchen. Orderly M---- was sent back to fetch the missing article, which arrived in due course. Now followed an anxious few minutes. Sometimes it happened that the _onbashi_ would miscount an officer or man, or count one twice over, and the check would then be repeated throughout the house. We realised that if this occurred on the present night it would be necessary for Old Man and Looney to reappear from the kitchen, and for scheme No. 2 to come into operation. Incidentally their kits, then in the outhouse, would have to be brought back in the blanket and box by our orderlies. Scheme No. 2 was to leave the house, carrying ladders, through a window on the eastern side; after which would follow a ticklish crawl between two sentries forty yards apart to the garden wall nine feet in height. The bars of the window in question had been loosened and cracked by Looney, with Old Man watching the sentries' movements, during some amateur theatricals held in the house on the previous night. To our relief, however, this plan had not to be put into execution. As was his custom, when the orderlies had finished their work, the _onbashi_ locked the house and kitchen doors. No sooner had his footsteps died away than the advance-guard of our party set to work to complete the opening of the wall. It was now about 8.15 P.M. The work went on quickly but quietly. A few minutes only and the clear starlit sky was visible through the rapidly enlarging aperture. Then came another anxious moment. As the two were relieving one another at the work, there suddenly appeared at the half-completed task the head of a mongrel dog. One growl or bark would suffice to draw the attention of the watchmen over the vegetable gardens outside, who did not hesitate to fire off their ancient rifles on the slightest alarm; but the dog after one look in at the hole strolled on, and the good work was resumed. There was one large stone which seemed likely to give trouble; indeed it had almost been decided to let it remain, when it suddenly came away and crashed noisily to the ground. But the sound, if heard at all, fell on deaf ears--although it must have been at about this very time that some of the party, still in the house and overlooking the wall, saw a man standing within a score of yards from the hole. Their work completed, Old Man and Looney proceeded to screen it from any one passing casually along, by affixing a square of canvas over the outside with "blobs" of beeswax. It now only remained to arrange for the easy withdrawal of the staple of the kitchen door, so that the latter could be opened from the outside, although padlocked; then, having donned haversack, water-bottle, and pack, to await the arrival of the remaining six from this house, four of our own and two of another party. When Old Man and Looney had stepped off to the kitchen the other six of the second-floor mess had remained at table, talking and smoking as usual. The Turkish corporal taking roll-call reappeared from the room beyond the dining-room, and was told not to forget the "yourt" for the next day. "Yourt," a kind of junket, is a staple diet of the Turk, and most of the prisoners became very partial to it. As it was hard to come by except through the medium of a sentry, it was their custom to remind him each evening, so that he might have some faint chance of remembering about it next morning. A few minutes later they heard the kitchen door being locked, and heaved a sigh of relief. The advance-party had had enough time to get across to the kitchen, and roll had been correctly called the first time. Major A---- in our mess, who was not escaping, had offered to watch the Upper House for the alarm-signal, and he was left sitting in the mess-room while the others set to work on various jobs. Grunt and Perce removed all obstructions to exit from the carpenter's shop door, while Nobby and Johnny took the four ladders from their hiding-place in a wood-store and tied bits of felt round the ends to deaden the sound when they should be placed against the wall. After this the ladders were taken into the cellar, whence scheme No. 2 might have to be worked. They then went upstairs to the bedroom, where their escape paraphernalia was stored. Here they hung towels and blankets over the windows, and started to dress by the light of a candle. It was a queer sight indeed. They were, at this point, joined by Sheridan, who belonged to a downstair mess, and one Pat. The latter was dresser-in-chief, and helped them on with their equipment. He was very miserable that he was not going himself, but he had a crocked knee and it would have been madness for him to think of marching over broken country by night. He now employed spare moments repeating certain sentences that he had learnt in order to call away the sentry over the alley: on this depended the best scheme of getting out of the house. The bedroom was the one in which Old Man, Grunt, and Johnny slept, and those in the room now set to work to make up the dummies in the three beds. The heads had already been fashioned, and, with a few clothes stuffed under the blankets and the heads placed in position, the beds were soon occupied by three graceful figures in attitudes of deep repose. The small piece of towel forehead that could be seen over the edge of the blanket looked perhaps a trifle pale, but, apart from that, the beds seemed quite natural. They could not resist the temptation of calling the Major away from the mess window for a moment, just to have a look at the sleeping beauties, and he returned chuckling to his post. Water-bottles were then partially filled with a thick paste of cocoa. Although water was not to be carried at the start, on account of the impossibility of preventing a gurgle in the water-bottle, the cocoa paste was permissible, for, being only just liquid enough to pour, it made no noise. It had been decided that morning that it would be best to leave the bedroom before 9 P.M., at which time the sentries changed. A few minutes before this hour, therefore, the six officers gave their feet a gouty appearance by tying felt padding on to their boots, and then started down to the ground-floor. On the way, Johnny turned into the orderlies' room to say good-bye, thanking them hurriedly for their help, without which the preparations for the escape would have been almost impossible. A few days later he found in the pocket of his jersey, which had been mended by an orderly belonging to the Norfolk regiment, a small piece of paper on which was written, "Good-bye, and good luck, sir.--B.," and he still has it in his possession. Going downstairs they met an officer prisoner, who, not having been admitted to the secret, nearly had a fit at the sight of six such extraordinary objects. Grunt looked in at another orderlies' room above the exit, and asked them to blow out their lamp and make a noise. The six then crept quietly into the prearranged room, and waited breathlessly by the door. Sentries were changed, and once again all became still. One lived every second of that waiting. Their plan now depended on the aid of Pat. Although debarred from escaping himself, he was willing to help others to liberty at considerable risk to himself. Punctually at 9.15, the hour at which the parties in the different houses were allowed to start, Pat's clear tones could be heard calling to the sentry on the alley-way-- "Nebuchi, nebuchi, jigara dushdu." ("Sentry, sentry, I've dropped my cigarettes.") And indeed he had: a hundred scattered about a cabbage-bed should keep the sentry busy for some time. But the wretched man nearly upset all calculations. Wearied with a quarter of an hour's duty, he was already almost asleep. It was a moment of terrible suspense for the six officers waiting, ready loaded up with their kits, in the ground-floor room opposite to the kitchen. The door of this led on to the alley-way; normally it was disused and kept locked, but the lock had now been picked and the door could be opened in a moment. Would the sentry hear Pat calling? And would he desert his post even if he did hear? They had heard Pat's first sentence. No reply. It was repeated, then again and again. After they had heard him shouting for many hours (perhaps thirty seconds, as time is reckoned by a watch), the sentry answered. His form was just visible as he passed by a small iron-barred window, and now was the opportunity. They could cross unobserved to the kitchen. An open door, three steps across the alley-way, a fumble with the kitchen door staple; another open door, a turn to the left, bend down or you'll knock your head off getting into the fowl-house, starlight showing in a black wall, through head first and almost on your face into long grass, and there you are--a free man. Meanwhile Pat was no doubt explaining to the delighted old sentry from the upper window how he could have a few cigarettes himself and return the remainder next morning. We sometimes wonder whether the sentry was foolish enough to mention to his relief about the cigarettes he had been given. At the time of writing we are still ignorant how long it was before our departure was discovered.[9] Looney and Old Man, being already on the spot, had been granted the privilege of leading through the hole, the remainder following in an order arranged by lot, since ours was not the only party represented. It so happened that the two of the other party were sandwiched between the other four of ours. This caused a temporary separation; for at the best it took an appreciable time to crawl through the wall and pick oneself up on the other side, but these two were especially slow. Grunt too had lost time when it came to his turn. Impatiently waiting to see the starry sky once more when the then broad form of Johnny should have ceased to obscure the hole, he eventually discovered that the cause of the darkness was not that Johnny had jammed, but that the canvas flap had fallen, and was covering the hole all too effectively. Our main object at this stage was to avoid disturbing the garden chowkidars, and therefore each as he emerged lost no time in creeping along the high garden wall, and dropping down into the friendly shelter of the river bed. For all its "hundred springs"--the meaning of the name "Yozgad"--the river for the greater part of the year consisted merely of a shallow and dirty stream, not more than ten feet broad, although its banks were as many yards apart, and from five to eight feet in height. It was along this that we all turned down-stream, Johnny now taking the lead. A few days previously he had suddenly developed a passionate interest in natural history. A polite letter, in which the word "ornithological" played a great part, was written to the commandant, and Johnny was permitted to join two real naturalists in an expedition starting at 4 A.M. on our last Sunday morning at Yozgad. These two had been at Changri with us, and knew we had intentions of escaping, so Johnny told them in which direction his party wished to start off, and this direction was now taken. Johnny counted his steps, noted landmarks which would be visible by starlight, and was able to draw a rough map of the country. All three dug at intervals for imaginary field-mice, until the sentry with them thought they were more insane than even the average Englishman, and said so. In the end, however, the strain of this great thought overpowered him and he fell asleep, giving Johnny the opportunity he required. He climbed a hill, took bearings, and was able to see our future route to within half a mile of a rugged piece of country known to the local hunt club as "Hades." On the return journey the three came back along the edge of the stream which ran past the bottom of our garden wall, and in which we have just left the six of our party. [Illustration: _From a sketch by Capt. E. B. Burns, E. Kent Regt._ YOZGAD CAMP FROM N.W. A = Hospital House. C----D = Course followed to river bed. B = Upper House. E = Market gardens. C = Position of hole made in fowl-house wall.] In accordance with the plan then settled we follow the river-bed until almost clear of the most westerly houses of the town, then turn right-handed up a stony track, passing between two high walls till the track ends. A few more paces to the west and we shall be safe in the open country. These few paces, however, will be along a main road directly in front of two or three houses on the outskirts of the town, but the alternative of following the river-bed farther and then turning up would necessitate passing through vegetable gardens, which, as already mentioned, are jealously guarded. In the event, the original plan was justified by success, although the six of us, at this time unintentionally split up into parties of four and two, passed fully in view of a man sitting on one of the verandahs overlooking the road. It was probably thanks to our fezes that we escaped detection, for other disguise we had none. It was lucky that we had taken the precaution to cover our boots with felt pads, for the ring of an Englishman's boots on a metalled road would, we know, have aroused the envy and suspicion of any Turk who heard it, accustomed as he is to the soft footfall of the country sandal or "chariq." Once comfortably clear of the town, the leading four could afford to wait for the other two to come up, and with their arrival we began to enjoy our first taste of freedom from Turkish toils. The only question to disturb us now was whether Cochrane and Ellis had got out safely from their house. So far, at any rate, there had been no sounds of an alarm. We therefore lost no time in setting off to the rendezvous, where we hoped to join up as a complete party of eight. This was to be at the bottom of the "Hades" ravine, at the point where it was crossed by the telegraph line to Angora. The distance from our houses, as the crow flies, was perhaps two miles. For this, taking into consideration the darkness of the night and the difficulty of the country, we had allowed two and a quarter hours. At 11.30 P.M., any one who had failed to appear was to be considered recaptured or lost, and those who had arrived were to go on. An absurdly liberal allowance of time you may say; but even the six whose movements we have followed, and who had the advantage of Johnny's guidance over a route reconnoitred by day, took till 11 P.M. to cover these two miles. We were experiencing, some of us for the first time, the difficulties of a night march. In addition, it was our first trial of carrying our loads, weighing nearly fifty pounds, anywhere outside a cupboard. No wonder then that our progress was slow, and at one time we began to think that we must have already crossed the line of telegraph which was to lead us down into "Hades" itself. But there it was at last, and we were soon slipping down--only too literally--into the ravine. Our first act, after quenching our thirst, was to fill up our water-bottles. As 11.30 approached, with still no sign of Cochrane and Ellis, we began to wonder whether, perhaps, they might not have gone on to another ravine in "Hades," and be awaiting the rest of us there; so some commenced scouting around, while others remained to show their position by periodical flashes with a cigarette lighter. This was so desolate a bit of country that the flashes entailed no appreciable risk. At 11.30 we decided to give them another quarter of an hour; to delay after that would be to jeopardise the remainder of the party, for it was already only four hours to dawn. Great, therefore, was our relief when, at the last moment of this time of grace, we saw two forms appear on the skyline, and presently heard the rattle of loose shale as they picked their way towards our flashes. So far so good; and we were soon exchanging mutual congratulations on joining up, and saying that even this one night's breath of freedom, after two and a half years' captivity, would be worth all the trouble of our preparations. But we must go back for a moment and narrate the experiences of the late-comers in leaving their house. This was called the Upper House, and to the east overlooked the main street below, but was separated from it by three shallow terraces, which boasted some treasured vegetables and a few fruit trees. To the north the ground fell steeply by three higher terraces to a small patch of ground enclosed by walls. It was here that we used to play the four-a-side hockey. The upper terrace on this northern face was visible to a sentry at the main gate of the Hospital House, which was on the other side of a road running along the hockey ground wall. The two remaining sides of the house abutted on tumble-down cottages, from which they were separated by a narrow alley. At the north-western and south-western corners sentries were posted. The number of officers escaping from this house was five. The bars of a window on the side facing the main street had been cut with the aid of a steel saw, and at 9.15 P.M. the five climbed down a rope-ladder to the ground. Skirting the edge of the house at intervals of two minutes they crept quietly through the garden and reached the second of the three terraces on the north side, keeping well under the high bank. Here they passed within three yards of the sentry's box, on the top of the bank above them. Absolute silence was necessary, and this was the reason that the two had been so late in arriving at the rendezvous, for each step had to be taken with extreme care. [Illustration: _From a sketch by Capt. K. F. Freeland, R.A._ UPPER HOUSE, YOZGAD, FROM N.N.E. (WINTER TIME.) A = Sentry's box. B----C = Track followed by Cochrane and Ellis. D = Hockey ground.] The terrace a few yards beyond the sentry's box sloped down into the large market-garden to the west of the Hospital House. On the south side of this was a wall, along which they picked their way. Here, too, great caution was required. Look-out huts had to be passed within a few yards, but finally they were across the garden. A high wall had now to be climbed, but fortunately it was in bad repair and afforded good footholds. Here Cochrane and Ellis heard voices. An old woman had seen Stockley and Rich and was wanting to know what they were doing. Our two did not wait to hear much more. Turning right, they were on the same stony track up which the first party had turned from the river-bed, and now they followed Johnny's route till they finally struck the telegraph post and arrived at "Hades." Ellis had arrived puffing and blowing, but there was no time to be lost if we were to be at anything like a safe distance from Yozgad before dawn broke. Five minutes before midnight, then, we started off a complete party, and were soon scrambling up the northern side of "Hades" on to the plateau above. Having left the line of telegraph poles for the sake of an easier ascent, we were unable at once to find it again. Although it had been our original intention to follow the telegraph wires as likely to lead over a passable line of country, it was decided to waste no further time in a search for them. Instead we would set off by compass and stars in a due westerly direction, and hope to pick them up again later on. The ground proved favourable: our course took us over fairly level country, a considerable portion of which was under cultivation, and for some time we were walking over stubble. Although there was no moon, our eyes rapidly accustomed themselves to the bright starlight, and hopeful progress was made, but not without occasional alarms. The first occurred within an hour of leaving "Hades." Looney was temporarily relieving Cochrane of his task of guiding the party, when the leading six suddenly found that the other two had disappeared, and inwardly cursed them for straggling. In reality, what had happened was this: the party, moving in no regular formation, had got a little separated, when suddenly the two in the rear had seen the glowing tip of a cigarette moving obliquely towards them, and immediately afterwards descried the shadowy forms of three mounted men. Quick as thought they lay down and waited till the horsemen had passed; the rest moved on in blissful ignorance of their danger, until, on turning for the others, they too saw the cigarette and realised what had happened. Those three men were almost certainly gendarmes. Apart from this, we occasionally found ourselves coming upon little groups of huts and villages, and these entailed wasteful detours. We had, in addition, an uncomfortable feeling that we were leaving behind us a rather obvious track through the crops where yet uncut. About 2 A.M. we once more picked up the line of telegraph poles. We were all the more glad to follow them as we saw difficult country ahead, and they were likely to lie along a practicable route. Practicable it was, but then it is practicable to reach the bottom of most slopes if you are prepared to sit down and slide; for that is what we had to do for the latter part of the descent into the steep-sided ravine, across which our telegraph line now led us. At least, however, we had the satisfaction of a much-needed drink from the crystal-clear water of a mountain stream. Here indeed would have been an ideal hiding-place for the coming day; we could have bathed and drunk to our hearts' content, shielded both from sun and view by enormous rocks which towered above us, almost on the water's edge. But we were only seven or eight miles from Yozgad, and an hour lost now meant one to be made up later on. After a drink, then, we clambered up the farther slope, to find as we struggled on that we were once more coming into open country, with less and less prospect of a suitable hiding-place. To turn back was out of the question. The first light of dawn caught us still moving forward, and within sight of a village. The sun had not risen before men and women were on every side of us, going out to work in their fields. We came to a stream running through a grove of trees, but it was too near the village to remain there. Our freedom was to be short-lived, we thought, as we took a hurried drink and proceeded across more open country. Eventually, at 4.50, we dropped down into a tiny nullah on the open hillside. The only merit of this spot was that it was not directly visible from the village. It was obvious that we could not hope still further to escape observation from the fields if we continued to lie there all day, so Looney went off to scout around for something better. A more hopeful nullah, with banks in places five feet high, was reported half a mile beyond the next low crest. To that therefore we moved in broad daylight, glad to find that we should at least have some water, for a muddy trickle flowed down the nullah bed. Without this the heat would have been intolerable, for, until late in the day, the banks proved too shelving to provide shade from the sun. Even with water, Turkish-bath conditions are conducive neither to sleep nor appetite. Not one of us slept a wink that day. As to the day's ration, it was with difficulty that we forced ourselves to eat a quarter of a pound of salted meat and nine ounces of home-made biscuit--not an excessive amount, even when you add to it one and a half ounces a head of chocolate, which Grunt produced from the store of extras he was voluntarily carrying. We reckoned that we were perhaps ten miles' distance from Yozgad. After the events of the morning we entertained little hope of our whereabouts not having been reported, but we were to learn that we flattered ourselves as to the interest we aroused among the country people. The fact at least remained, that we were left undisturbed in our somewhat obvious hiding-place: the only signs of life that we saw during the day were a shepherd with his flock of sheep grazing a quarter of a mile away, and a Turkish soldier who, in the early evening, came down to our nullah a little below us, and was probably himself a deserter and so a fugitive like ourselves. Towards dusk we stood up and watched a stream of men and carts returning to their villages after the day's work in the fields. By 7.30 all was clear, and we lost no time in making our way to the line of telegraph poles which we could see disappearing over the crest of the next rise. Alongside we found a splendid track, which we were able to follow over undulating country for several miles. Nobby was in trouble with his "chariqs"; in spite of experiments carried out for weeks beforehand he had not succeeded in getting a pair which did not now gall him in one place or another. This was serious, as he was relying on these country sandals to carry him down to the coast; strong English boots were hard to come by. On this night, after several delays as one after another of his spares was tried and rejected, he was eventually able to wear a pair lent him by Cochrane. Twilight had now faded, and we were dependent once more on the light of the stars. The track, easily distinguishable while it kept to the telegraph poles, had begun to wind about as the country became more undulating. In a little while it could no longer be followed with any certainty. We therefore ceased to worry about the track and trusted to the telegraph to lead us towards Angora, until this too failed us, for it went too much to the north of west. We thereupon proceeded on our proper course by compass. We had started in the evening feeling unexpectedly fresh, and it says much for our training that the first night's march had left none of us in the least bit stiff. Nevertheless the day in the hot sun and the lack of all sleep had tried us more severely than we thought, and we were now beginning to feel the effects. The idea had been to have the regulation five minutes' halt at the end of every hour's marching, but we soon found that we were taking ten minutes' rest every half-hour. We were, moreover, consumed with an appalling thirst; even at night the heat off the ground in this arid track of land was stifling, while the parched and cracked surface held out little hope of there being water in the vicinity. At 11.30 we decided we must have a long halt, in the hopes of a little sleep; two volunteers shared the watch. Shortly after midnight we marched on again considerably refreshed, the main anxiety now being for water. Two hours later we saw looming ahead a low ridge of hills, and decided to go and wait there until dawn should reveal the most likely direction for a drink. A little searching round then showed us a fair-sized stream in the next valley to the south-west: in Asia Minor, however, where there is a perennial stream, there is fairly certain to be a village or two, and so it proved in this case; but water we must have; besides, on the hillside, where we had rested till daylight, there now appeared a shepherd with his flock. Hastily gathering up our kit, we dodged up dry and rocky nullahs and over the next ridge. Once more it was broad daylight before we settled down for the day in our hiding-place, in rocky ground intersected with crevices just wide enough for a man to lie in. On the way we had to descend a steep slope covered with loose shale, and this proved a sore test for important portions of our clothing, for it was impossible to keep to one's feet. When four of the party went to the stream below us to fill up the water-bottles, they found they were within a few hundred yards of another village, so that one visit to water had to suffice for the rest of the day. They had been seen by at least one boy who was looking after a flock of sheep near the stream. We were lucky, however, to discover, close above our hiding-place, a tiny spring. From this, thanks to a couple of water-holes dug with the adze by Perce, it was possible to collect about a mugful of water in an hour. Cochrane now told off the party into watches by pairs; but, on watch or off, there was little or no sleep to be had. During the morning we made a fire and "brewed" some arrowroot and cocoa, and had three ounces of chocolate apiece. All of these Grunt and Ellis had carried in addition to their ordinary share of rations, and, try as we would, we found that, owing to the heat, we could not eat more than one and a half out of the ration of three biscuits allowed for that day. Of course this saved food, but it also meant the gradual exhaustion of one's strength, and no reduction in the weight to be carried next day. Our progress on the first two nights had not been up to expectation: we reckoned that we were still within eighteen miles of Yozgad, whereas we had hoped to cover something over twelve miles a day. If we were unable to maintain our average when we were fresh and not yet pinched for food, we could hardly hope to do better after days of marching and semi-starvation. Our advance on the third night was to provide little encouragement, for we barely made good another eight miles. Having waited until 8 P.M. before we dared to descend to the stream, we halted there in the dark for a deep drink and the refilling of our water-vessels. Half an hour later we left the valley and found ourselves in a network of hills. From these we only emerged into open country shortly before eleven o'clock, passing but one small channel of very bad water on the down-stream side of a village. Our course now lay across an arid plain, featureless except for a few village tracks and low cone-shaped hills; and we began to wonder whether dawn would not find us without water or cover, when at 2 A.M. we dropped into a patch of broken country, and decided we would rest there till daylight. As a look round then disclosed no better hiding-place, we settled down where we were for the day. The remains of an old spring were found, but it was dry. Thanks to the chargals, most of our water-bottles were still three-quarters full; but this was little enough with which to start a day in the almost tropical sun. Most of us rigged ourselves partial shelters with our towels and spare shirts, supported on khud-sticks. These, however, provided little protection against the fierce rays. But all things come to an end--even this seemingly interminable day; yet it was to be nothing compared to the night which followed. FOOTNOTE: [9] Since writing the above, we have learnt that the officers escaping from one of the other houses were unable to leave it until after 11 P.M., and even then were at once seen, but took to their heels and got clear. For some unaccountable reason the Turks only proceeded to check the officers of that particular house. At dawn, the _chaouse_ taking rounds in the Hospital House was completely deceived by the dummies; not so, however, an interpreter, who had seen the same game played when Keeling's party escaped. We thus enjoyed about 6½ hours' start. The Turks were completely at a loss to know how the eight from Hospital House had got out of the garden. The only possible means seemed to them to be that we had got _over_ the wall by means of nets flung out from a top window of the main building right over the outhouse. The hole in the wall they took to be merely a blind! The nets were simply goal nets made while at Changri, and of course used for none but their original purpose. CHAPTER VI. THE PEACEFUL SHEPHERDS. There was not a drop of water in any of our bottles when, at 6.30 that evening, we emerged from our hiding-place and made our way down towards the open valley which had been running south of us and nearly parallel to our course of the preceding night; for this direction seemed to offer the best prospect of water. On the far side of the valley rose the wood-covered slopes of the Tchitchek Dagh, or Flower Mountain. Far away to the west we could see the purple ridges of the Denek Dagh, slightly to the north of which we hoped to cross the Kizil Irmak. Our hopes rose high as we saw beneath us a narrow streak of green which betokened the existence of the longed-for water; but if, in England, where there's a dog there's a man, in Turkey where there's a stream there are sheep. We soon found that all the flocks of the countryside were settling down for the night on the banks of our promised water supply, while farther to the north-west our way was barred by the inevitable village. There was nothing for it but to lie where we were till twilight had faded, and then to cut south-west with the idea of hitting the nullah at a point above the flocks. On doing so we were much dismayed to find that the nullah was dry. By this time we were all fairly "cooked"; Ellis, in addition, was suffering from a strained heart--for such it now turns out to have been. For half an hour we carried his kit and helped him along between us, but he still could not keep up. At 9.30 we decided to leave him behind, in a dry nullah we were following at the time, with Grunt, who volunteered to stay with him while the rest went on to find water--if they could. The six plodded on with frequent halts, and resorted for the first time to the bottle of "Kola" tablets, which provided a much-needed stimulant. The country was still an arid waste with here and there a dry nullah, each one like the rest; and as time went on without a sign of water, those of us with Cochrane began to wonder how we should ever find the derelict pair again. A solitary light twinkled away to our left, another far ahead. Were these from villages, or were they shepherds' fires? On trudged the six on their western course towards a jagged ridge which now met their view. An hour and a half after leaving the pair they crossed a narrow embankment. This they recognised as that of a light railway, then under construction, between Angora and Sivas, for we had seen another bit of this on our way from Angora to Yozgad.[10] At length they came to water--a stagnant lake it proved and brackish, but at least it was water. Curiously enough, they discovered they were not as thirsty as they had imagined, but a paddle was most refreshing. After forty minutes' halt, Cochrane, Johnny, and the Old Man loaded themselves up with the chargals and all except three of the water-bottles, and leaving their packs behind set forth on their urgent quest for Grunt and Ellis. The remaining three divided up the watches between them until dawn. Nobby and Looney had a midnight bathe, finding one place even deep enough to swim in; but it was chilly work drying on a couple of silk handkerchiefs sewn together which served as towel, scarf, or sunshade indiscriminately. Sleep was impossible, for the bank swarmed with mosquitoes and sand-flies, so after a while Nobby went a-fishing with a sultana for bait, but without result. At 2 A.M. the monotony was broken by the arrival of a dog. It stood a few yards away and proceeded to bark for about ten minutes. That light we had seen ahead, and which was now close by, was probably a village fire; so the three just lay low. At length, to their relief, the owner of the beast came and called it off, not worrying to find out at what it was barking. In the meantime Cochrane and the two others had to get back to the nullah where Grunt and Ellis had been left. They recrossed the railway embankment and eventually struck a nullah. As they proceeded this petered out, and the three started wandering over the country, whistling now and again, but receiving no answer. At 2.45 A.M. they again struck the embankment and walked along it for an hour, but could not pick up their bearings. Accordingly they halted and waited for the light. After being heated by the strenuous marching, they soon began to shiver violently with the cold and dosed themselves with quinine. As prearranged in the event of the others not having returned, Nobby, Perce, and Looney at dawn moved off from the pool into hiding in the hills to the west. The packs of the search-party were left concealed under a ledge of the bank and covered with reeds and grass. From the top of the ridge they overlooked the desolate country traversed the night before. Close below them stood an Arab encampment with its black camel-hair tents, from which both the light and dog had doubtless proceeded. A few ponies grazed near the water, now seen to be one of a series of pools lying stagnant in an otherwise dry river bed. A man appeared leading a string of camels. The three were thinking that little prospect remained of joining up again that day, when suddenly they saw figures hurrying across the plain, and recognised with relief that they were Cochrane, the Old Man, and Johnny. At the first sign of dawn they had marched eastwards for a quarter of an hour, and then had to give it up as a bad job, having failed to pick up their bearings. Accordingly, they turned round and walked westwards along the embankment as fast as they could. An hour and twenty minutes later they reached the point at which they had crossed on the previous night, and made for the water where the packs had been left. Here they could see Nobby's party flashing a mirror: for it was now broad daylight. On their westward march they had passed a big railway working camp, and people were moving about. It was no use for all three to risk being seen, so Johnny took a long drink, put on his pack (in case it should prove impossible to join up as a complete party again), loaded himself up with three additional water-bottles and the big chargal, and started off once more to find Grunt and Ellis. Cochrane and the Old Man went off to join up with Nobby's party, having arranged to come down to the water the same evening to show Johnny the way. The latter, looking like a pantechnicon, passed several people in the distance and one man on a donkey at a few yards. Finally he spotted the tracks of the previous night, and in time came upon the correct nullah. It could now be seen that there were three very similar shallow valleys running parallel to one another, and that is how the searchers must have lost their way the night before. At 6.45 A.M. Johnny saw Grunt's head showing above the edge of the nullah. Grunt was almost done to the world and looked ghastly. Except for a little brandy (the party's one flask), he and Ellis had had nothing to drink for twenty hours. They had each tried to take an opium pill during the night, but simply could not swallow it. The very brackish water Johnny had brought provided Grunt with what he considered the best drink of his life. Ellis's thirst was unquenchable. On the previous night they had heard some one whistling in the distance, but had not dared to call out. The three set about collecting sticks in the nullah and brewing some strong tea, which refreshed them immensely. Except for two halts for three-quarters of an hour, Johnny had been on the go for over twelve hours, loaded for the last hour and a quarter with a weight of about 67 lb., owing to the extra water he was carrying. The day was passed trying unsuccessfully to get some shade with coats placed over sticks. Johnny slept only twenty minutes that day,--it was a trying time. The party was split up, and Heaven alone knew when we should all be able to join up again. However, they had two more brews of strong tea--one at 2 P.M. and one at 5. The heat was too great for them to eat anything. Meanwhile the Old Man and Cochrane had rejoined the three on the hill, who prepared them a welcome mugful of tea. On the way up they had noticed a small cave. To this it was decided to move, in preference to the present exposed position. Eight o'clock accordingly found the five huddled up within the cave, thankful at least that they would be sheltered from the sun for the day, but miserable at the thought of what the other three must be going through. An hour later a man appeared at the entrance. They at first understood him to be a shepherd. He said he had seen the three arriving at dawn, and watched the five move down to the cave, but that they had nothing to fear. At the same time he rather anxiously inquired whether they had firearms. Without Grunt to interpret, the five were somewhat at a loss to follow the conversation that ensued, but, in dealing with this unwelcome visitor, they at least had the benefit of Cochrane's former experience of the art of escaping. The uninvited guest was welcomed in, and was soon afterwards squatting down and enjoying some of the party's precious 'baccy and biscuits. The ease with which he bit off pieces of the latter testified to the excellence of his teeth. When he was once more in a position to resume the conversation, he led his hearers to believe that he had already sent a message to the nearest gendarmes and was now awaiting their arrival. Possibly he was misunderstood, for cross-examination elicited the fact that as yet no one else knew of the fugitives' whereabouts, and it became evident that he would not be above accepting a bribe--a failing for which the Turk is perhaps more famed than for any other of his peculiarities. Casting longing eyes upon the clothing which protruded from an open pack, he asked to have a look at a shirt. This seemed to be to his taste, so it was thought expedient to offer it to him as a gift. It was not disdained. That "woolley," too, looked warm and useful. He might as well have that. A skein of rope now caught his eye, so that also changed hands. "Have you any gold?" was his next demand. One must cry a halt somewhere to such greed, so the five regretted they had not, but later had to compromise and give him paper money. With the addition of some more 'baccy and biscuits he appeared temporarily satisfied, and agreed to bring along some water and sour milk from the Arab encampment. Nobby requested him to conceal his gifts. This he did by the simple expedient of winding shirt, "woolley," and rope round his waist beneath his cummerbund. True to his word, he soon reappeared with a skin of water and a copper bowl full of sour milk, promising to bring more in the evening. He insisted, however, that his protégés should not show themselves outside the cave. To this they agreed, although the latter was too cramped to be comfortable,--nowhere was it wide or level enough to permit of any real rest of body, and peace of mind was out of the question so long as the fate of the missing three remained uncertain. It was decided not to risk a "brew," although the "shepherd" had said they might safely do so, and fuel in the shape of dried camel-thorn lay ready to hand. As evening fell, the friend was back again, this time bringing water only. His appreciation of the biscuits and tobacco, however, remained unqualified. Conversation was turning to lighter subjects, when it was interrupted by the entrance of another chance (?) comer, who made no bones as to the price of his silence, and proved a much more difficult customer to square. He eventually accepted five liras in gold--the party had discovered that they had some after all--together with some more paper notes. He also said he was badly in need of a watch, so Cochrane handed over his, omitting to mention, by the way, that it could only be coaxed to go for a few hours at a time! Even so, it was not until 7.15 that our cave-dwellers were able to get rid of this persistent stranger. The next step was to effect a reunion with the missing three. By the light of the young moon they moved off clear of the cave, the track past which constituted a danger. No. 1 scallywag was then informed that the five were not the only members of the party, and that the other three must be collected before they themselves could go on. In case the others should have been recaptured, it was thought advisable not to send still another member of the party back to the pond, for fear the spot where they had been should now be watched. No. 1 was therefore impressed for the task, and provided with a note to show to the absentees, if they arrived. He was instructed to come back if they had not returned within three hours. At the best the Turk has a poor idea of time. Two hours later he was back without the missing three, but once more accompanied by No. 2. No explanation was either asked for or given as to the latter's reappearance: it was quite evident that the two had been in league from the beginning. They now put forward a proposition: the Turkish authorities, they said, were very much concerned about the escape of the twenty-five officers from Yozgad. All the roads and paths round about were being watched, and that very morning about sixty soldiers had been seen passing by the locality, presumably looking for them. They suggested the party should lie hidden in the cave for another three days, while things quietened down a bit. After this they would themselves come along with us and clear out of the country. Their story seemed likely enough; they had at least named the correct number of officers who had escaped. Moreover, it was impossible to think of going on without a final search for the others. The five therefore fell in with the proposal provisionally and returned to the cave. Looney then went down to the pool in the company of the two "guides," to look around for the missing three. These had started down their nullah at 6 P.M., taking things very slowly with long halts for Ellis. In any case, it would have been dangerous to cross the line again during daylight, so they stopped amongst some shrubs a quarter of a mile short of the embankment. Here they waited until 7.30 P.M. They then marched straight for the pool, which they reached in another half-hour. Cochrane was nowhere to be seen. All three now stripped, and had their first wash for five days. Where they were the pool was very shallow, and they discovered that the only way to wash the soap off was to lie first on the back and then on the face. Cleaning the teeth they found refreshed them greatly. Despite all the water and tea he had had during the day, Grunt drank twelve pint mugfuls of the brackish water straight off the reel. This may sound incredible, but the fact remains. After their bathe they dressed and felt very clean. To sit and wait for Cochrane was the next thing to do. The night was cool, and it was no use all keeping awake, so Johnny took the first watch, while the others tried to sleep; but the sand-flies and mosquitoes saw to it well that they did not get the chance. At 11 P.M. approaching steps could be heard. Grunt and Ellis crept down the bank into hiding, and Johnny waited on the top. As the shapes became visible, he was horrified to find that he did not recognise them, and thought he was in for it, till Looney spoke. The latter gave a hurried explanation of the presence of the two murderous-looking strangers with him. The four officers and the two brigands reached the cave about 11.30 P.M. Here was quite the stage setting for villainy of the deepest dye. Two slopes meeting in a V stood out very clearly against the bright starlit night. In the V a small crater was filled with the most ruffianly-looking fellows in fezes, which English and Turks wore alike. The peaceful shepherds, as we sometimes called them, talked a lot and again agreed to come with us. They tried on our packs and strappings. Cut-throat No. 1 appeared to be keen on joining us; No. 2 we thoroughly distrusted. At one side of the crater was the entrance to the cave, at the end of which burned a candle, throwing flickering shadows into the crater outside, and lighting up first one unshaven and haggard face and then another. The peaceful shepherds took their departure exactly at midnight--another touch of true melodrama--each the richer by about thirty paper liras and some gold ones. The first shepherd promised to bring some more milk and water in the morning. It was too cramped in the cave, so we slept in the ravine outside--a long sleep of nearly four hours. This was as much as we had had in the previous five days. Grunt had slept least. The day Johnny took him the water Grunt took some opium and slept for half an hour in the afternoon, and this, with five minutes now and again at halts on the march and his longer sleeps during the daytime, made a total of under four and three-quarter hours out of one hundred and seventeen. Without sleep, days spent in the hot sun and nights in carrying fifty pounds over difficult country without any moon at all are apt to take it out of one, and this we found was the case. We were becoming visibly thinner. Next morning the second peaceful shepherd told us that yet a third peaceful shepherd had discovered our whereabouts, and though he did not put in an appearance, his friend, kindly acting on his behalf, took another thirty liras from us. This decided us to go off that very night, as our money affairs would not stand the constant drain. To be once more a complete party, however, was a great relief. Although cramped for room--for we crowded ourselves into the smallest possible space at the dark end of the cave--we were out of the burning sun. Our spirits went up and we were all cheery, quite a change from other days. By 11.30 A.M. three quite good jokes had already been made. We were able to eat more, most of us managing several biscuits and two ounces of cheese. This also could be accounted for by the shade. The cheese was excellent, and was called by the endearing cheesy diminutive of "Chedlet." It was eaten in the approved style, with a penknife and by cutting pieces off towards the thumb. At about noon we all momentarily held our breath, for we thought we heard footsteps. No one appeared, however, and after a while we discovered the noise came from a tortoise, which was scratching the ground at the entrance to the cave. During this day a decision was arrived at which affected the whole trend of events. As the two Turks were going with us, we determined to change our course and make almost due south, thereby reducing the length of our march to the coast by about a hundred miles. By taking this route we should, of course, have no boat to meet us, but we relied on our guides to get a dhow. We thereupon proceeded to cut down the food supply and kit which had been necessary for the longer journey, and rely on our delightful friends to purchase food for us from any convenient villages we might pass. Travelling lighter, we should be able to move more quickly. We knew that the Salt Desert had to be crossed on our newly-chosen route, but we were prepared to take the risk of having a few thirsty marches. The last sentence written in Johnny's diary that afternoon was, "Grunt, I am glad to say, is sleeping." At 8.15 P.M. a miniature avalanche of stones rattles over the cave, and thus heralded, the peaceful shepherds enter. They are late, but the slight delay does not matter, as in any case we cannot risk going down to the water near the tent encampment until it is quite dark. It is a spring of sweet water to which they are going to take us, and not to the brackish pool, so we follow them. About a hundred yards short of the water we are made to halt. Shepherd No. 1 then takes us in pairs to get a drink and fill our water-bottles: one pair has nearly got to the spring when the shepherd suddenly freezes and then squats down--actions which his companions hasten to imitate. Some one has arrived from the camp to draw water. Nothing happens, however, and when the footsteps have died away they go on to the spring, rejoining the party shortly afterwards. We now retraced our steps up the ravine, and here once more our friends stopped us. Before going any farther, they wanted to know what they were going to receive for their trouble. We told them that when we got to the sea we would take them with us to Cyprus, and there give them each £200. The arrangement, however, was not at all to their liking. What they wanted was ready cash. They now demanded from each officer another fifteen liras down. To comply with this demand was of course impossible, as it would have run us out of nearly all our money, with most of our journey still to go--especially at the present rate of meeting peaceful shepherds. We therefore told them that all the money they were to expect was a lump sum when we were free men. At this the ruffians refused to come with us. Warning them that if we were caught by gendarmes we should know who had given us away, we promised to make known to the officers of the law how good our friends had been to us. After an hour's irksome haggling we decided to go on without them. We set off, and had not climbed one hundred yards up the hill when the kind shepherds changed their minds and offered to accompany us without thought of profit. FOOTNOTE: [10] Many of the British rank and file prisoners were employed on this nearer Angora. CHAPTER VII. RECAPTURED? No. 2 was now allowed to lead the way. Of this he said he knew every foot; but we had only just started when the course he took veered almost to due north. Cochrane, who was next to him, caught hold of his arm and told him we were not imbeciles, and the man then led us along a fair line of country bearing between S.S.W. and S. He informed us that we would come to water on that night's march after four hours, and that we would then halt. It was decided to leave affairs in his hands: if his plans were successful, well and good; if not, we would go our own way. Not more than two hours later we came to a small stream where the peaceful shepherds wanted to halt for the night, but we insisted on proceeding. Finally, we settled down to go to sleep on the side of a small valley at about 2.30 A.M. on August 13th. Nothing untoward happened till about 7 A.M. Then suddenly there was a shout, and shepherd No. 1 could be seen dashing down the hillside above us. He had been keeping watch, he said, but as events turned out it is more than likely that he had been signalling while we were asleep. As daylight appeared the eight of us had moved for better concealment to the bottom of what was seen to be a horseshoe valley, and when the shout was heard we were lying there in a small nullah which was narrow and steep-sided. On standing up, the first things we saw were two ragged-looking gendarmes, one of whom was dressed in a long tattered black coat, and had a black handkerchief tied pirate-wise round his head. Compared to the black-coated gentleman, the other was almost gaudily dressed in a very dirty old grey uniform and "Enveri" cap. What was more important than their dress, however, was the fact that we found ourselves looking down the muzzles of a rifle and revolver carried ready for trigger-pressing by Beau Brummell and his seedy-looking friend. These two gentlemen now came to the kneeling position for greater effect. The shepherds were greatly agitated; but whether their excitement was due to fear or the anticipation of more loot we cannot say. They told us to close up towards the rifle muzzle, which was remarkably steady and enfiladed the length of the nullah; so we all bunched up. It is very hard to remember what one thinks about on these occasions: perhaps the reason is that one does not think of much. One wants something to happen and the suspense to end; the "Come on! get done with it quickly" sort of feeling. Our two old friends now tried to show that they were not really fond of us. They made threatening gestures, and when Grunt moved to pick up his hat, shepherd No. 1 hit him a terrific blow on the side of the head with a thick and heavy stick. Grunt was stunned, and had a bad gash on the right ear, but he soon came round or there would have been a free fight. Fortunately the stick had been very dry and had snapped off at the force of the blow; otherwise without a doubt Grunt's skull would have been broken. We put iodine on the wound and bound it up with lint and bandages, and in a few minutes he was discussing matters with the new folk. Beau Brummell said he was a sergeant of gendarmes; his companion had failed to reach the exalted rank of N.C.O. They now produced rope, and, to add insult to injury, they produced it out of our own packs. Two of us were bound together at the elbows, back to back; the rest round the wrists with their hands behind them. The sergeant then started talking--we need not say lying. He was going to take us back to his regiment. He wanted to know where we were going, and we broadly mentioned the Mediterranean. He thought we were men who had escaped from some camp on the railway, and it took long to convince him that we were officers from Yozgad. How had we managed to escape? We pointed out to him that a Turkish sentry is so overworked that his only time for sleep is on sentry duty. At this he had enough sense of humour to smile. He was curious as to the route taken by the others who had escaped the same night as ourselves: had we told him he would no doubt have called on them too, so we merely said we had not seen any of them since we left Yozgad. Finally the whole point of the story was reached, and he started talking business. We had felt for some time that the conversation was veering in that direction, but these delicate situations have to be very carefully handled; so we left it to him to open the subject. He led up to his proposition by asking whether we would prefer to be recaptured or to go to our "memlikat" (home). We need hardly say what was our reply. He then wished to know what money we possessed, and with moderate truth we told him. As already mentioned, we had started each with at least thirty Turkish pounds in paper in addition to some gold; this, then, with the exception of the sums No. 1 and No. 2 had already received from us, and a little we had fortunately concealed in odd places in our clothing, he now took from our pockets. He seemed quite pleased with his takings, as indeed he should have been with such a windfall, and was graciously pleased to signify that he would now let us go. As we were supposed to be penniless, we pointed out that we had yet many miles to the coast and would need to buy provisions on the way: unless, therefore, he left us with some money we should still have to give ourselves up. Upon this he magnanimously gave us back a bunch of small notes, to the value of about seven Turkish pounds. For the same reason he prevented our quondam guides from helping themselves to the essentials contained in our packs; for by this time they had opened them and were enviously fingering our spare boots and clothing. Instead of being allowed to make off with further loot, they were now ordered to undo our bonds; after this they went away under the escort of the black-coated gentleman. He being a representative of Turkish law, could make his own selection of a souvenir of this happy occasion, and his choice fell on Johnny's fez. This was to prove a great loss, and on future occasions when fezes were the order of the day, Johnny had to wear a khaki handkerchief tied round his head. Beau Brummell himself remained behind for a friendly chat. He advised us to make as quickly as possible for the Tchitchek Dagh to the south, lest the peaceful shepherds should again get on to our tracks and hand us over to further brigands. By this time he was quite frank. If we did this, he said, he would undertake to look after them for the next four hours. (No doubt he also took care of any money they still had on them.) As we prepared to take his advice he remarked that we were soldiers and he had been one too, and that we were therefore friends. He then went off, waving his hand and saying, instead of the usual Turkish valediction, "Adieu." That brigand had more of the sportsman in him than any Turk we had previously met. The moment the brigands were out of sight we moved away over the head of the valley in the opposite direction, and keeping a little west of south, marched for an hour, taking it in turns to carry Grunt's pack. We saw a fairly good hiding-place in a small ravine. It was a question of halting and taking the risk of being caught again by the brigands, or moving on and being almost certainly seen by fresh people; so we decided to stop. The time was half-past ten. Let us quote from a diary written that day. "It is now 1.30 P.M., and no one has asked for money for four hours, so things look brighter. The clouds are getting up, which is a godsend, as our last night's water-bottle will probably have to do us for many hours more. The position is this: we are bound to go by the southern route, as we have thrown away a lot of food. We have no guide, thank goodness. We have already had to bribe four people, and there is not much bribing power left. We are likely to be very thirsty in the near future. In fact, in appreciating the situation it cannot in any sense be called a hopeful one. Nevertheless, we are still free men!" During the day we made a chargal to replace one which leaked. For this purpose we had brought along the sleeves of a waterproof coat, the remainder of which had been left in the cave when we reduced loads. Boots, too, in some cases, already needed repairs. Towards evening Grunt's ear was again bathed and dressed. As dusk came on Cochrane and Nobby went off to look for water near a small grove of trees a quarter of a mile away. Here they found a patch of cultivation, and there was probably water in the vicinity; but so many people were about that the two had to come back without having found any. There was no choice but to trust to finding water while on the march. We started at 8.30 P.M., when the moon was up, keeping in the shadow of the hills which ran along the edge of the valley containing the cultivated patch. After going a mile we saw some damp green grass, and a short way farther on we came to a four-feet square pool of an average depth of an inch. The water gave out a most horrible stench, and must have been the last summer resort of the cattle and buffaloes of the neighbourhood. Nevertheless, we were very glad to drink it and fill our water-bottles, though a second mugful nearly made us sick, and we each had to eat a few sultanas to take away the taste. That drink is not a pleasant memory. Over the rise at the end of the valley we came to good going, and finally reached a road running in the right direction. Our luck, however, did not take us very far, as a short distance ahead was a village where we could hear men talking and dogs barking. To avoid the village we made a long detour to the east and soon found ourselves in the middle of numerous steep and rocky ravines. Unable to get back to the road owing to the nature of the country, we were forced to bear to the left or east, and spent the whole night going up and down the features of the mountain that had been pointed out to us that morning by Beau Brummell. As already mentioned, this range is called Tchitchek Dagh, or Flower Mountain, the oak-scrub with which it is covered being in Turkey a near enough approach to flowers to give it that name. On this night we made our first acquaintance with sheep-dogs. Shortly after midnight we heard one barking not far ahead of us, and the tinkle of bells, so we again sheered off a little. The dog, however, was not going to miss a really good opportunity of barking, and it came nearer and nearer in the darkness, making an almost deafening noise. The sheep-dogs are the only ones in Turkey that are well treated; some of them are magnificent animals and ugly customers to meet, especially at night. The brute finally stopped ten yards short of us, and as we moved hastily on he sped us on our way with a series of roars. Half an hour later, to counteract our general depression due to the events of the last few days and to the heart-breaking country we were traversing, Cochrane found a spring of good water. He had suddenly turned off to the right, saying he smelt it, and sure enough before we had gone fifty yards we came on a spring. Here we had a huge drink and got rid of the putrid water in our water-bottles. On this march we found that if we drank enormous quantities of water--in fact, if we forced ourselves to drink more than we wanted--we could carry on like a camel for a long time without a drink when the need arose. It may here be said, though a digression, that the fact about camels going for many days without water only holds good if they are trained to it. A friend of ours--a colonel in a Gurkha regiment--had told us that in the attempt to reach Gordon at Khartoum the camels with the relieving force were marched for a few days along the Nile and were watered twice daily. They naturally became used to drinking only a little at a time, and when they were suddenly taken across the desert it needed but two or three days without water to kill most of them. We moved on from the spring in very much better spirits. At 2.30 A.M. we rested for an hour till daylight, for we were now at the summit of the range, and might only involve ourselves in unnecessary difficulties if we went on without being able to see the country. Sleep, however, was impossible. It was exasperating, indeed, to find that by night it was too cold to sleep, and too hot by day. It seemed there was some truth in the saying-- "As a rule a man's a fool: When it's hot he wants it cool; When it's cool he wants it hot,-- Always wanting what is not." At daylight we marched on for another two and a half hours. The whole mountain range was covered with the oak-scrub, which practically hid us as we walked along the bed of a valley. At 6 A.M. we turned up a small ravine off the main valley we were in, and hid in pairs in the scrub. As we climbed to our hiding-places we disturbed a pair of huge eagle-owls. With these birds we were acquainted at Yozgad. "Patters," one of the naturalists with whom Johnny went out that Sunday morning, had kept a tame one. Whilst out hunting he had found a nest in a precipice, and, with the aid of a rope and two assistants, had managed to reach it. The nest contained two baby owls, one of which he brought back to the camp with him. It was at that time only a week old, and merely the size of a fowl, but in a few weeks it became a fine upstanding bird, guaranteed to implant terror within the most resolute breast. At the age of three weeks it would swallow with consummate skill any dead sparrow that might be thrown to it: nothing remained to tell the tale except a few straggling feathers attached to his majesty's beak and a satisfied leer in his eyes. Mice, of course, were as easy for him to gulp down as sugar-coated pills would be to a sword-swallower. One day the youngster and a full-grown gander were placed face to face a few feet apart. Panic-stricken, they eyed each other for a few breathless seconds, then both turned tail and fled. But to return to our story. While in hiding in the scrub we did not dare to move, though it was agony lying at a steep angle, one's hip on a pointed rock. We hardly spoke a word all day, which was very creditable; but none of us had any desire to be caught again by brigands. By reason of the cover it afforded the Flower Mountain was obviously very suitable for what the Turk calls a "Haidood." From this word, which means "outlaw," we coined an expressive adjective, and were wont to talk of a "haidoodish" bit of country. Towards sunset we felt justified in having been so cautious, for we saw five armed men driving half a dozen cows over the crest of an opposite ridge, and the haste with which they were moving made it seem very probable that they were cattle-lifting. We left our hiding-place about 7 P.M. and retraced our steps down the valley to a pool where we had seen a little water in the morning. On reaching it we found that nothing remained except some moist earth trampled by cattle, a herd of which must have been there during our absence. An hour after sunset we were back again at the foot of the slope where we had hidden all day, and now commenced a long march. It took us two and a half hours to get clear of the Tchitchek Dagh. It was very up and down, but fairly smooth going. After this the country opened up a little, but once again it became very difficult, with all the valleys running transversely to the southerly course we were steering. These valleys and two villages, to avoid which we had to make detours, cut down our speed in a useful direction to about one mile an hour. During the night we halted in order to get some sleep, but once more the cold was too great. Even during the five minutes' halts at the end of each hour we were chilled to the bone, and it was an effort to get moving again. On these short halts it was a waste of precious resting-time to remove our packs, though we had done this at the start. We now used to lie on our backs without taking anything off, and with our legs up a slight slope, so that the blood could run away from our feet. At 4 A.M. we resumed our march, meaning to go on for the first hour of daylight, then to find a hiding-place and stop there. Unfortunately an hour's marching found us stranded in unpleasantly open cornland and surrounded by villages and harvesters working in the fields. There was no hope of concealment, so we had to carry on. Coming over a rise, we found ourselves forced to march boldly through a village which, by the headgear of the women, we took to be Turcoman, though this part of Asia Minor is rather out of the Turcoman's beat. Along the road we passed scores of people, mostly women, riding on donkeys. Having once started, however, the only thing to do was to follow a track leading as much as possible in the desired direction, and to pretend to have some business there. Grunt, with his head bandaged, looked like a wounded soldier, and the rest of us might have looked soldiers of a sort. On the far side of the village we marched across a broad valley, in which were more women working at the crops and some men tending cattle. After plodding on for four more hours, the last three in broad daylight, we at length reached a range of bare hills, at the foot of which we saw a dozen splendid wild geese, but these potential dinners flew leisurely away at our approach. Painfully climbing half-way up a rocky and winding ravine, we threw down our packs. We had started marching over thirteen hours before, and, except for one and a half hours rest, had been on the move all the time, so we were very weary. The daily ration had been about twelve ounces of food--not very much, when one was carrying a heavy load and marching many miles a day over mountainous country. Some cocoa was made; and when that was finished we boiled up a mixture of rice, Oxo cubes, and sultanas, which for lack of water was very uncooked. On arriving at the ravine we had found a small tortoise; but while every one was busy making the cocoa, Master Tortoise disappeared, and though we hunted for him, with a view to adding him to the rice, we never saw him again. This day we worked out a new distribution list for the extra biscuits, rice, and sultanas, which we had made into two packages in the cave for our two guides to carry for themselves. When our two friends had threatened not to come with us, these had been taken away from them and hurriedly distributed amongst the party; even when they afterwards did accompany us we had providentially kept these supplies in our own packs. Counting everything, we found that we had nine days' supply of food, on the basis of about twelve ounces a day each. As there still remained some 200 miles to go before reaching the coast, we realised that we should have our work cut out to get through. So far we had obtained no food from the country, though when we started we had hoped to do so. By now we were beginning to feel really hungry. For the first few days of the march the heat had taken away our appetites, but we were getting acclimatised, and the exhaustion of our reserve of strength made us feel the full effects of a reduced diet. At intervals we regretted having left nearly half our food behind in the cave. At the time we did so, however, it was the wisest course, and had we not reduced our loads it is certain we should not have been able to make the same progress. A mile north of the range of hills in which we were hiding we had passed a line of telegraph poles, and what we had supposed to be a main road running east and west. This was in a very bad state of repair, but was evidently the road which our forty-year-old map informed us was only six miles from the Kizil Irmak. More than once we discovered that the map was a mine of misinformation. It is only fair to say, however, that the river in this part was shown in a dotted line, an admission that it had not been surveyed. During the day one or two marmots came out of their holes to inspect us, standing up like picket pins the while, but without a trap they are very hard to catch. Looking up between the sides of the ravine, which were at least 300 feet high, we saw several vultures hovering over our heads. A few butterflies flitted about near us; and these were the only signs of life. Nevertheless it was not pleasant waiting there, as we had to do for nearly ten hours till darkness should come. We knew we had been seen by many people in the village and in the fields, and any gendarmes who might have been given news of our whereabouts would have ample time to catch us up. CHAPTER VIII. THE ANCIENT HALYS. Shortly before sunset on August 15th we started to climb the ravine. This was a mile and a half long, and by the time we reached the top night had fallen. On our way up we had seen a stone that looked very like a bird; as one of us stooped to pick it up, the stone, to our great surprise, turned itself into a night-jar and fluttered away. The hills we now crossed were very rough and steep. At the bottom of the first valley to which we came we found a stream, by which we halted in the bright moonlight for a few minutes' rest and a drink. It was fortunate we were amongst some rushes, for suddenly three or four men rode by on donkeys not ten yards from us. They did not see us. Later, on coming to a big nullah, we followed it, hoping that it would lead us eventually to the Kizil Irmak, but by 3 A.M. we had tired of its winding course and took a more direct line to the south. The wind was bitterly cold, and the only comfortable few minutes' halt enjoyed that night was under the lee of a hayrick. At 5 A.M. we caught a glimpse of a big river six miles away; remembering, however, our enforced march of the previous morning, we decided to halt where we were without venturing farther. A shallow ditch, about two feet deep, was our hiding-place for the day. Here we found some straw, which proved a blessing. With it we obtained for our heads some sort of protection from the sun, but, despite the shelter, the heat entailed upon us a sleepless day. A bunch of straw, too, served as a cushion for our thinly-covered hip-bones. Later on in the day we used straws for drinking out of our water-bottles. It was a good scheme, for, by judiciously choosing a very thin stem, one had the satisfaction of drinking for minutes at a time without having expended more than a few drops of water. The cold wind of the night had died down at dawn, but towards sunset a light breeze again sprang up, and this refreshed us greatly. We had been so sure of reaching the Kizil Irmak on the previous night that we had made no provision for water. Consequently, by now, it was much needed, and we felt that when we did reach the river we would make a good effort to drink it dry. Some of us ate grasshoppers that day. The small nourishment they afforded did not make it worth our while to expend any energy in chasing them, but if one came to hand and allowed itself to be captured it was eaten. Opinions differed as to their succulence. Nobby stated they were like shrimps; Johnny noted in his diary that they were dry and rather bitter. To the general relief, Grunt's ear had begun to heal; we had by now used nearly all our supply of iodine and bandages on it, and had it become poisoned Grunt would have had a very bad time. It was not till nearly 10 P.M. that we reached the Kizil Irmak, and then only with great difficulty. The country was well populated, and many shepherds' huts and sheep-dogs barred our path. At one point we actually passed by the front door of a small house, outside which two men and their families were lying. The men sprang up in alarm at seeing eight extraordinary figures walk by, but we did not wait on the order of our going. Before reaching the river we came to a small stream where we drank our fill: then making several detours and walking as noiselessly as possible, we finally reached the bank of the Kizil Irmak. It was difficult in the moonlight to judge how broad it was: probably 300 yards across. But at that time of year half the bed was merely sandbanks, with a few trickles running through them. Taking off our boots and socks we tied them round our necks; trousers were pulled up over our knees, and we started off, hoping that we should find the main stream fordable. At the point where we stood the river was on a curve, and it was clear that the deep water would be on the opposite side. Walking along in single file we crossed in a direction slanting up-stream, and to our delight reached the other bank with the water only just above our waists. This bank was covered with reeds and difficult to climb. The river water had been much warmer than the small streams we had passed, but now as we sat wet to the waist in the wind we soon became very cold; for it was a lengthy process wringing out our clothes and dressing on the steep bank where we remained so as not to be seen in the bright moonlight. Here we also washed our faces and brushed our teeth. When we started from Yozgad we had thought of the Kizil Irmak as the first definite mark in our journey, and though we had not crossed it as soon or in the same place as we had intended, yet we were across it, and one stage was successfully accomplished after nine days' march. As soon as all were dressed and ready we again set off, and, passing a gigantic and solitary rock near the bank, here running almost due N. and S., we went up a steady incline over prairie land. At 2 A.M. we halted and slept for two hours under the shelter of some small rocks. At daylight we crossed a valley which had been converging on the left with our course, and drank at a little pool on the farther side. This would have been a pleasant resting-place for the day: we could have lain and slept under the shade of the trees which ran the length of the valley, and we even saw a few blackberry bushes to tempt us; but there were signs of human activity in vegetable gardens around, so we proceeded. Again it was a case of out of the frying-pan into the fire, as we soon came into open country that was cultivated and signally lacking in cover. Two men on a track we were about to cross stared very intently at us, but moved on. An old man on a donkey was ruder still; for not only did he stare at us, but he waited till we came up to him, and then without an introduction asked us where we were going and whence we had come. These questions were answered by Cochrane pointing vaguely to the south, and then to the north; and so we left him. At 6 A.M. we were momentarily out of sight of mankind in a shallow depression in the ground. It was overlooked by a hill to the north, but a glance over the next ridge showed us that we were half encircled by villages: we therefore stayed where we were. All day we must have been seen again and again by herd-boys and women on the hill, what time the sun beat down upon us from a cloudless sky. Cooking a meal or tea was out of the question, and our 11 oz. of food that day consisted of two biscuits, 1 oz. of chocolate, and 4 oz. of sultanas. The last named are not only of excellent food value, but last a long while when eaten one at a time. When we marched on at 7 P.M., thirst once again controlled our movements, and we spent over an hour in an anxious search for water. After visiting one clump of trees after another, we were at length rewarded by the discovery of a trickle feeding a small pool. The water moreover was sweet, and we felt that the refreshment of that drink was well worth the hour's search. Having filled chargals and water-bottles, we set off once more over easy rolling country, and within three hours were again drinking our fill at an unlooked-for spring. The moon set shortly after midnight, and coming soon afterwards to a deep reed-filled ditch, we thought it would best repay us to rest there till dawn should reveal what sort of country lay ahead. The icy wind which on the march had been a blessing, now threatened to be our bane. The nullah itself was sheltered, but it was marshy; so we lay down in a shallow but dry water-channel beyond, and obtained what sleep we could. It was, however, with little regret that at dawn next day we restored our frozen circulations by a brisk walk, the improving light having revealed the existence of a village close at hand. Making off into some low hills to the S.W., we proceeded to pick our way up a small valley, until at 5.30 we reached the head of a dry water-course. Here we settled down for the day. It was not an ideal hiding-place, but by this time we had ceased to expect one. We soon discovered a village track led by our lair a few yards above our heads. Along this would pass from time to time a country bullock-cart. The creak of the primitive axle revolving wood against wood within its rude socket was a noisy reminder, which we little needed, of the backward state of Turkey's civilisation. In view of the persistence of such anachronisms even in India, perhaps we should say it was a symbol of the stupid conservatism of the East. In addition to the unfortunate proximity of the road, our valley had the disadvantage of being itself the frequented path of cattle, a small herd of which came leisurely by not long after our arrival and showed more surprise at the strangers than did the two boys who followed them. We had seen water a little farther down the valley--mere puddles, it is true, but sufficient to justify our using a chargalful for cooking. It was not long, therefore, before a welcome half-mug of cocoa was being measured out, to be followed later by the standard mixture of rice, Oxo, and a few raisins. During the day most of us got more than the usual quota of sleep, for the cool wind still held. At 5 P.M. our conversation, carried on now almost unconsciously in the low tones of the fugitive, suddenly broke forth into a more natural loudness; for two men had seen us from the road and were bearing down upon us. We had fortunately decided beforehand on a story containing a touch of local colour. Salutations over, the usual questions were asked as to where we had come from and what was our next objective. A Turk does not usually stop to inquire who you are; but this time we volunteered the information that we were German surveyors who had been engaged on fixing a site for a new bridge across the Kizil Irmak, and that we were now making our way to the railway at Eregli. The pair appeared satisfied, but put the question why we did not shelter from the heat in one of the villages round about. To this came the ready reply that one day we had done so, but had not been politely treated, so now we only entered when in need of food. We took the opportunity of finding out from our two callers the names of the various villages visible from the road above; unfortunately, none were marked on our forty-year-old map, so that this means of settling our position failed. However, we at least had the satisfaction of learning that there was a spring only a couple of hundred yards farther up the hill; in fact, when standing up we could see its stone trough. Despite their apparent friendliness and the absence of any sign of suspicion, we were relieved to see our visitors depart; and having filled ourselves and our water-vessels at the spring, lost no time in moving on. We soon found that we were on the top of a small plateau, which to the east rose gently towards a low range of hills; while to the S. and S.W. the country fell away in a steep scarp. Below this stretched the desert plain, in the midst of which could be seen in the failing light the shimmer of the great salt lake. Even when we expected to have the guidance of the peaceful shepherds, this desert had not been a pleasant prospect; still less did we relish the thought now, after the troubles we had experienced in comparatively well-watered country. It was, however, a matter either of going on or giving up, so we went on. We had now been free men for eleven days. The moon at this time served us for rather more than half of each night, so that even after sunset we could see the solitary peak of Hasan Dagh rising majestically over the plateau's edge to a height of several thousand feet above the plain. As we descended the scarp to our right we lost sight of this landmark; but our course was decided for us, since we soon found ourselves compelled to follow a gradually narrowing valley. For the next three and a half hours we were confined to a steep-sided gorge. A little before this a man mounted on a donkey, and accompanied by a boy, had seen us, and to our disagreeable surprise turned and followed. We had shaken them off, when in the shadow of the gorge we saw a group of several men. It is hard to say whether they were more likely to have been brigands or fugitives like ourselves: one thing seemed certain, they had no business there. At any rate, they let us pass undisturbed, but the impression was forced upon us that this ravine we had entered was a death-trap, and when it veered more and more to the west we decided to make an attempt to get out of it. A clamber up the rocky southern slope, however, only revealed ridge after ridge and valley after valley between us and the plain, so we had perforce to go back into the ravine. Our relief was great indeed when at 1 A.M. the valley opened out, and we debouched on to the desert past a village. Before we left Yozgad, Nobby had continually impressed upon the party the need of living as much as possible on the country. To aid us in this he had consulted with another naturalist, and prepared an elaborate list of somewhat uncommon but possible foods. Amongst them appeared tortoises, snails, frogs, snakes--these last were especially nutritious, stated this unique document--rodents, and grasshoppers. There were also notes regarding mushrooms, and how to distinguish them from poisonous toadstools. Tortoise we ate at Yozgad, not, we must hasten to add, because we were reduced to it by lack of better nourishment, but with a view to testing its edibility. It proved messy and uninteresting, but at least non-poisonous. We had, however, hardly come across any tortoises during our march, although we had seen many on the journey from Changri to Yozgad four months previously. In fact, the only item of the list we had sampled so far had been the grasshoppers. We had, of course, also placed considerable dependence on being able to eke out our meagre ration by plucking corn as we went along at night, intending either to boil or to parch it the next day. We had discovered that the Turkish soldiers did the latter very quickly and effectively by making a small fire of twigs, placing whole ears of corn on them, then adding more twigs on top. When the fire had died down they took out the corn and separated the grain by the simple process of rubbing it between the hands. Unfortunately for us, although we had passed a good deal of ready-cut crops, there never seemed to be enough grain inside to be worth the trouble of collecting. On this particular night, however, Nobby was able for once to satisfy his predatory instincts by looting a couple of water-melons, for there was a bed of these outside the village we were now passing. These were cut up and divided out among the party without further ado, and eaten as they continued on their way. As a matter of fact, the melons were far from ripe; but even the rind seemed too good to throw aside, for by this time we were ready to eat anything: but it did not tend to quench thirst, we found, so the rind was sacrificed. The going was easier, and with one long halt of an hour and a half we plodded on steadily until 5 A.M. It was then, of course, daylight; and as a mile to our west there was a large town, boasting a rather fine-looking white tower, we resolved to lie up in a dry but grassy irrigation channel. A light haze covered the country, but in the direction opposite to the town we could just recognise Akserai built near the foot of the Hasan Dagh peak. Before us stretched the desert plain, bare except for an occasional nomad encampment; there seemed little sign of movement, even around the town near by. By 10 A.M. this 19th of August, we came to the conclusion that we might as well go on by day. We had practically no water, and if we were to be in the sun it was better to be on the march as well. The next water shown on our map was a river called the Beyaz Sou, or "White Stream," and thither we set forth, once more transformed into Germans by the simple expedient of replacing the fezes we had been wearing by Homburg hats or service dress caps, one or other of which each of the party carried for this very purpose. In less than an hour we were glad to find ourselves nearing a stream, on the banks of which were a few reed huts and a vegetable patch with some more of those excellent water-melons. This time, however, there were not the same facilities for their removal, and, as we rather anticipated, their wild owners would not part with them, money or no. We therefore proceeded to the stream, which was perhaps a foot deep and twelve feet across. The paddle was refreshing to the feet; the water for drinking purposes less encouraging, for above us were cattle watering and the bottom was muddy. It belied its name of "White Stream," we thought, as we filled up our water-bottles. While doing this and wiping the mud off our feet, a villainous-looking cutthroat came out from a tent close by and drew near for a talk. We told the usual German story, and he asked for no details, but mentioned there was better water in a village farther on; we could see its grove of trees to our left front. On resuming our march we did not visit it, but kept due south over the scorched prairie land, varied here and there with a bit of plough. The heat was already terrific. At 1 P.M. we halted for an hour within a broken-down enclosure of large sun-dried blocks of mud. Two of these made an excellent fireplace for the dixie, while dry camel thorn and scrub provided fuel in abundance. Here we cooked some rice and cocoa, which, although amounting to only half a mugful apiece, took some time to demolish, for in that temperature the food was long in cooling. Here a dissertation upon mugs. If an aluminium mug saves an ounce of weight, it makes a ton of trouble: and Looney's was thoroughly unpopular on account of its unpleasant habit of burning the fingers of any one who handled it. Moreover, it shared the failing of instability with Perce's empty ovaltine tin, which did duty for mug after his own had fallen out of his haversack on the very first night. Its small base was a source of anxiety both to its owner and the disher-out of brews. If you ever think of having all your food for a month or so out of a mug, let it be a squat enamelled one. While we were eating our simple fare, a man passed ahead of us, but took no apparent notice of our little group. We marched on at about 2 P.M., having as our next objective Mousa Kouyousou, _i.e._, the Well of Moses: aptly named we thought, for the parched plain before us would need a Moses' wand to make it bring forth water. No treed oasis round this well was to help us in our quest; the map itself wrote the name vaguely across the desert without committing itself to any definite spot. All we could say from the map was that the well should be almost due west of Hasan Dagh. In that case we ought to find it within eighteen miles of the Beyaz Sou, and that as we imagined was now five or six miles behind us. An hour later we unexpectedly came upon a couple of small irrigation canals, at the first of which we halted a few minutes to bathe our scorched feet. The heat and glare of the desert were indeed overpowering; mirage seemed to raise the southern end of the Touz Cheul--the Salt Lake--above the level of the plain, and mocked us with the vision of an arm of water stretching out eastwards at right angles to our course, until we began to wonder where we could best cross it. As we proceeded, however, it became clear that this was in reality but the broad white bed of a dried-up river. A horrible suspicion entered our minds that here was the real Beyaz Sou, and that the muddy stream and two canals we had crossed were merely its diverted waters. The surmise was soon confirmed, for, as we drew near, we were able to see far away to the S.E. a humpbacked bridge of some antiquity, now standing high and dry. This meant that those eighteen miles to the Well of Moses were still before us. On the far bank of the old river-bed could be seen a few huts, apparently deserted, while a little farther on, and to the west, stood an old khan or inn which eventually turned out to be in ruins. It was possible, however, that a well might be found there, so we decided to go rather out of our way on the off-chance. We amused ourselves by estimating how long it would take to reach it. The most pessimistic view was twenty minutes, but from the time of the guess we were on the march for a full hour before we finally reached that khan: so much for distance-judging in the desert. At 5.30 P.M. haggard eyes were peering down into the depths of two wells, obviously long disused, but which might still perhaps contain a little water. As it happened one of them did, and Cochrane lowered a mug. All he succeeded in drawing up were a few putrid dregs, in which floated some decomposed cockroaches--to Nobby's disgust especially; for it was his mug. Prospects were not very bright: Moses' Well, if it existed at all, was still something over twelve miles distant, and if we marched on at night it would be the easiest thing in the world to miss it in the darkness. At length the sun set, and as the air became cooler our spirits revived a little. We made up our minds that we would carry on for only part of the night, so as to be short of the well when daylight appeared. 7 o'clock accordingly saw us once more on the march; the going remained good, although the country was becoming rather more undulating. There were still the little fields of dusty plough in the midst of otherwise hopeless desolation. After a couple of hours we took our long halt on the edge of one of those ploughed patches. Nobby, wiser than the remainder of the party, dug himself a shallow trench in the loose soil, and so slept for five happy hours undisturbed by the cold which woke the rest; for we seemed to live in extremes of temperature. Dawn on the 20th August found us very anxious. Having marched for another two hours or more, we felt that the well must be somewhere near. As the light grew stronger, we crossed a couple of steep rocky nullahs, and looking back saw that we had passed not far from a village in a group of trees. A minute later two stunted trees ahead caught our eye. We thought there might be water here, but were disappointed. By six o'clock we were seriously thinking of going back to the village behind us, when another came into view on our left. This time, however, there were no trees, and the huts seemed entirely deserted; but next moment our steps quickened as we recognised the stone circle of a well. As in other countries in the East, so in Turkey, water is often drawn up by bullocks: they are harnessed to a rope which, passing over a rude pulley supported directly over the mouth of the well, is attached to a large waterskin. The track beaten out by the patient beasts as they go to and from the well gives a measure of its depth. In the present instance, we could see by the length of the track that our well was a deep one; but it was comforting to find that the hoof-marks appeared fairly recent. So deep, indeed, was this well that no sound could be heard of the splash of a dropped pebble, but as the eyes became more accustomed to the dark depths, it was possible to recognise the sparkle of running water. Packs were off in a moment, and while Johnny and Grunt went on to see what they could find in the village, Cochrane joined up the heterogeneous collection of string and cord produced by the rest. There was still insufficient length, however, until we had added on a couple of strands unravelled from a skein of rope. Nobby's mug was then lowered, and we began filling our water-bottles and chargals. No drinks were to be allowed until this had been done--a wise precaution, for after a few mugfuls the string snapped, and poor old Nobby's mug was gone. It was not long before a new line was made, this time all of strands from the rope, and a water-bottle was lowered, suitably weighted to make it enter the water mouth upwards. As soon as the supply was ensured, Ellis and Looney started a fire in a high stone enclosure near the village huts; for here it was possible to obtain a little shade from the already burning sun. Inside the enclosure there was a limitless supply of canes, placed there by some unwitting friend, and these, after weeks in the sun, were dry and burned admirably. Things were certainly beginning to look up, and we refreshed ourselves with a series of brews--cocoa, rice and Oxo, and tea--calculating with satisfaction that we had covered something over forty-four miles in the preceding thirty-five hours. Our contentment was but temporarily disturbed by the arrival of two men on donkeys--who with three or four boys now came into the village. They passed by the open side of our enclosure, so we thought it best to call out the usual greeting, as though pleased to see them. To this they responded, and a few minutes later, having dismounted in the village, the two men came up, borrowed a brand from our fire, lit their cigarettes, and chatted pleasantly enough. The conversation turned, as often, on the subject of firearms. We slapped our thighs in a knowing way, and left them to infer that we had revolvers. They seemed to take our presence as a matter of course, and asked no awkward questions as to what we were doing in such an out-of-the-way place. After a short rest they took their departure, and we thought no more about them. CHAPTER IX. A RETREAT UNDER FIRE. An hour later, having refilled every water-carrying vessel, we too got under way. Scarcely had we gone three hundred yards from the well, however, when a rifle bullet whizzed over our heads and plunked into the higher ground some distance beyond. We stopped and turned, to find that we were followed by a party of five ruffians, two of whom we could see had rifles. Grunt shouted out to ask what they wanted, upon which they waved to us, as much as to imply that it was all a mistake and we could go on. It is difficult to know what leads one to do certain things on such occasions: whether we were not inclined to allow so risky a mistake to pass unnoticed, or whether it was that we did not like to leave such doubtful characters in our rear; something at any rate induced us to find out more about them, so we began to walk back towards the well. To our surprise they too then began retreating, so six of us halted while Cochrane and Grunt approached them alone. Still, however, our friends seemed far from keen to make our nearer acquaintance--or rather we should say, renew it, for it was now possible to recognise amongst them the two who had ridden in on donkeys an hour before. This helped to explain their caution, for perhaps seeing our bold front, they thought it better to keep out of range of those revolvers of ours; at any rate they kept moving off as fast as Cochrane and Grunt advanced towards them. Even the armed men would not remain within shouting range, so that pour-parlers were somewhat at a standstill. Others were by this time getting in amongst the village houses, where it was hard to see what they were up to. They might work round under cover, and so suddenly come in on the flank of our two envoys if they went back much farther towards the well. Cochrane wisely called a halt, and waited for the six behind to move up to some higher ground from which it would be easier to watch the opposing party. Some of these, however, even disappeared over the low ridge beyond the village, reappearing later reinforced by three more men. Meanwhile a period of stalemate ensued: our two envoys were not to be enticed into the village, still less would the enemy come any nearer. It must have been a full quarter of an hour that we stood there looking at one another. At length, in reply to Grunt's repeated inquiries as to what they wanted, the nearest man started taking off his clothes, and made signs for us to do the same. This, at least, was plain acting if not plain speaking. Events now began to move much more rapidly. There was not much difficulty in deciding what to do, and in any case, on these occasions one acts almost intuitively. If we thought consciously at all, it was that though we were hardly in a position to dispute these men's demands, seeing that our revolvers were only imaginary, we could at any rate give them a run for their money--or, more accurately, for our clothes. To give them these without a struggle was tantamount to relinquishing once and for all what little hope remained of getting out of Turkey; it would further involve the very unpleasant, if not positively dangerous, experience of spending several days and nights in the friendless desert, with next to no clothes or food. Cochrane and Grunt, at any rate, did not hesitate for a moment, although for the last few minutes one of the armed men had been covering them at a range of little over a hundred yards, and was sure to fire when they turned. And so it happened; but a sustained aim does not make for good shooting, and the shot went wide. The remaining six waited for the two to rejoin them, and then all of us, extending into skirmishing order, began a hasty retreat. The chances were not very equal: even if both sides had been unarmed, we were severely handicapped by our packs and water-bottles. The two full chargals Johnny and Looney had to empty as they ran. Moreover, although by this time we were in hard enough training, we could scarcely expect to possess sufficient stamina for a protracted retirement; and if the ordinary villagers of this lawless countryside were in the habit of turning brigand on every favourable opportunity, we might have others joining in the chase when the first tired of it: a second village had already come into view. But there was little time to be thinking of all these possibilities; we had the more immediate danger of being hit by one of our pursuers' bullets. As soon as they had seen us take to flight they had reopened fire. One of the rifles was obviously a Mauser, the other gave the impression of being rather an antiquated old blunderbuss; but it is not pleasant to stop even one of those comparatively slow-moving lumps of lead. Strangely enough, however, none of us felt afraid for his own safety: the chief fear of each was that some one else of the party might be hit, which would mean that all our plans of escape would have to go by the board, for we should naturally all have stayed with the wounded man. Providentially, the wild villagers' shooting was not very good, although one shot struck the ground between Nobby and Perce. [Illustration: _Sketched to Authors' description by Hal Kay._ THE FLIGHT FROM MOSES' WELL.] At this stage we seriously thought of dropping one of our packs, in the hope that the Turks might delay their pursuit to look at their loot, but the suggestion was not entertained for more than a moment. So we carried on, doubling for a hundred yards in every three. With these loads it was impossible to keep running continuously. The shots were now beginning to follow one another at longer intervals. Looking back, we found to our joy that we were actually outdistancing our pursuers. This seemed almost too good to be true. We began to look round anxiously in case they might perhaps have something else in store. One armed man sent round on a pony or donkey would be enough to cut us off; we accordingly kept a sharp look-out to right and left. No one, however, appeared, and after a precipitate flight of over two miles, and the creation, if there had been some one to time us, of a world's record for speed under novel conditions, we found that our pursuers had abandoned the chase. Probably those imaginary revolvers of ours had still kept them in check, for we noticed that they followed us over each little rise with considerable circumspection, as though fearing we might be lying up for them. We had come through with the loss of the water in the chargals and of Ellis's water-bottle. The later had jumped out of its sling at the hottest stage of the pursuit, and had to be left where it fell. May its new owner find it always as empty as it seemed to be with us! It was now about 12.20 P.M. and the heat at its worst. It was no time, however, to rest or even to slacken our pace more than we could help: and we did in fact carry on at well over four miles an hour until 2.30 P.M. Then seeing no further signs that we were followed we allowed ourselves a short halt. By this time our throats were parched with thirst and our clothes saturated with perspiration; but worst discomfort of all was the pain of our feet. The violent running and marching, the fiery heat of the sun above, and the radiation from the glowing earth beneath, had combined to reduce them to bits of red-hot flesh, and we longed for water to cool them. But everywhere stretched the desert, dusty and bare, bordered by naked barren hills. To avoid approaching those immediately S. of us, we had latterly altered our course rather to the S.E.; for we were developing an unholy and not unnatural dread of brigands, and imagined that every hill was infested with them. Not till 4.30 that evening did we dare to take more than a few minutes' rest. As we lay on the ground we scrutinised with deepest interest the Taurus Mountains, which, as the heat-haze lifted, stood out clearly ahead--the last great barrier to be overcome before we reached the sea. From a distance of about sixty miles it looked a level range, broken by no outstanding peak, pierced by no low-lying pass. Anywhere in the portion where we were likely to cross, however, the map indicated a height of not more than 5000 feet; so we turned our attention to nearer objects. In the next shallow valley we could see several flocks of sheep, or so we thought. These we watched eagerly through our glasses, for their presence denoted water. We fancied we could see a stream a little beyond them, but when we reached the spot after dark we found that mirage had once again deceived us. It was not until we had marched another sixteen weary miles that our needs were to be met. That night, the beginning of our third week of liberty, the strain of recent events and our anxiety for water were reflected in our tempers, and Cochrane had the thankless task of trying to keep the balance between those who demanded water on or off the nearest route, and those who howled for smooth-going for the sake of their agonised feet. A twentieth-century Solomon, he kept the balance well: for the sore-feet brigade he had two hours over an ideal marching surface; then, in deference to the all-for-water party, two hours over stone-strewn ground at the foot of some low hills. These held out the best prospect of finding the precious fluid. The search, however, was all in vain; for although we passed close above a village where there must have been water, we did not dare to seek the source of its supply. This night opium pills and "Kola" tablets were in great demand, but even those could not keep some of us going, and soon after midnight we took an hour's rest. A little before, we had passed by an enormous flock of sheep: so disheartened were some of us that we very nearly decided to go up and ask the shepherd to show us the nearest water. This, however, Cochrane wisely decided not to risk. Instead, while the remainder lay down and rested, he left his pack and went off with Old Man to search for it. Their self-sacrifice was without result. After an hour's absence they rejoined the party, and we marched on, determined to make a last desperate effort to reach the Ak Gueul (White Lake) near Eregli. This was still fifteen miles or more away, and would, we knew, be salt; but it was the next water marked on our map. Just before we halted we had crossed a track, and along this we started off at something over four miles an hour. Doubtless this pace could not have lasted, and providentially, an hour later, we were deterred from our purpose by the sound of more sheep bells. There must, therefore, be water somewhere in the neighbourhood. Though it was a pity to waste the moon, which was at its full and would only set an hour before dawn, we decided, after all, to wait the two hours which remained before daylight. We could then find out where the flocks were watered, and be fairly certain to find good concealment amongst the ridges of the Karadja Dagh, which was visible to the S.W. At this time we had, on the average, less than a pint of water a head. Dawn on the 21st August found us huddled behind a couple of small rocks, seeking in vain for shelter from the cutting wind which was blowing harder every minute from the north. So chilled were we that another opium pill all round was voted a wise precaution. "Seeing red" is not an uncommon occurrence, but, owing to the opium, some of us that morning saw a green sunrise. In the valleys on either side were numerous flocks and herds; but no stream gladdened our straining eyes, nor could we recognise a well. There was no village in sight, so at six o'clock we determined to take the risk of passing the shepherds, whom we could see below, and to push on at all costs towards Eregli. We had moved down the S.W. slope of the hill for this purpose, and had gone a few hundred yards across the valley, when we hit upon another Moses' Well, this time no less than 200 feet deep. With joy did we draw water out of that well of salvation, for such in the light of later events it was. We were at the time within a few hundred yards of a large flock of sheep; but a rainstorm was brewing, and the shepherds were far too occupied with getting their sheep together to worry about our presence. We were thus able to fill up all water-vessels undisturbed. After this we went back to some broken-down stone enclosures which we had previously passed. One of these, about ten feet square, we reached at 8 A.M., having collected little twigs and dried weeds as we went. We now had concealment from view and a little shelter from the wind, but not from the rain, which soon began to fall and continued in heavy squalls until late in the afternoon. Every now and then the officer of the watch peeped over the wall to see that no one was approaching. That day, however, we saw nothing but the flocks and some men with camels, who came over the hills where we had been at dawn but did not come our way. At intervals we regaled ourselves with tea and brews of rice and cocoa, or rice and Oxo. Of rice we had almost a superfluity compared with other food, owing to the number of days on which we had been unable to cook. But the hot food and drink did not suffice to keep us warm: every shower left us shivering like aspen leaves. Even opium proved no longer effectual, though probably to it and to liberal doses of quinine is attributable the fact that none of us suffered from chill or fever after our exposure on that day. Late that afternoon the sun appeared for a time, enabling most of us to snatch a little sleep. This was what was needed more than anything else. Much refreshed, we left our rude shelter at 6 P.M., and hurriedly refilling our water-bottles at the well, continued across the valley. Within an hour we were lying at the top of the low ridge on its southern side. From here we overlooked the bare plain stretching to the marshes near Eregli, and thought we saw the reflection of water in the Ak Gueul. When six hours later, and after covering seventeen or eighteen miles, we reached the lake, it was to find that it was dry, and that it had been only the white salt-encrusted basin that we had seen. There was nothing to do but carry on. Besides the need of water to keep us moving, an icy wind blew without respite upon our backs, making even the short hourly halts a misery. Secondly, we had on the previous day checked our food supply, and calculated we had only enough for another four days at the most. Meanwhile, there still remained the Taurus range to be crossed. We therefore pushed ahead, and were soon fighting our way through thick reeds. The struggle continued for two hours, and so exhausted us that towards the end we had to halt for a few minutes and eat the biscuit which was part of the coming day's ration. When we renewed the battle, it was with the expectation of finding ourselves at any moment crossing the main line of railway between Karaman and Eregli. This, of course, had not been built when our map was made, but we judged it must be on our side of the foot-hills of the Taurus, to the nearest point of which we were now making in the hope of being hidden there by dawn. If the railway were guarded, as it had been at all bridges and culverts when we passed along it on our way to captivity more than two years before, our approach, we thought, would be well advertised by the crackling of the reeds. In many places these were as stiff as canes, and as much as eight feet in height. Our only hope was that the sentries would be octogenarians, and be stupefied into inaction by the apparent charging of a whole herd of wild elephants. At 4 A.M. we emerged from the reeds to find that the railway was not on our side of the nearest ridge. Dawn found us safely hidden in a deep and rocky ravine, preparing to spend our first day in the Taurus. The merciless north wind still sought us out--so much so, indeed, that even in the sun it was impossible to keep warm until close on midday. We had about half a bottleful apiece of water, and under these chilly conditions it would have been ample for the day. Unfortunately it was again essential to cook rice, as we could afford no more biscuits; so all the water had to be expended on boiling. To be precise, our day's ration consisted of one pint mugful of rice and Oxo each: liquid refreshment there was none. Some of us felt half drunk for want of sleep, or perhaps as a reaction after the opium, when at dusk that evening we moved up to the top of the ravine; but our limbs were slightly rested. It was a relief too to find that at sunset the icy wind had dropped for a while, and that the country ahead of us was a plateau with only slight undulations and a splendid marching surface. A S.S.E. direction was now taken, for we had decided to make our way across the Taurus by the most direct route to the sea. At 8 P.M. we were settling down to our second five minutes' halt, when Looney caught the glint of steel rails to our left front, and a look through the glasses established the fact that we had reached the railway. No sentries or patrols appeared to be in sight, so we completed the usual hourly rest and then cut boldly across the line and gained some slightly more hilly country to the S.E. From here we saw a hut some way down the line, which may have been built for the use of sentries; but whether this was so or not had ceased to be of vital interest, for we were now safely across. After only another hour's march all of us were beginning to feel much more fatigued than we had expected on setting out that evening, the effects probably of lack of sleep and water. However it was, we now had another consultation as to the route we should attempt to follow to the coast. This time we came to the conclusion that it would be taking a very grave risk to go by the shortest way--for the following reason. In that direction the map showed difficult country and very little in the way of villages or likely places for water, so that, with the short rations now remaining, an accident, such as descending a ravine and finding no immediate way out again, or even a sprained ankle, might be disastrous to the whole party. It was decided then, if nothing else interfered, to go at first a little west of south, and later make our way across the Taurus where the mountains were lower, following the valley of the Sakara river down to the sea. At 9.30 P.M. a halt was called to give ourselves a long sleep till midnight. Before the end of it most of us were sorry we had settled upon such a lengthy one, so chilled were we by the cold. While we were resting, a train rumbled by in the valley below, showing that we were still not far from the railway. On resuming our journey, therefore, we kept among the low hills. An hour's fast marching brought us into sight of a village, round which we worked our way, and on the farther outskirts were overjoyed to find a well. The water was about sixty feet down, and so cold that for all our thirst we could hardly drink a mugful each. We remained at the well for nearly three-quarters of an hour, filling all our water-bottles and chargals. Now and again a dog barked, but no inhabitants put in an appearance. There was even leisure to inspect a bed of Indian corn near by. Unfortunately only a single cob could be found. It was very young and tender, and most refreshing, as far as it went when divided between eight. With our thirst quenched by the ice-cold water, we were able to maintain an average pace of three miles an hour until 4.30 next morning. The indefatigable Cochrane was even then for going on. Most of the party, however, were utterly exhausted: since leaving the well the surface had been passably good, but the country had been on a slight incline, and intersected by a series of irrigation channels and natural nullahs, which all added to our fatigue. In one of the latter, then, we removed our kits, and collected little bits of dried thorn and scrub in readiness to make a fire as soon as it should be light enough to do so without risk of detection. We had marched sixteen or seventeen miles, though not all in the most useful direction, so there was gladness when the two cooks on duty announced that the first dixieful was ready. A mixture of rice and cocoa once more graced the menu. Cochrane, who had gone ahead to reconnoitre, had still not returned, and the rest began to be anxious lest he should have been seen, or have come to grief in some way. After a while three volunteers went out to look for him, and eventually saw his head peering cautiously over a rock. He had been cut off from the nullah by the chance arrival of a shepherd, and had been biding his time till the latter should think fit to move to pastures new. The sun was already hot, and its heat, although considerably relieved by the cool breeze, once more precluded the possibility of any real sleep. Nor could we forget our hunger. On this occasion we were rather extravagant with our water. We had two brews of rice and Oxo and one of tea; then we boiled our last two handfuls of rice with a little cocoa, and so had a rice mould to take along with us in the dixie and eat that evening. Unfortunately the cook, who shall be nameless, upset it, so that a fair proportion of grit became an unwelcome ingredient of the dish. Our lavishness in water knew no bounds when we proceeded to boil up half a mugful, in which we were all to shave. This was the first time we did so since leaving Yozgad sixteen days before, so that the two little safety-razor sets were given an arduous task that day: few of us succeeded in removing all the growth without the use of two of our spare blades. It was a long and painful performance, but most refreshing in its result, and, as it proved, a very timely return to comparative respectability. During the morning we went once again into the problem of food. At dawn we had most of us been in favour of going into the next suitable village, and there boldly replenishing our supplies as Germans; but as we recovered a little from our over-fatigue, we agreed with Cochrane that we might still reach the coast in three days. On tabulating our total supplies, we found we should in this case be able to allow ourselves the following daily rations: For the rest of the day already begun, the rice, cocoa, and grit mould. For the second day, remnants of tapioca, beef-tea, and Ovaltine, amounting in all to about 4¾ oz. per head; and chocolate, cocoa, and arrowroot, totalling perhaps 1¾ oz. per head. For the third day, there would remain for each member of the party one biscuit, 5 oz. of raisins, 1 oz. of chocolate; and, between the party as a whole, four tins of Horlick's malted milk tablets. For emergencies after the third day nothing would be left, so that, if on reaching the sea we did not at once find a dhow or other boat, and that with provisions, we should still be lost. But man proposes, God disposes; and it is as well for man that it is so. CHAPTER X. THE THREE HUNS. As the country before us appeared to be quite deserted, we began to move off a little before 3 P.M. The going was much the same as in the early morning, but what had then been small nullahs became broader and deeper ravines, running across our path at intervals of seven to eight hundred yards. The north sides of the ravines were especially steep. An hour and a half after our start we saw ahead of us some men and a string of camels, possibly engaged in contraband affairs with Cyprus. Accordingly we halted under cover of some rocks until we could march again unseen. The rate of marching was slow, hardly two miles an hour, for we were all very exhausted, trudging along in the hot sun, and Grunt was almost fainting. After two hours he had to give up. The terrific blow on his head by the brigand must have been the start of his collapse, and now, after many days of sticking to it, he could go no farther. His head felt very dizzy and each foot weighed a ton. We knew there must be water in a valley a few hundred yards ahead, as we had seen some trees and a bit of a village. We therefore halted for food in a small nullah, meaning to get to the stream after dark. The dixie containing the cocoa, rice, and grit mould was produced, and we had our meal. The grit was a blessing in a way, as one had to eat slowly. Two ounces of rice, tinged with cocoa, does not go far with a ravenous craving for food. As dusk came on we walked slowly for the few hundred yards to the edge of the river valley, the sides of which were precipitous and impossible to manoeuvre by moonlight. Cochrane and Nobby walked along the edge of the ravine to see if there was an easier descent, but found none. While they were away Grunt told us that he wished to be left behind, as he was afraid of keeping us back. He said that if we left a little food with him he could lie up for a couple of days till we were clear of the locality, and he would then go to the nearest village, buy food, and make for the coast later,--if he felt strong enough and was not captured. When Cochrane returned we held a council of war and decided to halt for the whole night. Accordingly we returned to the rice-and-grit nullah, and worked down it towards the main valley until we found a good resting-place. Nobby found a spring of excellent water a short way farther on, and there our water-bottles were refilled. By way of medical comfort Grunt was given the small quantity of Ovaltine that remained and a piece of biscuit. The Ovaltine had been carried loose in a bag since we started, and was in consequence as hard as a brick. Johnny tried to cut bits off the brick, but the knife edge merely turned on its owner's thumb, so finally Grunt had to gnaw it. On these very cold nights we had a system of what we called snuggling, usually in pairs; in larger numbers if the ground permitted, but only once did the level of our sleeping-place permit of more than two. That was on the following night. This night Grunt's snuggling partner lit a pipe, the best pipe of his life, and listened to poor old Grunt gnawing Ovaltine. It was hard to bear. Fortunately the pipe and the Ovaltine lasted for the same time. Grunt was very depressed. He reminded his partner how at Yozgad one day he, being of massive build and great strength, had prophesied that he would stand the trek worse than any of us. Ellis, as usual, was very restless. He is a noisy sleeper. When he doesn't grunt he snores, and he is not still for a minute. We never heard him whistle in his sleep, but doubtless he does. When lying in hiding by day we had to wake him if any one came at all close to us. Before we went to sleep it was decided that the following morning three of us should go to the nearest village on the river in the guise of Germans, and buy enough food for the party to finish the journey to the coast, some fifty-five miles away. At daylight, about 4.30 A.M., a move was made farther down the nullah. Here was cooked a two-ounce porridge ration, and then began our preparations for entering the village. The three to go were Grunt, Nobby, and Johnny. Grunt had the best Turkish of our party, so he also had the undying disgrace of playing the _rôle_ of Hun officer. Nobby and Johnny were the Boche rank and file. It was essential to the success of the scheme that we should make a good impression on the villagers. Smartness was our watchword. The theatrical party therefore were allowed to commandeer clothes. Grunt had Nobby's "Gor Blimy" (better known, perhaps, as cap, service dress, mark two, star); Ellis's uniform coat, his own trousers, the Old Man's wrist-watch, and Perce's boots--not a bad effort. Johnny had his own kit with the exception of his trousers, an important part of which had remained lazily behind on a rocky slope the second night of the escape, while Johnny energetically slid on. Nobby had Ellis's "Gor Blimy" and boots, the Old Man's coat, and Looney's trousers. The three actors then shaved, washed, put "Vermi-jelly" grease on their boots to give the latter a false air of respectability, and at 8.30 A.M. were ready for their performance. They thought they were playing a drama at the time: looking back it was true comedy. The three set off down the steep goat-track towards the village. It was a tense moment, and we all thought that the evening would most probably find us once more under the orders of some uncivilised Turkish _chaouse_; for we had decided that if the three were captured in the village the other five would give themselves up. Poor old Cochrane looked very anxious, and it was not to be wondered at. On the seventeenth day of his former attempt to escape, some two years previously, he and the two other naval officers of his party of three were compelled by starvation to buy food from a shepherd's hut. This man informed on them, with the result that they were taken by gendarmes. Recaptured, they were kept for six months in a filthy prison in Constantinople, untried by any court-martial. When the latter was held, Cochrane and his friends were given a three weeks' sentence, but actually were imprisoned for yet another four months. This is an excellent instance of Turkish justice, and the kind we were to expect should any one make a false move in the village. Grunt, the officer, walked on ahead. Nobby and Johnny, each carrying an empty pack and haversack, marched behind. The first glimpse of the village with its two grey-domed mosques and a few hundred houses rather frightened them: it was a much bigger one than they had expected, and the larger the village the more likely they were to be discovered as impostors. It was, however, too late to turn back. There were men and women working in the fields who had seen them, though they caused no real interest except to small boys, who are inquisitive the world over; so they marched on, Nobby and Johnny keeping perfect step, with Grunt at a respectful two paces in the rear. When they entered the village they asked the way to the headman's house. Their story was to be a plausible one. Their German surveying party was composed of one officer and seven men. They had left the railway at Eregli, and, taking to cart transport, were making for Mersina. The carts had unfortunately broken down, and being pressed for time they had marched on. They now wanted a few days' supplies for the party. A hard story to disprove without taking a lot of trouble, and Turks usually avoid taking much. Also, they had that forged document in Turkish, with the office stamp of Enver Pasha's Ministry of War on it to prove their _bona fides_; but this was only to be shown as a last resource. After being wrongly directed three times by people who, if questioned further, would probably have said they were strangers to the place, the party entered a shop, and Grunt requested the owner to allow his small boy to show them the way. They were taken to a two-storied timber-built house, against the door of which lolled a Turkish private soldier. The conventional greetings passed, and the man asked in Turkish if they were Germans. The reply was in the affirmative. To their immense surprise this "simple soldat" in an out-of-the-way village started talking a very fluent German. It was the limit. The rank and file now came to the fore, and one suggested that the man had misunderstood them. They were not Germans: they were Magyars (Hungarians), and did not understand a word of German. The last part of the statement was untrue by two words, for the three of them compared notes that evening and counted the German words they knew--"Verboten, Schweinfleisch, and Bier" were the sum total. Stepping by the soldier, Grunt led the way into a small hall furnished with some harness and a few carpet saddle-bags. On the left was an open door, which they entered. Here was a long narrow room with a low ceiling. On three sides of it carpets were spread, with a few cushions on the floor. Reclining against the cushions on one side were two grey-bearded Turks, and a young Greek in a straw hat, blue suit, and brown boots. As they came in, the Greek said in English, "Come on, come along,"--the limit was surpassed! Later it was found that the Greek knew only a few words of English, but it was very unpleasant at the time. Grunt gave the Turkish salutation and sat down. Nobby and Johnny stayed strictly at attention. Grunt motioned with his hand, and received a smart salute and heel-click from his two subordinates, who then dared to seat themselves. The old Turk, who received Grunt's salutation, was obviously the headman. His jacket was gaudy, his pantaloons were very voluminous, and many daggers graced his highly-coloured belt. To our party's disgust the German scholar now appeared and sat down beside Johnny. People began to flock in, and the questioning started--thousands of questions. The three answered as best they could and gave their story. The soldier now explained that he had served many years in Austria and knew a great deal about it. The actors did not. Where had they come from in Austria? Oh, Pruth! This opened the flood-gates once more. Did they know such and such a place? At some names they nodded and looked intelligent: at others they shook their heads. Fortunately the headman here broke in. Had they rifles and revolvers? Revolvers, yes! but the rifles had been left in the carts. Would they show him the revolvers? Grunt refused, saying there was an army order against it. So it went on. Then another unpleasant incident took place. Grunt was wearing Ellis's service dress jacket. Before we left Yozgad its brass buttons had been covered with cloth, so as not to flash in the sun or in the moonlight. One of the large front buttons, however, had during the days that followed escape become uncovered, and though we remarked upon the fact when Grunt put on the coat in the morning, it was not covered again. Now it caught the scholar's eye. He crawled along to Grunt and started fingering it. He knew something about buttons, he said, and that particular one was an English button. The scholar was no fool! Johnny was very contemptuous,--didn't the man know that it was a specially good Magyar button, and one of the latest pattern? The scholar certainly made for excitement. Now was committed a grave error that might have had disastrous results. A small bag containing ¼ lb. of tea had been brought along to the village, in order to propitiate the headman should need arise, and at this juncture Grunt thought fit to offer it to him, extolling its excellence as he did so. No sooner had the bag changed hands than to their horror the three saw that the word TEA was marked plainly on it in indelible pencil. Had the Greek seen it, he would almost certainly have been able to read a simple word like this, and the game would have been up. But once more the party's luck stood by them, and the incident closed with the headman putting the bag in his pocket. It was dangerous for our party to talk anything but Turkish, even amongst themselves. Hindustani might have been safe, but they did not think of it. Early in the morning we had decided what food should be demanded. The list was as follows:-- Five okes of meat (an oke equals 2¾ lbs.) Eight okes of raisins. Twenty " bread. Ten " wheat. Eight " cheese. Half an oke of butter. One " honey. Half " tobacco. 150 eggs. Of course we did not expect to be able to obtain all these, but they were now asked for. As each item was named, the price was discussed by all the occupants of the room except the wretched buyers. Usually the price first mentioned was fairly moderate, but in a short time they had run it up amongst themselves as if they were bidding at an auction. They then turned to the buyers and said "such a thing costs so much," and the buyers were hungry enough to swallow any price. It is a trait of Turkish commerce that no article ever has a fixed value. Finally 23½ Turkish pounds were paid in advance for the stores. It was here that the party obtained a little war news. Of this we had had none since leaving Yozgad, and at that time the Turkish papers would have had us believe that the Germans were even then knocking at the gates of Paris. In the headman's house the war was now discussed, and the fighting powers of the various nations criticised. As for the British, they were a very rich and powerful people, and yet just look how they had been driven into the sea at Gallipoli, and how the Turks had forced them to surrender at Kut-el-Amara. The French, of course, were not good fighters, and the Americans quite untrained to arms. The actors had perforce to agree to all these statements, but their joy was great, though well hidden under a disgusted mien, when they heard that the Germans were retiring. After this conversation came a welcome diversion. A round table like a dumb-waiter, about 9 inches in height, was brought in. With it came a large supply of chupatties, a flat plate of honey, one of cream, a bowl of sour milk, and a dish piled high with greasy wheat pilau; and following the food came the headman's son--a lad of nine. The headman beckoned our three to approach, and, sitting on their hunkers round the table, the breakfast party of seven began the meal. The method of eating is simple, but one requires either genius or years of practice to be any good at it. Break off a piece of chupattie, quickly shape it into a shovel, scoop up as much honey or cream as possible, eat the shovel and its contents, and start again. Johnny is a novice at the game. Though ravenous for food he is an amateur: his miserable little shovels are merely damp with honey or cream when he eats them. Mark Twain is unfortunately dead. He alone could have described how the nine-year-old boy ate: his shovels were immense, and he always took a full scoop. He was swallowing continuously, and while his right hand was feeding his mouth, his left had already shaped a new shovel. He was an expert--a record-breaker. Grunt and Nobby fared little better than Johnny, for the three had to conceal the fact that they were starving. The meal lasted not more than six minutes. Johnny reckoned he had absorbed one chupattie with a negligible quantity of honey, cream, and pilau. The boy must have eaten eight, and the greater part of everything else, and thoroughly earned the undying admiration of three Englishmen. The meal over, Nobby and Johnny put on their packs and haversacks. For a change the German scholar said they were really good Austrian packs and haversacks: perhaps the button incident had affected him. A guide was now produced, and the Magyar rank and file went a-shopping. The packs could not possibly carry the amount of food which it had been decided to buy, so quantities were cut down, and finally the two returned to the headman's house, each carrying a load of about 57 lbs. During their absence Grunt had to answer innumerable questions about his firearms. After a short delay the three took their departure, Nobby and Johnny again clicking heels and doing a pantomime chorus salute. The distance to the remainder of the party was one and a half miles, and the path climbed steeply the whole way. The Hun officer of course marched coolly ahead, while Nobby and Johnny plodded behind, anything but cool. After going a few hundred yards they glanced behind them. As was to be expected, they were being followed. First came the beastly German-speaking man, then the Greek, and after them the headman himself on a donkey. Johnny advised Grunt to go on ahead and warn the others that we were now Magyars, and that we each had a revolver. Nobby and Johnny walked as fast as they could, but the sun was very hot and the loads very heavy for them in their weak condition. The men who were following eventually caught up with them and together they came to where the remainder of the party were camped. This gave the headman a bit of a shock, as he thought we had lied about everything, and so did not expect to see five other Magyars. As soon as the party could get their equipment on we formed up in two ranks. Grunt made some guttural sounds, at which we "left turned" and started to march off into the blue, leaving three very puzzled men behind us. After an hour's going we halted and, seeing no one following us, had a meal of two chupatties and six raw eggs each. For the two odd ones of the fifty that had been bought we had "fingers out." "Fingers out" was a procedure whereby all such debatable matters were decided during our escape. On the last sound of the words "Fingers up!" each member of the party held up any number of fingers he chose, subject to the maximum being four and the minimum one. Having decided beforehand at which person the counting would start, and which way round it was to go, the total number of fingers shown was added up and on whatever member of the party this number ended when counting round, that was the man. This was the sort of thing that happened: "Starting with Perce, going round right-handed, Fingers up!" Suppose the total was 19. That would mean, in our party of eight, that the man two after Perce would win the count. "Fingers out" was used only to settle who was to have the pleasant things, such as these odd eggs, or the scrapings of the cooking-pot; duties such as going on ahead to scout or going back to a spring to fetch water were undertaken by volunteers. We were still on the wrong side of the ravine in which was the village, and inasmuch as it was dangerous to stay in a locality where we had aroused such suspicion, the ravine must be crossed. A mile farther on we discovered a possible line of descent to a ledge half-way down. The ravine was about four hundred feet deep and its sides almost precipitous. As we climbed slowly down, Perce, who was coming last, started three enormous boulders, which crashed below. As Johnny leapt aside one missed him by only a few inches. Half the descent was successfully accomplished, but the ground beneath fell sheer away; so we went a few hundred yards in an up-stream direction on our own level. Coming round a rocky spur a wonderful sight met our gaze. Beyond us the cliff curved round in a shallow crescent. It was of soft yellow sandstone, and contained two large uninhabited cave-villages, about two hundred yards apart. With the passing of centuries the cliff had worn away, revealing a honeycomb of square caves. The larger village must have had ten or twelve stories of rooms connected up by some form of staircases inside, but we did not see them. The smaller one had two stories laid bare, but it was not as well finished as the other. The entrances to the village were Roman arches: under these ran a short passage leading to the door itself, which was rectangular in shape. In some cases the one archway contained two doors. The finest arch was carved on both sides, with crude paintings on it. From the foot of the villages a very steep pathway ran down to the river-bed below. This we followed, and a quarter of an hour later arrived at the bottom. Here was the most delightful sight we had seen since our start from Yozgad: green and shady trees lining the grassy bank of a murmuring mountain stream. The water was ice-cold and as clear as crystal--a merit when we thought of the stagnant cattle-wallows from which we had had to drink. It was too tempting to leave at once. We found what we thought was a secluded spot, and here we first of all arranged our packs so that each of us had an equal weight to carry after the morning's purchases. Then we bathed. The joy of that bathe after seventeen days was indescribable, and worth many a hardship. A bridle-path ran along the edge of the stream, and unfortunately any one who happened to pass would be able to see us. As luck would have it, an old man rode by on a donkey while we were engaged in giving our socks a much-needed wash. When he had gone we looked at each other and heaved a sigh of relief, for he had not even glanced in our direction; but when he rode past us again twice in the next twenty minutes and still failed to look at us, we thought it was time to move. Hastily filling our water-bottles and chargals, we started to climb the other side of the ravine. The chargal, an extra weight of ten pounds and hard to carry, changed hands twice before we got to the top, from where the view of the cave-villages was very fine. For the next three hours we picked our way over dreadful going, amongst grey limestone rocks, cracked and pock-marked everywhere. Progress was very slow, as one had to watch one's feet the whole time for fear of breaking an ankle. It was here that we started a leveret, and made a vain attempt to kill a long snake which swished past Johnny's feet. We saw four snakes during our escape--one of which made Nobby leap violently into the air as he nearly trod on it. When there was a chance of resting, we were almost too tired to think at all, so the thought of snakes did not worry us. At about 5 P.M. Cochrane betted Johnny half a sovereign that the sea would be visible from the next rise, provided there was no further mountain range within five miles. The bet was lost by nearly a week, for it was not till the twenty-third day out that seascapes became part of our scenery. At 6 P.M. we halted in a rocky cup-shaped depression with some dried wood lying about. Here we set to work with the meat bought at the village. It was, or had been, a beautiful goat-kid, and from it we made a stew such as no multi-millionaire can buy. Certainly no "Cordon-bleu" has ever achieved such an appetising dish. The recipe will now be divulged: Take a joint of goat-kid, put it on a rock and saw pieces off it with a blunt clasp-knife. Place the bits in a dixie over a wood fire, add a little water, and wait impatiently till the meat is half cooked. Put your share into an enamel mug, and with the hunger of seventeen days' starvation as relish, and the thumb and forefinger of the right hand as a fork, eat, and thank your God. Our dinner this evening was one to be remembered: a mugful of meat, two chupatties, a table-spoonful of cheese, and a few spoonfuls of cooked wheat for each of us; and for the first time for many a day we lay down feeling well fed. That night we found a level bit of ground where five could sleep together. Of the rest, two slept practically in a bushy fir-tree, and Cochrane curled round the fire. All went well until some one of the five--Ellis for a sovereign--wanted to turn, and the chance of sleeping was at an end. Fortunately, it was nearly time to move off, so we did not lose much rest. Just before daylight we started and did about two miles in two hours, the going being of the ankle-breaking variety. We were not many miles from a main road, so it was senseless to risk travelling much after dawn. Looney, too, with his iron-clad ammunition boots, was going very lame, with large blisters on his heels. We therefore hid for the day in another rocky cup similar to that of the previous evening. Shortly after dawn, Nobby, a keen shikari, slaughtered a hoopoe, which had the misfortune to have a fit in front of him. This made a welcome addition to our larder, and when, at our meal before starting that evening, we had "fingers out" for it, Nobby very appropriately won it. In this bivouac we had the misfortune to lose our second and last pair of scissors--they were a great loss, and we sadly needed them later on. The cracks in the rocks, where we spent the day, were several feet deep, and the scissors are no doubt lying at the bottom of one of these. There was some doubt who was guilty of the crime of losing them, but we bet another sovereign it was ----. CHAPTER XI. IN THE HEART OF THE TAURUS. During this 25th August we had fixed our position so far as our obsolete map would permit. We had, we thought, just crossed the watershed of the Taurus, and if the day had only been clearer might perhaps have obtained our first view of the sea from our point of vantage that morning. This fact of being on the watershed, together with a compass-bearing on to a peak recognisable to the south, settled our position fairly definitely as a little to the west of the range marked Gueuk Tepe on the map. This was in agreement with a check by dead reckoning based on Looney's diary from the time we had passed the Ak Gueul, and meant that we had still forty-five miles between us and the sea, even as the crow flies; or, by the way we should take for the sake of better going, something well over fifty miles. Soon after setting out on the following night's march, the accuracy of our estimate was confirmed, for the map showed a main road not far ahead from our supposed position, and this as a matter of fact we crossed within half an hour's trek. Just beyond the road and a little to the east of our course rose a cone-shaped hill, crowned by what at first looked like an old castle, but which, on a nearer view, resolved itself into a natural outcrop of white rock. It was then 7 o'clock. An hour later we were grateful for the find of a small stream of perfectly clear water. This was the first we had discovered since crossing the beautiful valley where we had enjoyed our much-needed bathe thirty odd hours before. By this time, however, we had become comparatively inured to a shortage of water. It was only a fortnight ago that one of the party had collapsed after a lesser privation. Now we did not even trouble to fill completely the larger of the two serviceable chargals, although it is true there were other reasons which encouraged us in this serenity. For one thing, now that we were on the southern slopes of the Taurus, we hoped that our water troubles were over. In point of fact, we were to find ourselves sadly disappointed. Then again, we were loth to put such a drag upon our speed as a full chargal certainly was, change hands though it might every half-hour. So far that night we had maintained a pace of four miles an hour. The meat eaten during the previous two days had undoubtedly met a very real need, and with the cheese and chupatties, and the longer periods for rest, had given us a sense of renewed vigour. Time, however, still passed with the same deadly slowness. On the first night that we had started taking the chargals turn and turn about at regular intervals, more than one of the party had imagined that he had been doing a spell of a full hour, and was horrified to hear that in reality it had been only half that length. On this night the moon rose at about 8.30; there was thus a short period of darkness between sunset and moonlight, and as we should have a three-quarter moon for the whole of the rest of the night, we could afford to rest for twenty minutes when the twilight had faded. This was the more desirable, as we were still in difficult country. The surface itself was not as bad as might have been expected, for, after all, we were in the Taurus; but our course was constantly being crossed by steep nullahs. The climb up their farther sides was very fatiguing. To avoid some of these, we proceeded, wherever possible, to follow the crest-line, and as soon as the moon was up the field-glasses once more proved their value by enabling Cochrane to pick out the best route. As time went on, however, the country became more and more broken, until we found it necessary, if endless detours were to be avoided, to take the nullahs as they came. After a few more climbs, we almost gave up trying to keep on our proposed course, which was a little E. of S., and nearly decided instead to follow down a valley to the S.W., which promised better going. In the end, however, we contented ourselves with making a mile and a half an hour in our original direction, and were rewarded by finding in one of the nullahs a little spring of water. At 11 P.M., having found a fairly sheltered nook (for the wind at night was always cold at this altitude), we took the opportunity of snatching a little sleep. It has to be confessed that some of us also made a premature attack on the next day's ration of cheese and chupatties. To help level up our loads, these had been shared out already, and after our experience of the joys of a full meal--we allude again to the goat--we found having food in our packs a sore temptation. Without the safeguard of common ownership, it ceased to be inviolable. Yet perhaps after all it was best to eat at night, when we were doing all the hard work, and when, in addition, it was cold. Shortly after midnight we moved on, and were soon cheered by the discovery of a narrow track leading in the right direction, and cleverly avoiding all the difficulties of the broken ground on either side. This we were able to follow at a hard 3½ miles an hour until a little before daybreak. Then seeing lights ahead, we left the main track, thinking it must be leading us on to a village. Immediately around us there was no cover from view, and as the first tinge of dawn lit up the countryside, we saw that our only hiding-place would be in the wooded hills on the farther side of the valley in which lay the supposed houses. Proceeding at our best speed, we began a race with the sun, punctuated only by halts of a few seconds now and then as Cochrane searched anxiously round through the field-glasses; for we could hear herds moving about, and other lights had come into view. The descent proved steeper and longer than had been anticipated, and it was not till after five o'clock, and just before sunrise, that we reached the foot of the valley. Here we found we had to cross a stream ten to twelve feet wide, and, on account of the marshy ground, at a point not 500 yards away from the lights. These came, as we now saw, from a small group of timber huts, and in our haste to reach cover we plunged straight through the stream, to find that only a few yards farther up we might have crossed by stepping-stones in a place where the stream was only a foot deep. This was no time for vain regrets, so we were soon clambering up the farther slope, which was covered with scattered pines. Under cover of these we gave ourselves a couple of minutes' breathing space, for the hill was steep, and then went on over the top of the first ridge, a thousand feet above the stream, and into a little dip beyond. Here we found a trickle of water, and settled down amongst some small trees and thorny scrub. The first thing to do was to take off our soaked boots and let them dry; after this a brew of cocoa was prepared--well earned by what we reckoned was a 27-mile march in the previous twelve hours. Most of our feet were terribly sore, and Looney spent an hour sewing on bandages before he struggled back into his boots that day. With the present satisfactory rate of progress we could afford to be rather more liberal with our food; and so the camp fire never died down, for we took it in turns to make "pilaus" all that day. These were made from crushed wheat, and differed from the porridge we had been accustomed to make from it while at Yozgad, in that before boiling it was mixed with a little melted dripping, a supply of which we had obtained from the village. The resulting pilau was a vast improvement on the plain porridge, besides being rather quicker to cook--a consideration in view of the smallness of our cooking-pot. Altogether we must have had five pilaus at this bivouac, but as each when distributed filled only a third of a pint mug, we cannot be accused of greed. To avoid all waste we had brought along even the bones of the goat; from these we now made a weak soup, after which the bones themselves were divided out for a last picking, some of us even eating their softer portions. We were out of sight of the huts in the valley which we had so hastily crossed, but could see the top of the hill on the farther side; here was a fairly large walled village, with houses built of stone and roofed with the usual flat mud roofs. Although we could see this with our glasses, we were too far to be observed ourselves, and moreover little sign of life appeared there. That afternoon, however, we had a few anxious moments, when two men came over the next ridge to the south of us: they passed within a hundred yards of where we lay, but appeared not to have seen us. In the evening, having moved a short distance up the same ridge, we were having a five minutes' halt when two more men, this time on donkeys, came over the crest and almost rode on top of us. They asked, "Who are you? Where are you going?" and "Why hiding?" We did not answer, so they said, "Are you foreigners that you don't understand Turkish?" Then they went on, and so did we. Fortunately, even should they report any suspicions they had, we were in country that was much intersected and in which it would have been difficult for any one to trace us. So difficult, in fact, was the bit of ground which met our view on reaching the top of the range we were on, that it was some minutes before we could make up our minds which would be the best line to follow. Eventually we decided to make for a ridge which seemed negotiable, and on proceeding came very shortly afterwards to a spring and a goat-track. After drinking all the water we could, we followed the latter. It was as well we did so, for the track took us round the head of a precipitous ravine which might have taken a whole day to cross if we had attempted to pass over direct. On the far side, too, the track still kept the general direction we wanted, namely, some twenty degrees east of south, and so we clung to it steadily until 8.30 P.M. We had been marching for three hours, and now following our procedure of the previous night, slept till 9.45, by which time the moon had risen. Before halting, we had seen one or two shepherds' fires ahead, so took the precaution to move fifty yards or so off the track in case there should be any traffic. By this time we had given up keeping a watch on the night halts, though we still did so by day. The reason for this was that sleep was only obtainable during the nights, and we could not afford to let even one member of the party go without it. On this particular occasion it was comparatively warm, considering that we were on an open hillside in the Taurus, and we were much rested by the sleep we obtained. When we resumed our way we still kept to our friendly path, although it was becoming more and more stony. A little before midnight we found ourselves in a dilemma, for, after leading us to the edge of a deep valley which ran at right angles to our course, the track now branched right and left. The problem was which path to follow. If we had stopped to think we might have realised that, in mountainous country, even the most friendly road cannot always take you by a direct route, and that the longest way round is often the shortest way home. However, on this occasion we made an error of judgment and went straight ahead. The slope, at first comparatively grassy and gradual, became rapidly more rocky and precipitous, until at about 1.30 A.M., after descending close upon 1500 feet, we found ourselves on the edge of a yawning gorge, at the bottom of which foamed a raging mountain torrent. We were not as glad to see this water as usual, for we had crossed a rivulet on our way down: at this we had already quenched our thirst, although at the time dogs had been barking at us from some shepherds' huts on the valley slope. The difficulty now was to find a practicable path up the farther bank. The torrent itself was passable easily enough, for natural stepping-stones abounded in its rock-strewn bed; and in fact we did cross and re-cross it several times in a painful endeavour to make our way a little farther to the west. Everywhere, however, beyond a rough and narrow ledge of rock by the side of the stream, the far bank rose up sheer above us. In the moonlight the scene was wonderful, and we could not help thinking how perfect a place this would have been for a day's halt. But we could not afford to lose precious time, and for the present our whole aim was to leave it as soon as possible. At one spot, having seen a light burning not far from the water's edge, we proceeded very cautiously. It proved to proceed from the stump of a tree which some one had probably set on fire to warm himself and had left burning: happily no one was there now. After a two hours' struggle we had to own that we were defeated, and were compelled to climb back out of the gorge and still on the wrong side. Moving along its edge at a higher level, for another two hours we searched in vain for a more likely crossing-place, and were almost in despair when we suddenly heard the voices of men and women below us. Looking down, we saw in the moonlight a party of Turks or Armenians in the act of crossing a fine old bridge which spanned the gorge between two absolutely vertical banks in a single semicircular arch of stone. Even now it was some little time before we could pick up the path leading down to it, but when we did so we were agreeably surprised to find that the bridge was not guarded. In the last five hours we had progressed but one mile in the right direction. When at last we crossed the gorge it was barely an hour to dawn, and we had not followed the mountain road leading up the farther side for long before we had to be on the look-out for a hiding-place. There was little cover higher up the hill; so we turned right-handed and dropped down once more towards the gorge, hoping that after all it would do us the good turn of providing us with water and shade for the day. On the way down, however, we saw a cave hollowed out in the rocky hillside, and as the bank below was very steep, we decided we would not give ourselves a single foot of unnecessary climbing when we started off again next evening. We accordingly entered the cave; but Cochrane and Perce, after ridding themselves of their packs, valiantly climbed down again to the water and came back with the two chargals full. So much had all the fruitless clambering taken out of us that we were more tired on this day than after double the distance on the night previous, and, except for taking turns to cook, every one lay like a log in the cave. The latter faced west, and was roofed by two elliptical semi-domes side by side beneath a larger arch in the rock, but being shallow in width compared to the height of the roof, allowed the sun to stream in upon us in the latter part of the afternoon. On leaving the cave at about 7 P.M., as rugged country still lay ahead, we thought it best to work our way obliquely up the hill and regain the track which had led us up from the bridge over the ravine. To this we clung for the greater part of the night which followed, although it involved passing through several villages. We found ourselves in the first almost before we realised that a village existed there at all: it seemed, however, a city of the dead. Not a dog barked at our approach, and the narrow crooked streets appeared deserted, until suddenly the white-clad figure of a woman flitted across our path. Fortunately she did not pause to find out who were these strange nocturnal visitors. Not long afterwards we saw lights ahead, and as we drew nearer found that our road branched to right and left, the latter branch leading towards the lights which seemed to proceed from a village. After the previous night's experience we had no intention of attempting any cross-country going if we could possibly avoid it. Here, indeed, to go on direct would have necessitated crossing first a valley of unknown depth, and then an enormous ridge which reared up its black bulk against the clear starry sky. It was fairly obvious that the two roads went round either end of this ridge; after that it was a toss-up which was the more likely to lead us towards the sea. In view of the village and of the noisy clatter on the stony track of the booted members of the party, Cochrane elected to take the right-hand branch, and this we followed for over a mile. It was leading us due west, and seemed likely to continue to do so for several miles more before the ridge was rounded. The coast opposite our position ran, we knew, rather from N.E. to S.W., and so every mile we marched west added another to our distance from the coast. At the next halt we reconsidered the question of roads, and decided we must go back and risk the village. But it was essential to make less noise, and so, as we once more approached the cross-roads, those not wearing "chariqs" padded their boots with old socks, bits of shirt, and pieces of felt. It gives some idea of the absolute weariness of body which now was ours, when it is stated that it was only after much forcible persuasion from Nobby that those who would have the trouble of tying on the padding could be induced to take this precaution. But in the end wise counsels prevailed, and we succeeded in passing through the village--and it was a large one--without causing any apparent alarm. Looney, however, lost one of his mufti hats with which he had padded one of his boots. The track now increased in width to as much as ten feet, being roughly levelled out of the solid rock, and running along a ledge above a precipitous ravine. Below us we heard the roar of a mountain stream, and as at one point a rough path had been cut down to water-level, Cochrane descended it and fetched up a chargal full of water. It was to prove a serious mistake that we did not fill all our receptacles here. On resuming our way, we were taken by our road over another striking bridge which crossed the ravine a little higher up. This time the arch was a pointed one. Once more we found the defile unguarded. We were probably in magnificent mountain scenery, but could see little of it, as the moon had not yet risen. Even though after crossing the bridge we waited in the warmth of a little cave till after the time of moonrise, the moon itself did not become visible until two hours later, so steep were the slopes on every side of us. We could see, however, that we were going round the eastern shoulder of the ridge which had blocked our direct route, and this ridge rose sheer from the very edge of the ravine. Without a road to follow, we should have fared badly indeed. Even with it, the climb from the bridge had been severe, but on proceeding we soon came to the top of the rise and found ourselves walking on a carpet of pine-needles through a beautiful open forest. This was a wonderful contrast to the arid wastes or rugged ridges across which had been so many of our long and weary marches. Even here, however, the country was soon to resume its more normal aspect. We found ourselves descending into an open valley with no signs of trees or vegetation. Our road, too, dwindled to the width and unevenness of an ordinary village track, and this it turned out to be, for it led past a few isolated huts, and finally at 1 A.M. took us into a village. A little before, during one of the hourly halts, we had seen in the moonlight a man approaching on a donkey; so we took to our feet and marched again in order to pass him the more quickly. This we did without a single word being exchanged. In the village we could hear the sound of men talking and laughing together. This was rather disconcerting, as for one thing we had been hoping to find where they obtained their water. Far from finding either well or spring or stream, however, we even had some difficulty in finding the path out of the village. We were about to cut across country, and had gone as far as to climb over a hedge into some vineyards, when we recognised the path to the west of us. It worked along the side of a hill apparently towards a saddle in the steep ridge which closed the valley ahead. While we were in the vineyard we felt around for grapes, but the vines were barren; in fact the whole valley seemed waterless. We now regained the track and had nearly reached the top of the ridge when our path suddenly took into its head to start descending the valley again. Though we were loth to leave any track so long as it made some pretence of going anywhere in our direction, this was too much for our patience, and Cochrane led us due east, so as to cross the bleak ridge which bordered the valley on that side and see what the next valley could do for us. But even here our difficulties were not to end: the farther hillside was rocky in the extreme and covered with scrub and stunted trees, amongst which we clambered for some two hours without finding any valley to promise easy progress in the direction of the sea. To "Kola" tablets we once more resorted. Finally, an hour before dawn, we lay down as we were, disheartened, without water, and without a road. CHAPTER XII. DOWN TO THE SEA. When daylight came, we found ourselves in a network of extraordinary valleys. Large trees grew on the rock-strewn slopes, while along the bottoms were little strips of bright red soil, sprinkled with stones, and yet suggestive of great fertility; and indeed in some parts it was clear that the ground had in a previous year been ploughed. Yet as far as human habitation was concerned the valley seemed entirely deserted; only here and there as we marched on we passed a few timbers of some ruined shelter, indicating its former occupation by shepherd inhabitants. The whole scene gave the impression that here had once been flourishing well-watered vales, which had then been blasted by some strange upheaval of nature, by which the whole water supply had suddenly been cut off and the former inhabitants compelled to quit. To open our eyes on such a scene did not tend to revive our spirits. We had not a drop of water in our water-bottles, and although a valley was soon found leading in the right direction, we followed it without much hope of being able to quench our thirst. After an hour or so, however, at a place where the valley widened a little, we picked up in the soft red soil a number of goat-tracks, and noticed that several others joined them, all seeming to converge towards the same spot. These suggested water, but soon after they suddenly ceased. Fifty yards up the hill there was a stone enclosure, and just as Cochrane was leading on, Nobby thought it was advisable to make sure there was nothing there. This was most fortunate, for inside he found a well. Next moment we were all within the enclosure, and on lifting out the heavy timber bung which closed the hole in the stone-built cover, found water not twenty feet down. It tasted slightly stale, and no doubt the well had not been used for some time; but this did not affect our enjoyment of a couple of brews of "boulgar" (porridge made from crushed wheat), which were now prepared, and flavoured with a spoonful of our precious cocoa. Still more refreshing to those who could summon up the necessary energy, was a wash and a shave. Even a wash-hand basin was provided in the shape of a little stone trough which was built into the enclosure wall, and was doubtless intended for use in watering the flocks of sheep and goats. After nearly two hours' grateful rest and refreshment, we resumed our course, and soon after entered a broad ravine. Here grew enormous oak-trees, seeming to flourish amid the barest rock and boulders, although the bed of this quaint valley appeared to have had no water in it for ages. At one point, where we halted under the shelter of a rocky outcrop, some of the party filled a haversack with the tips of stinging-nettles. Gloves were not an item of our equipment, and our fingers were badly stung, but a little spinach would provide a pleasant variation in our next cooked meal. We went on till 11 A.M. without seeing a single sign of life. Then we came to a strong timber barrier across the narrow foot of the valley, and saw beyond it a man engaged in winnowing. We quickly drew back out of view, and decided we should have to make a detour. The country was not so desolate or uninhabited as we had thought. First, however, we would fortify ourselves with a little food. For this purpose we climbed a short way up the western side of the valley and settled down in the shelter of a big tree. While Cochrane and Perce cooked some "boulgar," the rest lay down and were soon fast asleep. It was a hard struggle indeed to rouse oneself from such delightful oblivion of all our cares, but our Mr Greatheart was not to be denied, and after our food we left the Enchanted Ground. To avoid the risk of being seen by people in the valley, it was now necessary to climb up the steep rocky ridge ahead instead of circling round its foot as would otherwise have been possible. The surface was atrocious; jagged points of rock cut into our feet through the soles of our much-worn footgear. If one wished to avoid a sprained ankle, every step had to be taken with care, for the rock was cut up into innumerable crannies and honeycombed with holes. It took eight hundred feet of stiff climbing to reach the top of the first ridge. Beyond it we were not pleased to find a whole series of equally steep though smaller ridges and valleys, and all at right angles to our proper course. After a long struggle we had to give up the idea of going straight ahead, and instead began to follow down one of the valleys. This led us back into country very similar to that in which we had found ourselves early that morning: once more our path took us over the small boulders and down the line of red earth. There were no further signs of life until nearly four o'clock. Our sudden appearance then startled three or four small children who were tending some goats on the hillside. A moment later we came into view of a single black tent, set up at the junction of two branches into which the valley now divided. Concealment was impossible; besides, we were in our usual trouble for water. The only inhabitant seemed to be an old woman, who came out of the tent to find out why the children had run back. To avoid frightening her, the party halted some distance off, while Cochrane and Grunt went forward alone to find out what sort of reception might be expected. For some minutes the Circassian (for we thought she must be one) stood talking to the two envoys at the door of her tent. Then she signalled us to approach, and invited the whole party inside her abode. Here she offered the equivalent in the East of a chair--namely, a seat on the mats which covered the earthen floor. The amiable old dame next produced a large circular tray, which she set in our midst, and on which she placed some wafer-like chupatties and a couple of bowls of the inevitable "yourt." Never did simple meal taste so sweet, but the amount provided served only to whet the appetite of the eight hungry travellers. It was gently suggested that we should like a little more; we told her we would pay for everything we had. At the same time we produced some of our mugs as likely to provide a method of eating the "yourt" more in keeping with our hunger. Lest the full number should alarm her, we tendered only four, and these she filled readily enough, and several times over, from an almost unlimited supply which she kept in a row of large copper vessels standing along one side of the tent. We noticed also several large sacks, which we thought must contain flour or wheat, and thought it would be advisable to lay in further supplies if we could. Not a thing, however, would our hostess sell: neither flour, wheat, cheese, goat, nor fowls. We asked her to make us some more chupatties, but without avail. No money would tempt her--she was evidently not a Turk,--even the offer of a little tea could not work the oracle. Her hospitality--and it was true hospitality that she had shown to us--was limited to what we might eat on the premises. From what we could gather from her rather peculiar Turkish, the old lady seemed afraid to sell us anything without her husband's consent. It was impossible not to admire her steadfastness, and as we left we presented her with three silver medjidies (worth altogether about twelve shillings). On this she relaxed to the extent of allowing us to take three eggs that she had. We tried to find out how far we were from the sea; but she seemed hardly to know of its existence, so cut off had she been all her life in her mountain fastness. She directed us, however, to some other tents farther down one of the valleys, and said we might be able to buy some food there; so thither we now wended our way. There was a well outside the tent, but it was dry at the time and was being deepened. A few drops of water which she had given us within had come from some distant stream, she said. "Yourt," however, is a wonderful thirst-quencher, so lack of water did not cause any worry for the time being. We agreed, as we went on, that if we found the tents which we were now seeking, only half the party should go to buy; partly because we thought in that way we should be less likely to frighten the occupants from selling us food, and partly to avoid letting people see the exact strength of our party, in case any one should take it into his head to report our presence. Accordingly, when three-quarters of an hour later we arrived at two more tents, Cochrane and Nobby approached one, and Grunt and Looney the other. The first pair were not received with very open arms, and had to be satisfied with only a little "yourt" eaten on the spot, and a few coarse chupatties which they were able to take away with them. They came on to the second tent, to find that the other pair had fallen upon their feet. They had arrived at a very propitious moment. Just inside the doorway they had found a smiling old dame busily engaged in making the chupatties for the family's evening meal. With some of these she regaled her guests, and Grunt at once asked her if she would bake some more for companions of his who had gone on to prepare the camp for the night. With a good deal of coaxing, and influenced perhaps a little by the sight of silver coins, she finally made another dozen. Meanwhile another woman entered and ladled out some beautiful fresh milk which was boiling in a large cauldron in the tent. The four were able to enjoy two mugfuls of this between them, but could only induce the woman to give them one more mugful to take away for the others. After much haggling, however, and on receipt of two medjidies, she was persuaded to let them have six pounds of fresh cheese made from goats' milk. As prearranged, the rest of the party had gone a few hundred yards farther down the ravine in which stood the tents, and finding that no further purchases were to be made the four now rejoined them. The camping-ground had been chosen some forty yards up the southern side of the ravine. The steep slope was covered with pine and oak trees, and at their feet we slept. It mattered little to us that our beds were uneven. We had before this slept soundly at all angles and on pointed rocks; and here we had a mattress of leaves and pine-needles on which to lay our weary bodies. The occasional bark of a dog or the soft hoot of an owl were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the night. Through the trees could be seen patches of the starlit heaven. We owed much to those wonderful stars. Big and bright in these latitudes, they had led us on our way for many a night, and when there was no moon to befriend us they had lighted our path so that we could still march slowly on. It was after a sound and refreshing sleep, that shortly before 4 A.M. next day, while it was yet dark, we shouldered our packs and moved eastwards down the stony bed of the confined valley. This gave on to a broader one at right angles to it; crossing which we halted in a small wood for an hour to prepare our simple breakfast. Here Cochrane climbed an oak-tree hoping to obtain a glimpse of the sea, but it was not yet in sight. Hardly had we started off again when we suddenly saw a boy coming towards us through the wood. He was carrying a few chupatties and a bag of "yourt." We stopped the lad, and although at first he was unwilling to part with the food, which he intended to sell to some tent-dwellers, yet finally we persuaded him to humour us in exchange for two silver medjidies. While eating this unexpected addition to our breakfast, we questioned the boy as to our whereabouts. Though very uncertain about it, he thought the sea was three hours' journey away: the nearest big town was Selefké (the ancient Seleucia), but where it was he did not know; we should see a well near two tents in the next village. Thus informed we left him, and on emerging from the wood saw the two tents about a mile distant and close to what must be the main road to Selefké; away to our left stood some very fine ruins. Through field-glasses they looked like some ancient Greek temple. We decided to go to the tents for water, and in order to vary our story to suit our surroundings, for this occasion we would be German archæologists. Arriving at the encampment, we were received by an old Turk and his grown-up son, and taken into the bigger tent. Here we sat down on a carpet, and leant against what felt like sacks of grain. Having given our reason for being in the locality, we explained that we were willing to pay a good price for antiques. "I have none," replied the old fellow. "Of what value are such things to me? But you Germans are for ever searching after relics from ruins. Four years ago a party just like yours came here for the very same purpose, asking for ancient coins and pottery." So we had hit upon a most suitable story. A little girl now appeared on the scene. To keep up the conversation we asked the old man her age. "She's seven years old," he answered, "and my youngest grandchild. I have six sons, of whom five are at the war. One of them is a _chaouse_ (sergeant) on the Palestine front; another an _onbashi_ (corporal) near Bagdad. I had another son in Irak too, but he was taken prisoner by the English." "Have you good news of him?" asked one of us. "Yes, I had a letter from him a year ago, saying he was in good health and well treated." What the other two in the Army were doing we do not remember, though doubtless we were told. The sixth son, perchance a conscientious objector, was in the tent with us. He joined in the conversation now and again, and finally produced a musical instrument like a deformed mandolin. "Can any of you play?" he asked. "I don't think any of us can," replied our Turkish scholar. "But we should like to hear you play us something," he added politely. "First, however, could we have some water to drink? We are all very thirsty." This saved us the ordeal of listening to Oriental music, for the little child was sent round to each of us in turn with a shallow metal cup of water, and by the time we had had a drink the musician had put his instrument away. Encouraged by these beginnings of hospitality, we asked if they had any bread for sale. At this the old man shouted some questions to the other tent, at the door of which a woman soon appeared. She talked so fast that we could not understand what she said, but the expression on her face and all her gestures gave us clearly to understand that she had never heard such impudence. In the end, however, the old Turk gave us half a chupattie each. Meanwhile two of the party had gone off to the well to fill all our water-bottles, the rest remaining in the tent trying to persuade the man to give us more bread. Since no more was forthcoming, as soon as the two returned with water we moved on again. Food-hunting was now becoming a vice, of which, in our hungry condition, we found it difficult to cure ourselves. Though we had still some of the food bought at the big village on August 24, we eased our consciences with the thought that we might have to spend some days on the coast before we found a boat. Moreover, in these isolated tents, dotted about in so unfrequented a district, we might with safety try to obtain additional supplies, for there was not much likelihood of meeting gendarmes, and there was no town very near where the tent-dwellers could give information about us. The next few hours, therefore, were spent in searching for these isolated dwellings. But our luck had changed, for at four tents we were received with a very bad grace. One old woman, in particular, who, without any make up, could have played with great success the part of one of the witches in "Macbeth," showed great animosity towards us, and ended her tirade by saying that nothing would induce her to give food to Christians. Thus rebuffed, we marched on. A mile to our left front were the ruins we had seen earlier in the day. Their fluted columns were immense, and the capitals richly carved; but a closer inspection would mean going out of our way, and a few minutes later they were lost to view. Only two of us went to the fifth tent that we saw. The remainder walked on a few hundred yards, and waited hidden in a small valley, easily recognisable, because it led up to a conspicuous tree. Half an hour later the two rejoined the main body, having bought 1½ lb. of crushed wheat and the dixie half full of porridge made with plenty of sour milk. This was divided amongst the six, as the purchasers had had a few spoonfuls in the tent. Continuing, we came across some dry wells and also a few fruit trees. The fruit was unripe, unpleasant to taste, and unknown to any of us; but we ate it. The trees may have been plum-trees, which after many decades had reverted to the wild state. At 1 P.M. we found a well containing a little water, and not far from another tent. Once more only two went to buy supplies, while the others stayed at the well. Here, after much talk, the old woman in the tent let our agents have a dozen chupatties and some good cheese. The latter she took out of a goat-skin bag from under a millstone, where it was being pressed. Though rather strong, it was very good indeed, and tasted like gorgonzola. Near the tent was a bed of water-melons and a patch of Indian corn; but the good lady refused to sell any of these. Judging by the heap of melon-skins lying in a corner of the tent, she and her better-half were very partial to this fruit; hence, no doubt, her disinclination to part with any. We now decided that we were becoming demoralised by this "yourt-hunting," and that we would not visit any more tents; so when, half an hour after resuming our march, we passed close to one, we walked by it without taking any notice of the occupants. All this time the going was very bad. Countless small nullahs crossed our path. The ground was rocky and thickly covered with thorny bushes the height of a man, so that it was necessary to take a compass-bearing every few minutes. For a long time we had been steering a very zigzag course, when at 2.15 P.M. we arrived at the head of one of these many nullahs and saw beneath us a deep ravine running in a south-east direction. Through the undergrowth at the bottom it was possible to recognise the dry stony bed of a river, and this we decided to follow. A little north of where we were the ravine made a right-angled turn, and at this bend we were able to find a track to the bottom. Elsewhere the sides were sheer precipice, impossible to descend. On our way down we passed a massive sarcophagus hewn out of the solid rock. The lid had been moved to one side, and the chamber was empty--a result, perhaps, of the visit of the German archæologists of whom the old Turk had spoken that morning. An eerie place for a tomb it looked, perched on the side of a steep cliff. It was a relic of a former civilisation. That part of Asia Minor was once fertile and well populated, but some underground disturbance of nature had diverted or dried up the water without which the land could no longer live. Now it is a dead country. The terraced gardens near the coast still retain their step formation, but that is all. Only the wild locust-tree can find enough moisture to produce its fruit, and bird and animal life have almost ceased to exist. On reaching the bottom of the ravine in safety, we allowed ourselves nearly an hour's rest before we followed the slope of the stream. This in the main continued to take us in a south-easterly direction, though at times it ran due east. Along the bottom ran a rough and stony track, crossing frequently from one side of the river-bed to the other as the valley twisted and turned. At many points, too, it had been overgrown by the thick brushwood which had sprung up in the scanty soil at the foot of the ravine, and often we had to push our way through. By this time, in fact, marching was altogether a most painful performance. Our footgear was at an end. Uppers had all but broken away from the soles, which were nearly worn through, so that walking over stones was a refined torture. After two hours' going in the ravine we saw a side valley running into the left bank. Here was a camel with two foals, which were picking up a scanty living in the main river-bed. We also heard the bells of goats and the voice of a small boy shouting to them somewhere on the top of the ravine. Assuming there was a tent village not far off, we made as little noise as possible. Nothing however appeared. Towards six o'clock we came to a very sharp bend, where the track we had been following climbed up the side of the ravine in a southerly direction. At the time we debated whether to follow the track or the river-bed, and finally decided on the latter course. As we proceeded, the bed became rougher and rougher and the track less and less defined, and just before dark we halted. We had walked for many hours that day, but could only credit ourselves with five miles in the right direction. Moonlight, for which we had decided to wait, did not reach us in our canyon till after 2 A.M. next morning, though the moon itself had risen some time before. In the meantime we had cooked a little porridge and obtained a few hours' sleep. Now we retraced our steps till we came to where the track had left the ravine, and up this we climbed into the open. At the top we found ourselves in an old graveyard near a few deserted and ruined huts. Halting for five or six minutes, we ate a few mouthfuls of food and lightened our water-bottles. We then followed the track till 5 A.M., when we came to another deserted village. Near this was a well; so we replenished our stock, and halted in some thick scrub a few hundred yards farther on. Here Grunt, to his consternation, discovered that he had lost a small cloth bag containing one and a half chupatties and two sovereigns. The loss of the coins was nothing, but the bread was all-important. Grunt therefore decided to go back to the deserted village near the graveyard, where he had last eaten from the bag, and Nobby went with him. A couple of hours later the searchers returned with the coveted bag, and said they had seen the sea; the rest could raise no enthusiasm, and were very sceptical. At a quarter to eight we set forth from our hiding-place, and five minutes later the party as a whole had its first view of the sea. The morning sun was on it, making sky and sea one undivided sheen. It was difficult to realise that at last we were near the coast. From the point where we were to the shore could be barely six miles. Within forty miles of the coast we had been at a height of something approaching 5000 feet, but each ridge we had passed had in front of it another to hide the sea from us. Thus it was that not until we had marched for twenty-three nights and twenty-two days did we first look on it. As we scanned the water through the field-glasses, it looked as dead as the adjacent country. Not a sail was in sight anywhere, not a single ripple disturbed the shining sheet of glass in front of us. With heads uncovered, and with thankful hearts, we stood gazing, but without being in any way excited. Thus it was that no shout like the "Thalassa! Thalassa!" of Xenophon's Ten Thousand broke from the lips of our little band that still August morning; although here was the end of our land journey at last in sight after a march of some 330 miles. Had we seen a single boat it would have been different. There was nothing. Our great desire now was to get down to the coast itself. We thought that there must surely be a village somewhere down on the shore, where we should be able either to get hold of a boat at night or to bribe a crew with a promise of much money if they would land us at Cyprus. Before us, the intervening country was covered with bare rocks, stunted trees, and scrub, and fell away to the sea in a series of small ridges and terraces. Still following the track, our party, weary and hot, came to a halt at 11 A.M. on the 30th August, two miles from the shore, in the shade of a ruined stone tower. There were similar square towers dotted along the coast; perhaps their ancient use, like that of our own Martello towers, had been to ward off a foreign invasion should need arise; or, in less exciting times, to show lights towards the sea to guide at night the ships in those waters. We stopped at the tower, because we thought it was unsafe to go farther and risk being seen by any coastguard that might happen to be stationed there. It was well we did so. From here Cochrane went on alone, and while he was away we saw our first boat. Coming round a headland of the coast, a few miles east of us, a motor-boat passed across our front and disappeared into a narrow bay a mile and a half to our west. She towed a cutter full of men. Cochrane also had seen them, and came back to the tower to tell us the news; unfortunately, he had not found the hoped-for village. A few yards from the tower was a shallow stone-built well. Its water, though very dirty, being merely a puddle at the bottom, for us was drinkable. The day was very oppressive, with a damp heat, so we refreshed ourselves with a dixieful of tea. After this, Cochrane, taking Ellis with him, again went forward, this time to try to find the exact anchorage of the motor-boat. On their return they said there were tents on the shore. In one of them were horses, and in the neighbourhood several Turkish soldiers were moving about. Studying our map, we decided we were within three miles of Pershembé, a point for which we had headed for some days past. The coast-line before us ran N.E. and S.W. We were on a narrow plateau one and a half mile from the sea, and the high ground continued till within a few hundred yards of the water; in some places even to the edge of the coast itself, which was indented with small bays and creeks. On the headland to the east, and gleaming white in the sunshine, stood a magnificent stone-built town, walled and turreted, but showing no signs of being inhabited. Nearer to us, on the foreshore, was a small lagoon, spanned at one corner by an old bridge: on the water's edge could be seen green reeds and half a dozen palm-trees, and here three or four camels were feeding. Opposite to the lagoon and some eight hundred yards off the shore was a small island fortress, its turreted and loopholed walls rising sheer from the sea. It boasted fine bastioned towers, and when the sun was willing to act as master showman this dazzling gem was framed in a fit setting of sapphire. This, though we did not know its name at the time, was Korghos Island. Here may be mentioned a very peculiar coincidence, although we only learnt of it after our return to England. This was, that Keeling, after his escape from Kastamoni, had spared himself no trouble in attempting to arrange schemes of escape for his former companions, and only a few weeks after our departure a number of his code messages reached the camp at Yozgad, amongst them one detailing our best route to this very island of Korghos. Here were to be waiting either agents with a supply of food or a boat, between three different pairs of dates: one of those periods coincided with part of this very time that we were on the coast. When we eventually reached Cyprus, we learnt also that two agents had been landed on Korghos Island, but that they had been seen and captured. To continue the description of the coast at which we had arrived: immediately below us the ground fell away to a low-lying stretch of foreshore, which extended for nearly a mile between the end of our plateau and the sea. Half a mile west of us lay a deep ravine, which looked as if it would run into the creek entered by the motor-boat. Along the sea and lined by the telegraph poles the main coast road wound its way. In the early evening Nobby, Looney, and Johnny went off to reconnoitre, but it was impossible to approach the coast by daylight because of the men moving about, and they had to return to the tower with little additional information. There were five tents for men and a larger one for horses, and though no guns were visible it was very probable that here was a section of a battery for dealing with any boat that might attempt to spy out the nakedness of the land. Two years before that time, Lord Rosebery's yacht, the _Zaida_, had been mined a few miles along the coast at a place called Ayasch Bay, which she had entered for the purpose of landing spies. Four of her officers had come to the prisoners' camp at Kastamoni, and we heard from the three of them who survived that there had been some field-guns on the shore where they were captured. Our resting-place near the tower was an unsatisfactory one. We were close to water, it is true, but we were also close to a track leading down to the coast, and though we were soon to change our minds, we thought at the time that no flies in the world could be as persistent and insatiable as those which all day attacked us. For these reasons, and the additional one of wishing to be nearer the creek which we thought the motor-boat had entered, we decided to move to the ravine half a mile west of our tower. We would visit the well early in the morning and late at night for replenishing our water supply. Accordingly at dusk we again packed up. Our way led us through thick undergrowth along neglected terraces, and at about 6.30 P.M. we were on the edge of the steep-sided valley. By a stroke of luck we almost immediately found a way down to the bottom. Although we were to become all too well acquainted with that ravine, we only found one other possible line of ascent and descent on the tower side, and one path up the western edge. The river-bed, of course, was dry, and filled with huge boulders and thickly overgrown with bushes. Pushing our way through these, we had only gone a quarter of a mile down the ravine when we decided to halt for the night. CHAPTER XIII. ON THE COAST. There was still, however, no time to be lost in discovering and obtaining the motor-tug or other boat, seeing that we had arrived on the coast with barely three days' supply of food. That same night, then, Cochrane and Nobby carried out a reconnaissance, continuing to follow our ravine down towards the sea, in the hope that they would come out opposite the bay into which the tug and her tow had disappeared that afternoon. The remainder settled down to sleep as best they could, without a dinner and on hard and stony beds, taking it in turns at half-hour intervals to keep watch. This was necessary to prevent the two scouts passing them unawares should they return in the dark. The whole party had reached the coast on their last legs. In the case of Grunt especially, nothing short of the certainty of being able to walk on board a boat could have moved him that night. He had still not recovered from the effects of the blow on the head. As for Cochrane and Nobby, it must have been pure strength of will which enabled them to carry on, after the trying day in the damp heat. Cochrane, indeed, had undertaken what proved beyond his powers; upon him more than any had fallen the brunt of the work of guiding the little column night after night and day after day. It was not to be wondered at that on this occasion he had not proceeded a mile before his legs simply gave way beneath him, and he had to allow Nobby to proceed alone. Soon afterwards the ravine took an almost northerly direction. When it eventually petered out it was at some distance to the north of the probable position of the motor-boat. Nobby now found himself crossing the coast road; this we had assumed would be guarded. On the way out he saw no one; but on his return journey next morning he proved our assumption correct by almost stepping on the face of a man who lay sleeping on the road. He was presumably on duty. The propensity of the Turkish sentry for going to sleep at his post once more stood us in good stead. During the night it had been too dark to see much, and Nobby had had to return without having discovered a boat. After hunting round, he had settled down on the edge of a small creek running into the sea, where he remained till the first streak of dawn enabled him to pick his way back to the mouth of the ravine. His main difficulty that night had been to keep himself awake. All the time he was in deadly terror of falling asleep and awaking to find himself stranded on the coast in broad daylight. [Illustration: _Sketched to Authors' description by Hal Kay._ LIFE IN THE RAVINE.] He tried to occupy himself with fishing. He had taken with him the line and hooks which were an item of the party's equipment on leaving Yozgad; but no bites came to keep up his flagging interest. Before long he had a midnight bathe, to the great envy of the rest of the party when they heard of it next morning; but the water, he said, had been almost too warm to be really refreshing; the rocks, too, were unpleasantly sharp to stand on. He next picked at an exposed nerve in one of his teeth, and the acute pain thereby inflicted served to keep him awake for the rest of the night. At long length the sky began to lighten, and Nobby, after his narrow escape while re-crossing the road, once more entered the ravine and picked up Cochrane. The two then rejoined their anxious comrades. It was now 5 A.M. Dawn was slow to reach our hemmed-in hiding-place; but when it was light enough to see, we discovered that the sides of the ravine were covered with trees bearing what Ellis fortunately recognised as "carobs" or locust beans. We were soon doing what we could to stifle the gnawing pains of hunger by eating quantities of this wild fruit. Some people believe that this is what is meant by the "locusts" eaten by John the Baptist. To our taste they seemed wonderfully sweet and had something of the flavour of chocolate, so that throughout our stay on the coast they formed an unfailing dessert after, and often before our meals. When we eventually reached Cyprus we found that there the tree is cultivated, and that thousands of tons of carobs are exported yearly for use in cattle foods. However humble their use, in our case at any rate they were not to be despised, and as a matter of fact the cultivated beans are used to some extent in the manufacture of certain chocolates. The night reconnaissance having failed to solve the question of the motor-boat's anchorage, at 7 A.M. on this last day of August, Johnny and Looney set out on a search for the elusive bay by daylight. Climbing up the southern side of the ravine, they had to keep out of sight of the men who were known to be below them, so they at first remained at some distance from the coast, moving parallel to it for over a mile. They then turned towards the sea until they reached a terrace below which the ground fell away rather steeply to the shore. From this point of observation it was possible to see the greater part of the series of capes and bays into which the coast was divided. Still no sign of the tug gladdened their eyes. A closer approach by day would involve considerable risk. A couple of motor-lorries and a mounted patrol had already been observed moving along the road. The two scouts sat down awhile on some boulders behind a large bush, and while Johnny peered between the branches through the field-glasses, Looney drew a rough panorama so as to be able if necessary to indicate to the rest of the party any particular bay. It was about 10 A.M.: the two were about to seek some point of vantage from which it would be possible to see more of some of the bays, when suddenly they heard the hum of a motor. Next moment the tug shot into view from the hidden portion of one of the bays to the N.E. Once more she towed a cutter full of men and stores, and through the glasses it was possible to recognise the Turkish flag flying at her stern. The two remained where they were, watching her until she disappeared round a bend far up the coast towards Mersina. Possibly she made daily trips, carrying working parties and material to some scene of activity, so the two decided to try to overlook the head of the bay in which she had appeared, in order to discover something definite about the anchorage. To reduce the risk of detection, they first withdrew out of sight of the road and worked their way more to the north before cutting down again towards the shore. On the way out from the ravine they had passed near some ruins, and these they now took in their course to see if there might be a well there with water in it. It was unfortunate that there was not, for in this dead city there was one enormous and very deep amphitheatre, into which it was possible to descend by a path cut in the rocky side. Here shade from the sun would have been obtainable at all hours of the day, and altogether it would have been a better hiding-place than the ravine, if only it had contained a water supply. But though they found the remains of one well, it was absolutely dry. The two now made their way cautiously towards the place whence the boats had been seen to emerge. The slope of the ground, however, became more and more pronounced as they approached the coast, so that they were able to see little more of the bay than had been visible from their earlier observation point; although by this time they were within sight of the tents seen on the previous day. These stood a little way out on a small cape. Dodging from cover to cover amongst the patches of scrub, sometimes on hands and knees, they finally found themselves close to the coast road itself. Leaving Looney screened from view, Johnny now went on alone. He was not twenty yards from the road when a Turkish soldier passed along it. A moment later four or five others were seen skirting the seaward edge of a rocky headland to the south, apparently engaged in looking for mussels. It was now obvious that opposite the head of the bay which they sought, the coast rose so sheer, that to obtain a view of the whole would entail going forward across the road to the edge of the cliff beyond. With so many people moving about, this, by daylight, was out of the question, and after seven hours' reconnaissance in the hot sun the two had to be satisfied with bringing back the information that they knew which bay the boats had entered the day before, but that they were there no longer. Meanwhile another party of two--to wit, the Old Man and Perce--had gone forth from the ravine in a last search for food. Without a further supply of this we should be compelled to give ourselves up unless we at once discovered a boat. Of inhabited villages there appeared to be none, even should we have dared to attempt another entry after the experiences of "the three Huns." The Circassian encampments, too, had ceased. It is a fairly well-known fact that in the East if villagers are driven away from their homes for any cause, such as a punitive expedition, they usually take steps to bury any valuables which they are unable to carry away, the most common of which is grain. We had bethought ourselves of the deserted village some miles back, near to which we had halted just before our first glimpse of the sea. It occurred to us that the occupants might have been compelled by the Turkish authorities to quit on the outbreak of war, as being within too short a distance of the coast. In this case, then, there might be food there, buried or otherwise concealed. In this, providentially, we were to find ourselves not mistaken, although the search party set off with little hopes of success. It required a five-mile climb up the series of ridges to reach the village, and the track was very rough to the feet. On the previous day even the descent had been trying enough in the oppressive heat which seemed to prevail on the coast; so the ascent was doubly so. Moreover, the village itself did not come into view until one was within a mile of it, and as there were remains of other tracks branching off at frequent intervals, it was not easy for the Old Man and Perce to keep to the right one. Great was their relief when, after a good deal of wandering, they found themselves safely within the farm enclosure; for really the "village" comprised only one house with its outbuildings, all within a square walled enclosure. There seemed to be no one about, so they set to work to force the rough country locks with which all the doors were fastened. They had brought the little adze with them, and for this work it was invaluable, although its steel edge was not thereby improved. One of the upstair living-rooms was first invaded. On entering they found the floor bare, but cupboards and lockers in the wall stuffed full of a wonderful variety of things--rolls of cloth (obviously made on the spot, for there were remains of the looms), coarse cotton-wool, a few handkerchiefs, cobbler's materials and tools, an old coffee-grinder in pieces, some hoop-iron, an enamelled mug, a dozen wooden spoons, and a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends such as seem to collect in all houses, English and Turkish alike. The only items of present value were the handkerchiefs, a little prepared leather, the mug, and some of the spoons. These they removed, and by dint of looking into many small cloth bags found something of greater value--namely, a couple of pounds of dry powdery cheese, and as much salt as we were likely to want if we stayed on the coast for a month. These alone, however, were not going to keep eight hungry mortals alive, so the joy of the two searchers was proportionately great when, on breaking into an outhouse and stumbling over a litter of wooden staves, they discovered in the next room something over 300 pounds of wheat lying in a heap on the floor. The grain was uncrushed and dirty, but that disadvantage could be overcome with a little trouble. Further search revealed nothing more in the way of food, but it was noted that in other rooms there were several cooking-pots which might be worth taking down on a future visit. For the present the two loaded up their packs with some grain, and hurriedly bundling back the things which they had turned out from the cupboards, set their faces once more towards the sea. At 5.45 that evening two weary figures staggered into view, being met by Cochrane, Nobby, and Johnny, who had gone up to the well near the tower to draw water. They had reason to be happy, for this find of food postponed indefinitely our capitulation to hunger. All five remained at the well till after dark in order to grind enough grain for an evening meal, using a heavy stone to beat a little of it at a time inside a hollowed-out slab, intended for use in watering sheep. Nobby and Johnny, who stayed a few minutes after the other three, were accosted on their way back to the ravine by a couple of men riding away from the coast on donkeys. They asked our two whether they belonged to the camp below, and seemed quite satisfied when they said they did. This confirmed suspicions which some of us had had the previous day, that certain of the tents we had seen contained Germans; for the two men could certainly not have taken any of us for Turks. Crushing grain by pounding it with a primitive stone pestle and mortar is at best a fatiguing process, nor are the results favourable to easy digestion. Not only did some of the grains escape being crushed, but chips of stone from the sides of the mortar became mixed with the food, which was none too clean in itself. Cochrane said he would make the most worn-out old coffee-grinder do better work with the expenditure of half the energy, so we decided to have another expedition to the village next day to fetch the one which had been noticed there. We could hardly hope to make a series of visits without eventual discovery; it was best therefore to fetch down at the same time as much more of the wheat as we were likely to want. Accordingly at 7 A.M. on the 1st September, four of the party started off carrying empty packs. These were Nobby, Johnny, and Ellis, and the Old Man, who went for the second time to show the others the way. On arrival they found distinct signs that the two men who had been met the previous evening had gone to the farmhouse and to the well just below it. Whether they had noticed anything wrong, there was nothing to show. In any case, the four lost no time in loading up and returning to a safer spot, reaching the ravine at about 3.30 P.M. The other half of the party had gone in turns to the well, to fetch water and do some more crude grinding for the day's food. It took an hour and a half to do a single trip for water alone. Each time nearly an hour was spent in drawing up water mugful by mugful till all available receptacles were full. So we were thankful when later on that day, Cochrane, scouting around, discovered another well. This was not only a little nearer to our lair, but also had one place deep enough to permit the use of a canvas bucket. This meant a great saving of time. The water, too, held in solution rather less mud, and none of the bits of mouldy wood which formed a fair proportion of the hauls from the well by the tower. Near the new well there were more ruins, in this case only a few low walls, and, standing apart, a semicircular arch of some twelve feet in diameter--just the bare ring of stones remained and nothing else. From now onwards, for the rest of our stay on the coast, we settled down to a new kind of existence--in fact we may be said to have _existed_, and nothing more. Life became a dreary grind, both literally and metaphorically. For the next few days, at any rate, we thought of nothing else but how to prepare and eat as much food as we could. This was not greed: it was the only thing to do. None of us wanted to lie a day longer than absolutely necessary in that awful ravine, but we were at present simply too weak to help ourselves. To carry out a search for another boat was beyond the powers of any one. Cochrane rigged up the coffee-grinder on the same afternoon as it had arrived--lashing the little brass cylinder to the branch of a tree at a convenient height for a man to turn the handle. A rusty saw, cutting like all Oriental saws on the pull-stroke, had been discovered in the village and brought down by the last party, and this proved useful now and on subsequent occasions. Whilst one of the party worked at the mill, and another supervised the cooking of the next dixieful of porridge, the rest were busy picking over the grain in the hopes of removing at any rate some small proportion of the empty husks and the bits of earth with which it was mixed. Even so it was impossible to clean the dirt off the grains themselves. Nothing, we thought, could be more wearisome than this never-ending task. Our misery was aggravated by the swarms of flies which incessantly harassed us as we worked. What right they had to be alive at all on such a deserted coast was never discovered. He whose turn it was to cook found in the smoke from the fire a temporary respite from their attentions; but they took care to make up for lost time afterwards. When the water was nearly boiled away, bits of porridge were wont to leap out of the pot and light on the cook's hands. The ensuing blister did not last long, for within twenty-four hours the flies had eaten it all away. We had no bandages left, and pieces of paper which we used to wet and stick on the blisters fell off as soon as they were dry. It was not many days before Old Man's and Johnny's hands became covered with septic sores. Unfortunately, too, most of us were out of 'baccy, as a means of keeping these pests away. Some took to smoking cigarettes made from the dried leaves which littered the stony bed of our unhappy home. Even the non-smoker of the party had to give way to the pernicious habit once, out of pure self-defence. Nor at night was it easy to obtain peace. The flies had no sooner gone to their well-earned rest than the mosquitoes took up the call with their high-pitched trumpet notes. But of course it was not the noise which mattered, but their bites; and in the end most of us used to sleep with a handkerchief or piece of cloth over our faces, and a pair of socks over our hands. Ravine life was most relaxing--partly owing to the stuffiness of the air in so deep and narrow a cleft, overgrown as it was with trees and scrub; but perhaps still more to reaction, after more than three weeks of strenuous marching. So long as we had had the encouragement of being able to push on each day, and feel that we were getting nearer home, we had no time to think of bodily exhaustion: the excitement, mild though it was, kept us going. Now, unable to do anything towards making good our escape, it required a big effort to drag oneself to one's feet for the purpose of fetching a mugful of porridge. It required a still bigger one to go up in pairs to fetch water from the well, although it was essential for every one to do this at least once a day, merely to keep the pot a-boiling. This, too, was the only way of obtaining a deep drink; except for half a mug of tea made from several-times stewed leaves, all the water brought down to the nullah each day was utilised for cooking the wheat. Fortunately, to take us to the well there was the further inducement of a wash for both bodies and clothes. The latter by this time were in a very dirty and also worn-out condition; but thanks doubtless to our having spent no appreciable time inside villages actually occupied by Turks, they were not verminous. On account of the washing, visits to the well were apt at times to develop into lengthy affairs--anything up to five or six hours, which did not help towards getting through the daily tasks necessary to keep ourselves fed. Not only did this involve having reliefs at the mill for eight out of every twenty-four hours, but much work was necessary to keep up the supply of cleaned wheat to feed the machine. Necessity, however, is the mother of invention, and from the 5th September, acting on a suggestion made by Looney, we used to take the next day's wheat up to the well and wash it there in a couple of changes of water. There was a convenient stone trough on the spot. The chaff floated to the surface, while the earth, whether in loose particles or clinging to the grains themselves, was dissolved. After washing, the wheat was spread out in the sun on squares of cloth brought down from the village, and when dry was fetched back to the ravine by the next water-party. Like most schemes, this one had its weak points. It was very extravagant in water, and in a few days our well began to show distinct signs of being drained to emptiness; in fact, only a puddle could have existed to begin with, though a larger one than that in the well near the tower. The second disadvantage was that the grain, while left out to dry, might be discovered and give away our presence; but, in any case, one pair or another of the party was so often up at the well that the risk was not greatly increased; besides, there was not much to induce a Turk from the camp below to visit the ruins. In the end we were seen, the first occasion being on the 6th September. That evening, Cochrane, Old Man, and Looney were up at the well, when an old fellow with a dyed beard--a Turk, as far as they could say--suddenly appeared, and eyed their water-bottles very thirstily. He accepted with readiness the drink they offered to him, but appeared to be nothing of a conversationalist. He was indeed almost suspiciously indifferent who the three might be. There was a mystery about that man which we never entirely solved. From then onwards, almost to the end of our stay on the coast, not a day passed without his seeing one or other of the party. To explain _our_ presence at the well, the water-parties pretended they were German observation posts sent up to watch the sea, over which, as a matter of fact, one could obtain a very fine view from that place. We usually carried up the field-glasses to have a look round, and these perhaps helped out our story. To live up further to our Hun disguise, we once told the man that really the place was "yessak." This is the Turkish equivalent to "verboten," and, to judge from our experiences in the camps, is about as frequently used. On another occasion it was sunset when some of us saw him. After his usual drink he washed his hands and face and said his prayers Mohammedan-wise. After his prayers he said he had seen two boats go past coming from the east and disappearing to the west. Little remarks like this made us think at one time that he might possibly be a British agent, landed to get information, or possibly for the express purpose of helping escaped officers like ourselves: for there had been plenty of time for the news of our escape from Yozgad to reach the Intelligence Department in Cyprus. One day Grunt and Nobby deliberately went up to try to get into conversation with the mysterious individual. In the end they came to the conclusion that he must be some kind of outlaw. He told them that a friend and he had come from a place far inland to sell something or other to a coastal village, and he himself was now awaiting the other's return. They were going to take back with them a load of carobs, of which he already had been making collections under various trees. The beans seemed to be his only food, and he was obviously half-starving. This, combined with the fact that he relied on us to draw up water for him when there must be good water near the Turkish tents below, showed that he was in hiding for some cause or other. This was as well for us, as, if he had thought at all, he could not for a moment have been deceived by our story. Even if we were on watch, we should hardly trouble to bring up not only our own, but a lot of other men's water-bottles to fill with muddy water at a disused well. Whatever the explanation, the great thing was that he did not interfere with us. Two evenings before our final departure from the ravine, he told us that his donkeys would be coming back next morning, and that was the last time that he was seen. A few extracts from diaries may serve to convey some idea of our feelings during these earlier days in the ravine:-- "_2nd Sept._--Struggled up to well at 8 A.M. Had wash in mugful of water: temporarily refreshing, but exhausted for rest of day, and feeling weaker than ever before in spite of five brews of boulgar" (each brew was at this time about the half of a pint mug all round) "and one small chupattie each, made by Nobby. Flour for last made with much hard grinding after mill had been readjusted. Readjustment alone took two hours to do.... Flies awful all day...." "_3rd Sept._--Locust beans quite good toasted over ashes, and make sweet syrup if first cut up and then boiled, but this entails a lot of work. Every one cleaning and grinding wheat all day. As now set, grinder produces mixture of coarse flour and boulgar. Tried unsuccessfully to simmer this into a paste and then bake into thick chupatties." (All our efforts at this stage were directed towards producing something digestible with the minimum of work.) "Day passed very slowly, with occasional trips for water." "_4th Sept._--Most of us rather doubtful whether we shall be able to get back our strength on a boulgar diet, and flour takes more grinding than we have strength for at present--rather a vicious circle." Another diary for the same date says--"Feeling weaker now than I did when we first arrived; no energy for anything." Next day the tide seems to have been on the turn. "_5th Sept._--Most of us slightly stronger, but held back by chronic lethargy. Continuous brewing all day. To save interruptions at the grinder we now feed in two parties of four, taking alternate brews: this means we get nearly a big mugful at a whack, at intervals of about three hours.... Most of us fill in gaps eating burnt beans. Charcoal said to be good for digestion!... One thing is, our feet are rested here, and blisters healed. We are also undoubtedly putting on flesh again, and if we can get rid of this hopeless slackness shall be all right.... Grunt, working from 1 P.M. onwards, made 1 large and 4 small chupatties each, so we are coming on." It was something to feel full again sometimes. "_6th Sept._--My energy as well as my strength returning a bit now.... Mill hard at it all day.... 4½ mugfuls boulgar (1 pint each) and 6 chupatties (4½ inches diameter and fairly thick) the day's ration." CHAPTER XIV. FAILURE AND SUCCESS. Our experiments at chupattie-making had led us in the end to grind the wheat in two stages--first into coarse meal, and then, with a finer setting of the mill, into flour. This meant less strain both for us and for the machine: upon the safety of the latter practically depended our survival, and frequent were the exhortations to the miller on duty not to be too violent with the wretched little handle. Standing there in the sun--for though there were trees in the ravine, they were not high enough to shelter a man standing up--one was greatly tempted to hurry through the task of twenty hoppers full of grain, and so risk breaking the grinder. A quotation which Looney had learnt from a book read at Yozgad proved very apposite on these occasions. It was from a label pasted on to a French toy, and ran as follows: "Quoi qu'elle soit solidement montée, il ne faut pas brutaliser la machine!" When enough flour was ready, some one would knead it into a lump of dough, which would then be divided up by the cook and flattened into little discs. These were baked several at a time on the metal cover of our dixie. When enough chupatties were ready, the cook would pick them up one by one, while some one else, not in sight of them, called out the names of the party at random. This was to get over the difficulty caused by the chupatties not being all of quite the same size. Similarly, after each brew of porridge had been distributed into the mugs by spoonfuls, we determined who was to have the scrapings of the pot by the method of "fingers-out." It was necessary to scrape the dixie each time to prevent the muddy paste which stuck to the bottom becoming burnt during the next brew; and the way to get this done thoroughly was to let some one have it to eat. On the 4th September, Nobby discovered a shorter way up to the well, by first going a little down instead of up the ravine we were in. From that date onwards, except for one night when it was necessary to be on the spot in case of eventualities, Looney and Perce, and on one occasion Johnny, went up at dusk to sleep near the well. Although the mosquitoes were almost as troublesome there, they found that the air was quite invigorating--a great contrast to that in the ravine, where no refreshing breeze ever found its way. By this time hardly one of us had any footgear left worthy of the name, so we soaked an old _mashak_ (skin water-bag) and a piece of raw hide, both of which had been brought down from the village on the second visit, with a view to using them for patch repairs. Both, however, proved too rotten to be of use, for they would not hold the stitches. We had been a week in the ravine before any of us felt capable of farther exploration. To save time in getting to work again, on the last two evenings Cochrane and Nobby had had a little extra ration of porridge. Now at length, on the 6th September, they felt that it was within their powers to make another reconnaissance. Nothing more had been seen of the motor-boat, but the bay in which had been its anchorage on our first night on the coast seemed to offer the best prospect of finding a boat of some sort. Accordingly at 5 P.M. the pair set off once again down the ravine, hoping to arrive near the end of it before dark. And so began another anxious time for all, as we wondered what the final night of our first month of freedom would bring forth. It had not been easy to keep a correct tally of the date during the march to the coast. More than once there had been no opportunity of writing a diary for three days at a time; whilst on the coast one day was so much like another that to lose count of a day would have been easy. One of us, however, had kept a complete diary, and so we knew that we had now been at large for a month. To celebrate this we had decided, if all went well that night, to have something very good to eat on the morrow. Every one voted for a plum-duff. Johnny had cooked a date-duff one evening during the siege of Kut, when his Indian _khansama_ (cook) found the shell-fire too trying for his nerves. To Johnny then was given the post of _chef_. During the day each of the party did an extra fatigue on the coffee-grinder, with the result that by dusk we were able to set aside about two pounds of flour for the pudding. Its other ingredients were a couple of small handfuls of raisins and a pinch of salt. When Cochrane and Nobby departed operations commenced. The ingredients were mixed; the dough was kneaded on a flat rock and the resulting mass divided into two, for our little dixie was incapable of holding all at once. Each pudding was then rolled into a ball, tied up in a handkerchief, and boiled for two and a half hours. Thus it was close upon midnight before our dainties were ready for the morrow. The stillness of the nights in the ravine had often been broken by the melancholy chorus of a pack of jackals, usually far away but sometimes close at hand. We decided to take no risks of loosing our duffs, and so slung them in the branches of a tree. Meanwhile Cochrane and Nobby proceeded on their reconnaissance. We had made plans before they started in case of certain eventualities. One was that if the two were recaptured they should lead the Turks to the rest of the party; it was realised that otherwise they might be very hard put to it to prove that they were escaped prisoners of war and not spies. A more cheerful eventuality was the possibility that the motor-boat might have returned unobserved. In that case if a favourable opportunity of capturing it occurred, Cochrane and Nobby were to seize the vessel, make their way to Cyprus, and send back help for the rest four nights later. The rendezvous from which they would be fetched was to be on the headland opposite the little island on which stood the ruined castle. We eventually learnt that at the proposed rendezvous was stationed a battery of guns, so that it was well for us that this plan had never to be executed. Our two scouts had many exciting moments in their reconnaissance that night. They went to within a few hundred yards of the mouth of the ravine, and then, turning to the right, made their way up to higher ground by a side ravine. They climbed hurriedly, for the light was rapidly failing. From the top it was still impossible to overlook the bay which they wanted. They were moving along parallel to the sea when suddenly they heard voices. They could pick out four figures a little more than a hundred yards away, silhouetted against the sea on their left. These were Turks; they seemed to be looking out to sea, and after a minute or two squatted down on what appeared to be the flat roof of a house. At this juncture Cochrane swallowed a mosquito. Nobby says that to see him trying not to choke or cough would have been laughable at any less anxious time. After this episode the two moved off with extra carefulness. It was now quite dark. They had not gone much farther when they again heard voices. This time the voices were quite close and coming towards them. Our pair took cover and waited: happily, at the last moment the owners of the voices turned off. In view of the number of people who seemed to be about it was no good increasing the risk of detection by having two persons on the move; so, soon after, Cochrane left Nobby in a good place of concealment, and went on scouting around by himself. Half an hour later he came back. He had been able to overlook the cove, and there were two boats there. It was too dark, however, to see of what sort they were, and as there was a shed with a sentry on duty close to the boats, the only thing to do was to wait for daylight. The two now slept and took watch in turn. At the first sign of dawn they moved down to a rock, commanding a good view of the creek. One of the boats appeared to be a ship's cutter, some twenty-eight feet long, the other perhaps twenty feet in length. Having seen all they could hope for, they lost no time in moving off, as it was now quite obvious that the house on which they had seen the four men on the previous evening was a look-out post; and it was now becoming dangerously light. Instead of returning directly to the ravine, however, they made their way some distance down the coast to the S.W. They were able to see Selefké, and to recognise through the glasses a dhow in the river there, but it was some way inland. It was 11 A.M. before the reconnoitring party again reached the ravine. The news they brought gave us something definite to work for, and we decided that if we could finish our preparations in time we would make an attempt to seize one of the boats two nights later. That would be on the night of the 8th-9th September. But there was much to be done before then. Masts and spars, paddles and sails, and four days' supply of food for the sea journey had to be made ready. For the paddle heads Cochrane and Nobby had brought back some flat thin pieces of board which they had found near a broken-down hut; and also a bit of ancient baked pottery which would serve as a whetstone for our very blunt knives and the adze. On the strength of the good news and to fortify ourselves for the work, we decided to wait no longer for our feast. The duffs were unslung from the tree, and each divided with as much accuracy as possible into eight pieces: in this way we should each have a slice from either pudding in case they varied in quantity or quality. Both were superb, and the finest duffs ever made. We commented on their amazing sweetness and excellent consistency. In reality a raisin was only to be found here and there, and the puddings were not cooked right through. When we had finished, Old Man asserted that he could then and there and with ease demolish six whole duffs by himself. This started an argument. "What!" cried one; "eat forty-eight pieces like the two you have just had. Impossible!" "Granted; twenty pieces would go down easily enough," said another, "and the next ten with a fair appetite. But after that it wouldn't be so easy. You might manage another ten, but the last eight would certainly defeat you." Old Man, however, stuck to his assertion and refused to come down by so much as a single slice. As it was impossible without the duffs under discussion to prove him right or merely greedy, the subject was allowed to drop. By this date Perce was the only one of the party who still had some tobacco, English 'baccy too, for he smoked very little. To celebrate the discovery of the boats, he now broke into his reserve. A single cigarette was rolled and handed round from one to another of us. It only needed a couple of inhaled puffs to make each of us feel as if we were going off under an anæsthetic. After the two or three puffs one thought it would be nice to sit down, and in a few seconds one felt it would be pleasanter still to lie down full length. That is what we did. The effect only lasted a minute or two, but it showed in what a weak condition we were. On the evening trip to the nearer well it was found quite impossible to draw up any more water from it. It had been gradually drying up, and now the two on water fatigue could not scoop up even a spoonful of water when they let down a mug, so they had to go on to the well near the tower. This, too, was going dry, but still contained a little pool of very muddy water. Shortly after four o'clock that afternoon Looney and Perce had started off on the third visit which was paid to the deserted village. They were armed with a long list of requisites: more cloth for sails; a big dixie for cooking large quantities of the reserve porridge at a time; some more grain; nails and any wood likely to be of use; cotton-wool for padding our feet when we went down to the shore; and many other things. They returned next morning at 9 A.M. with all the important articles, together with some hoop-iron and a few small poles. The latter were the very thing for the paddle-shafts. They also brought down some raw coffee-beans which they had found in a little leather bag; these we roasted and ground next day, and enjoyed the two finest drinks of coffee we remember having had in our lives. Meanwhile we had started cooking our food for the sea voyage. It was to consist of small chupatties and porridge, but the latter would not be cooked until the latest possible date for fear of its going bad. Forty reserve chupatties had been set aside before we retired to rest on the night after the feast-day. From that day onwards till we left the ravine the coffee-grinder was worked unceasingly from 5 A.M. till 7 or 8 P.M. There was no question of a six hours' day for us; for while we ground flour and porridge for the reserve, we had still to provide our own meals for the day. We realised then, if never before, the truth of the saying, "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread." Little of the 8th September had passed before we realised that it was hopeless to think of being ready by the following night. We therefore postponed the attempt, and settled down to our preparations in more deadly earnest. Cochrane decided on the size and shape of the sails, which were to be three in number. The rolls of cloth obtained from the village were about fourteen inches in width, and the biggest of the three sails was made with seven strips of the cloth. It was a good thing that we had still two big reels nearly untouched of the thread with which we had started from Yozgad. When the strips had been sewn together, the edges of the sail were hemmed. Later, pieces of canvas from Ellis's pack, which was cut up for the purpose, were added at the corners for the sake of additional strength. No one had a moment to spare. Those who were not sail-making were doing something else,--either at the mill, at work on the paddles, cutting branches off trees for the spars, fetching water, or cooking. September 9th was similarly spent, but again on this day it soon became obvious that we should not be ready by nightfall. By the time we retired to our sleeping-places, however, our preparations were well advanced. Two of the sails were finished, the spars were cut, some of the paddles were completed, and the larger part of the chupatties and porridge cooked. The porridge was put into one of our packs. It was not a very clean receptacle, but being fairly waterproof would, we hoped, help to keep the porridge moist; for our chief fear with regard to the coming sea voyage was shortage of water. On the 10th we worked continuously from daylight till 3.30 P.M., by which time our preparations were complete. Before moving off we hid away all non-essentials, so as to reduce our loads. With the big cooking-pot half-full of water, and the spars, sails, and paddles, these were going to be both heavy and cumbersome. We also buried our fezes and the copies of the map, lest, if we were recaptured, they should encourage the Turks to think that we were spies. For the same reason, any allusions to what we had seen on the coast, and to our visits to the deserted village, were carefully erased from diaries. These precautions completed, we carried our unwieldy loads down the ravine to a point opposite the shorter path to the wells. Here we left our impedimenta, and taking only water-bottles, chargals, and the big cooking-pot, which had a cover and swing-handle, climbed up to the well near the tower and filled up. The water supply was almost exhausted, and it took an hour and a half to fill our receptacles and have a drink. It was impossible to practise the camel's plan, and drink more than we really needed at the time. It required a tremendous effort to force oneself to drink a mugful of these muddy dregs. While the rest were filling the water-bottles, &c., Old Man and Nobby went off to a suitable point for a final look at part of our proposed route to the shore. Then all returned to the kits in the ravine. We had decided that we would move down to the beach in stockinged feet, so as to make as little noise as possible. For most of us this was not only a precaution, but a necessity, since our party of eight now only possessed three pairs of wearable boots between us. We accordingly padded our feet as best we could, and proceeded once more towards the sea. The going was so difficult that we had several times to help one another over the enormous boulders which filled the bottom of the ravine, and down precipitous places where there had once been small waterfalls. At 7 P.M. we were not far from the mouth of the ravine. Here, then, the party halted, while Nobby, who had been there on two previous occasions, scouted ahead. When he returned, reporting that all seemed to be clear, we crept on out of the ravine. It was now night. Walking very carefully, testing each footstep for fear of treading on a twig or loose stone and so making a noise, we came to a wall. This we crossed at a low place where it had been partially broken down, and a hundred yards beyond found ourselves approaching a line of telegraph poles and then the coast road. Up and down this we peered in the light of the young moon, and seeing no one went across. The ground here was level, but covered with big bushes and a few stunted firs, between which we made our way to the shore. It was grand to hear the lapping of the waves and smell the seaweed after nearly four years. The creek, in which were the two rowing-boats, lay a mile to the west of us. We had intended to strike the shore where we were, for by walking to the creek along the edge of the sea the risk of stumbling against any tents or huts in the dark would be reduced; but it took us longer to reach our objective than we had expected. It was almost midnight when, a quarter of a mile from the creek, and near a place where a boat could be brought conveniently alongside, the party halted. Leaving the others here, Cochrane and Johnny were to try to seize one of the two boats marked down four nights previously, and Nobby was to accompany them in case they needed help. The shore line, which they now followed, rose rapidly to a steep cliff forty feet or more above the level of the sea. When within a hundred yards of the boat which they wanted, they found a way down to a narrow ledge two feet above the water. The moon had long set, but they could see the boat as a dark shadow against the water reflecting the starlight. Here, then, Cochrane and Johnny proceeded to strip. They continued, however, to wear a couple of pairs of socks in case the bottom should be covered with sharp spikes, as had been the rocky edge of the shore for the most part. They tied two pieces of thin rope round their waists with a clasp-knife attached to each. Thus equipped, they let themselves down off the ledge, and slipped quietly into the sea. Fortunately the water was warm; but it was phosphorescent too, so they had to swim very slowly to avoid making any unnecessary ripple. As they neared the boat, which now loomed big above them, some one in the shadow of the cliff a few yards away coughed. Next moment they heard the butt of a rifle hitting a rock as the sentry (for such he must have been) shifted his position. Hardly daring to breathe, they swam to the side of the boat farther from him and held on to it. Here the water was about six feet deep. After waiting a few minutes to let any suspicions on the part of the sentry subside, they moved along to the bow of the boat. They had hoped to find it anchored by a rope, but to their great disappointment it was moored with a heavy iron chain. Speaking in very low whispers, they decided that one should go under the water and lift the anchor, while the other, with his piece of rope, tied one of the flukes to a link high up in the chain. When the anchor was thus raised clear of the bottom, they would swim quietly away, towing the boat. Accordingly, Cochrane dived and lifted the anchor, while Johnny tied his rope round a fluke and made it fast to a link as far up the chain as possible. They then let go. With what seemed to them a terrific noise, the chain rattled over the gunwale till the anchor was once more on the bottom. Were they discovered? Another cough! They did not dare to move. Could the plash of the water lapping against the sides of the creek have muffled the sound of the rattling chain? If only the chain had been fixed! But perhaps a short length only had been loose. Another attempt was made. This time it was Johnny who lifted the anchor, while Cochrane tied his rope to it. Unfortunately he had the rope still round his waist, and when the anchor dropped he was carried down with it. How lucky that he had his clasp-knife! For though he was free in a few seconds, he came to the surface spluttering out the water he had swallowed. It was a near thing that he was not drowned. Where, meantime, was the anchor? Little did they realise that it was lying once more on the bottom and laughing at their efforts to carry off the quarry that night. Some point of the chain, of course, must be attached to the boat, but it was risky to continue getting rid of the spare length by the present method. Besides, there was no more rope with which to tie up the anchor to the chain. As for getting into the boat and weighing anchor from there, it would be sheer madness. The sentry would be certain to see them, naked and wet as they were. By this time they were both shivering violently with cold, though, as has been said, the water was quite warm. As a last attempt they tried to take the boat out to the end of the chain by swimming away with it farther from the sentry. Again the chain rattled over the gunwale, and there was nothing for it but to admit defeat. Slowly they swam back to the ledge where Nobby was awaiting them. He said they had been away for an hour and twenty minutes, so it was not surprising that they had felt cold. With numbed fingers they put on their clothes and climbed gloomily up the cliff. By this time the walking over sharp rocks had cut their socks and padding to pieces, so that they were marching almost barefoot, a very painful operation. On their rejoining the party, the sad tale of failure was told. As the time was 3 A.M., the only thing to do was to get into the best cover we could find near the coast and sleep till dawn. About a hundred yards inland we lay down in some small bushes beneath stunted pine-trees. There we slept. Our thirty-fifth morning found us in a state of great depression. There seemed no chance left of getting out of the country. Lying in our hiding-places we reviewed the situation in an almost apathetic mood. We were on the eastern side of a W-shaped bay, a mile wide, and opening southwards. Its eastern arm was the creek, in which was the boat we had failed to capture. There was a similar western arm, the two creeks being separated by a narrow spit of land. From quite early in the morning motor-lorries could be seen and heard winding their way along the tortuous road. In several places this closely followed the coast line, and at one or two was carried on causeways across the sea itself. We lay on a headland on the seaward side of the Turkish encampment, and were overlooked by the look-out post on the cliff-side. At noon a council of war was held. As we were lying dotted about some distance from one another, for the time being we all crept into an old shelter made of branches, not many yards from us. There matters were discussed. Although several schemes were put forward, going back to the ravine in which we had spent so many wearisome days was not one of them. To return there would have made us into raving lunatics. The final decision was to make another attempt that night to seize the boat; this time there should be four of us in the water. If that failed, about the most attractive proposal was to go boldly on to the coast road and by bluff obtain a lift on a motor-lorry, demanding as Germans to be taken in a westerly direction to the nearest big town, Selefké: we might get a boat of some sort there. The chief lure of this scheme was that, should the lorry-driver believe our story, we should cover a few miles without walking on our flat feet. This was a fascinating thought indeed, for despite nearly a fortnight on the coast we had no wish to set out on the tramp again. Two or three of us, however, thought we might sum up the energy to march eastwards along the road in the hope of finding a boat in the bay of Ayasch. But even if we did this there was still the difficulty about food and drink. Unless we replenished our supply we should have to undertake a sea voyage of at least a hundred miles with only two days' rations and perhaps a water-bottle full of water apiece. The consensus of opinion was thus come to that if we failed again that night we might as well give ourselves up the next day. We then went back into our old and safer hiding-places. At about two o'clock in the afternoon we heard the sound of a far-off motor. This was no lorry. It came from a different direction. In a few seconds we were all listening intently. "It's only another lorry after all!" "No, it can't be. It's on the sea side of us!" As the minutes passed, the noise became more and more distinct. Then our hearts leapt within us, as there came into the bay, towing a lighter and a dinghy, the motor-tug which we had last seen the day after we had reached the coast. Skirting the shore not three hundred yards from where we lay, the boats disappeared into the eastern creek. Apathy and depression were gone in a second. Excitement and--this we like to remember--a deep sense of thankfulness for this answer to our prayers took their place. The motor-boat was flying at her bows a Turkish and at her stern a German flag, but most of her crew of seven or eight looked to us like Greeks. In the lighter were over twenty Turks. Another council of war took place, but of a very different type from the last. All were hopeful, and we made our plans in high spirits. Throughout our discussion, however, ran the assumption that some of the crew would be on board the motor-boat, and we should have to bribe them to take us across to Cyprus. It never entered our heads for a moment that any other scheme would be possible. In fact, when about an hour before sunset the dinghy with a few of the crew and some water-beakers on board was rowed across to a point opposite us on the western side of the bay (where there must have been a spring of fresh water), we determined to hail them on their return journey. At one point they came within three hundred yards of us. In answer to our shouting and whistling, they stopped rowing and looked in our direction. They must have seen us, but they refused to take any further notice. Whom did they take us for? And why did they not report our presence when they went ashore? No one came to search for us; and as the mountain had not come to Mahomet, Mahomet would have to go to the mountain. Some one would have to swim out to the boat that night, and proffer bribes to the crew. As the dusk of our thirty-sixth night fell, a ration of chupatties and a couple of handfuls of raisins were issued. A move was then made to the nearest point on the shore at which there was a suitable place for a boat to come alongside. There we waited till the moon set at about 8.30. In the meantime we drank what water remained in the big dixie. This left us with only our water-bottles full. At this time our best Turkish scholar was feeling very sick. The last scrapings from the pack containing the porridge had fallen to him, and as all of it had turned sour during the previous night, Grunt's extra ration was proving a not unmixed blessing. This was a serious matter, as we relied on him to negotiate with the motor-boat's crew. However, at 9 P.M., he and Cochrane, the Old Man and Nobby, set forth on the last great venture. The others moved all the kit close down to the edge of the rock where a boat could come in. An anxious wait ensued. The four had set out at 9 o'clock, but it was not till 11.30 that Looney, with his last reserve--half a biscuit--gone, saw a boat coming silently towards him. In a trice the other three were awakened. Was it friend or foe? She had four men on board: they were our four. The moment the boat touched at the rock the kit was thrown in. Cochrane had done magnificent work. He had swum round the creek, found out that there was no one in the motor-boat, cut away the dinghy belonging to the lighter, swum back with it, and fetched the other three. Eight hopeful fugitives were soon gently paddling the dinghy towards the creek, keeping, so far as might be, in the shadow of the cliffs; for though the moon was down, the stars seemed to make the open bay unpleasantly light. As noiselessly as possible the dinghy came alongside the motor-boat and made fast. The creek here was about sixty yards wide. The tug, moored by a heavy chain and anchor, was in the middle of it. Some fifteen yards away was the lighter; on this were several men, one of whom was coughing the whole time we were "cutting out" the motor-boat. This took us a full hour. On trying the weight of the chain and anchor, Cochrane decided to loose the motor-boat from her anchorage by dropping the chain overboard. He did not think it would be possible to weigh the anchor. Odd lengths of cord were collected and joined up in readiness for lowering the end of the chain silently when the time came. But success was not to be attained so easily. Boarding the motor-boat, Nobby and Perce had, foot by foot, got rid of almost all the chain which lay in the bows, when another score of fathoms were discovered below deck. It would be quicker, after all, to weigh anchor, and by superhuman efforts this was at length achieved without attracting the attention of the enemy, our coats and shirts being used as padding over the gunwale. [Illustration: _From a photograph by Mrs Houstoun taken at Kyrenia, Cyprus._ THE MOTOR BOAT.] As soon as the anchor was weighed, we connected the motor-boat with the dinghy by a tow-rope found on the former; all got back into the dinghy, and in this we paddled quietly away. With our home-made paddles and heavy tow we were unable to make much headway. With six paddles in the water, we could credit ourselves with a speed of not so much as a single knot. Once clear of the bay, Cochrane again went aboard the motor-boat and this time had a look at the engine. We had remaining at this time about an inch of candle, but this served a very useful purpose. By its glimmer Cochrane was able to discover and light a hurricane-lamp. He told us the joyous news that there was a fair quantity of paraffin in the tank. Unfortunately no petrol was to be found, and it seemed unlikely that we should be able to start the engine from cold on paraffin alone. So weak indeed were we, that it was all we could do to turn over the engine at all. While frantic efforts were being made by Cochrane and Nobby to start her, those in the dinghy continued paddling. After three hours all were very tired of it, and very grateful for a slight off-shore breeze which gave us the chance of setting a sail. Cochrane rigged up our main-sail on the motor-boat; all then clambered aboard the latter. Our speed was now quite good and many times that of our most furious paddling. Suddenly looking back, we saw the dinghy adrift and disappearing in the darkness behind us. Whoever had been holding the rope at the dinghy end had omitted to make fast on coming on board the motor-boat. The dinghy still contained all our kit; so to recover this, including as it did what food and water remained to us, Cochrane and Johnny jumped overboard and swam back to it. The sail on the motor-boat had been furled, and in a few minutes the dinghy was again in tow. After this slight misadventure the engine-room was once more invaded, and Looney and Cochrane experimented with the magneto. There was a loose wire and vacant terminal which they were uncertain whether to connect or not. Eventually, with Nobby turning over the engine, a shock was obtained with the two disconnected. Two were now put on to the starting-handle. But the cramped space produced several bruised heads and nothing else as pair after pair struggled on. At length at 4.30 A.M., little more than an hour before dawn, the engine started up with a roar, in went the clutch, and off went the motor-boat at a good seven knots. At the time when the engine began firing, Nobby, who was feeling very much the worse for his exertions in weighing anchor followed by his efforts to start the motor, was lying on deck in the stern. Startled by the sudden series of explosions, he thought for a moment that a machine-gun had opened fire at short range, till he discovered that he was lying on the exhaust-pipe, the end of which was led up on deck! CHAPTER XV. FREEDOM. We reckoned that by this time we were some three miles from the creek, so we could hope that the roar of the engine would be inaudible to those on shore. On the other hand, sunrise on the 12th September was a little before 6 A.M., so that dawn should have found us still within view from the land. A kindly mist, however, came down and hid us till we were well out to sea. As soon as it was light enough we tried to declutch in order to transfer our kit from the dinghy to the tug. But the clutch was in bad order and would not come out. The alternative was to haul up the dinghy level with the tug, with the motor still running, and then to transfer all our goods and chattels on to the deck. It was a difficult task, but it was done. We then turned the dinghy adrift. This meant the gain of an additional two knots. It now seemed as if our troubles really were nearing their end. The engine was running splendidly, the main tank was full to the brim; there was enough and to spare of lubricating oil, and in a barrel lashed to the deck in the stern was found some more paraffin. A beaker contained sufficient water to give us each a mugful. It was brackish, but nectar compared to the well-water which we had been drinking for the last fortnight. We also allowed ourselves some chupatties and a handful of raisins. Our principal fear now was of being chased by one of the seaplanes which we thought to be stationed at Mersina, not many miles away. We had seen one on two occasions during our stay in the ravine. Time went on, however, and nothing appeared. Instead of looking behind us for a seaplane we began to look ahead, hoping to come across one of our own patrol boats. It says much for the deserted condition of those waters that during our fortnight on the coast and our voyage of about 120 miles to Cyprus not a single boat was seen save those five that we had seen in the creek. Discussing the matter of the discovery of the loss of the motor-boat and the subsequent action of the crew, we came to the cheerful conclusion that probably the loss would not be divulged to the authorities for a considerable period. The rightful crew would know what to expect as a punishment for their carelessness, and would either perjure themselves by swearing that the boats had sunk at their moorings, or thinking discretion even better than perjury, disappear into the deserted hinterland through which we had marched. Should these two guesses be wrong, there was yet another course which we thought possible, though not so probable, for the crew to take. Thinking that the motor-boat and dinghy had drifted away, they would not mention their disappearance till a thorough search had been made of all bays and creeks within a few miles of the locality. The cherry of this delightful cocktail of fancy was very palatable; whatever else happened, the occupants of the lighter, agitated to the extreme and dinghyless, would have to swim ashore, and this thought amused us greatly.[11] Now for a few words about the motor-boat. She was named the _Hertha_, and boasted both a Turkish and a German flag. In addition to her name she had the Turkish symbol for "2" painted large on either side of her bows. Broad in the beam for her 38 feet of length, she was decked in, and down below harboured a 50-h.p. motor. In the bows of the engine-room we found a couple of Mauser rifles dated 1915, with a few rounds of small-arm ammunition; some of the latter had the nickel nose filed off to make them "mushroom" on impact. We also discovered a Very's pistol, with a box of cartridges; trays of spanners and spare parts for the motor, and two lifebelts taken from English ships whose names we have forgotten. On deck, immediately abaft the engine-room hatchway, was the steering-wheel, while farther astern was the barrel containing the extra paraffin, a can of lubricating oil, and various empty canisters. Till noon the sea was sufficiently rough to be breaking continually over the bows, and three of the party were feeling the effect of the roll. To the rest, to be thus rocked in the cradle of the deep, borne ever nearer to freedom, was a sensation never to be forgotten. The motor was going splendidly, and we all took turns at the wheel, steering by the "sun-compass," and, with the exception of Cochrane, very badly. By 1.30 P.M. we could recognise the dim outline of the high mountain-range of Cyprus: on the strength of this we each ate another two chupatties and a handful of raisins, finishing our meal with a quarter of a mugful of water. But we were a trifle premature in our lavishness. Our troubles were not at an end, for half an hour later the engine began to fail, and, while Cochrane was below looking for the cause of the trouble, she petered out. The fault was subsequently traced to the over-heating of one of the main shaft bearings, the oil feed-pipe to which had been previously broken, and had vibrated from its place. Having satisfied himself that no serious damage was done, Cochrane decided to wait half an hour for the bearing to cool. During this time Old Man and Looney had a mid-sea bathe to refresh themselves, while Perce and Johnny tried to boil some water for tea. The fire was made on an iron sheet, on which some bights of chain were shaped into a cooking place for the big dixie. The roll of the boat, however, though very much less than in the morning, proved too great to allow the dixie to remain steady on the chain, so the idea of tea had to be abandoned. We now had leisure to observe the sea, and we decided that its colour was the most wonderful we had ever seen--a clear purple-blue. When the bearing had cooled, we tried to start the engine again. One pair followed another on the starting-handle, but all to no purpose. All four sparking-plugs were examined: the feed-pipe, separator, and carburetter were taken down. Except for a little water in the separator, all seemed correct. We refilled the tank with paraffin from the barrel on deck, but our renewed attempts still met with no success. Our efforts to turn the crank became more and more feeble, until, by 4.30 P.M., we lay down on deck utterly exhausted. Just before sunset we decided we would make a final attempt to start up. Should that be unsuccessful, we would set the sails; but to our great relief she fired at the second attempt. Our joy was somewhat tempered by her refusing to run for more than a few minutes at a time. It was found that this was caused by the feed-pipe from the tank repeatedly choking, owing, no doubt, to grit in the oil obtained from the barrel, which, as we had noticed when pouring it in, was very dirty. After dark, Cochrane did all the steering; while down in the engine-room were Looney as mechanic, and Old Man and Johnny as starters. Meantime, Perce sat on deck with his feet through the hatchway against the clutch-lever below him. By jamming this hard down, and tapping the clutch with a hammer, it was possible to persuade the cones to separate when required. For over four hours we spent our time starting and stopping. Our two best runs lasted for thirty and thirty-five minutes. Usually a run lasted for five or less. We took it in turns to tap the feed-pipe with a piece of wood, in the hope of keeping it from clogging; but it was of little use. Each time the engines stopped, Looney took down the separator and feed-pipe and blew through them, getting a mouthful of paraffin for his pains. When all was ready again, the two starters, though almost dead-beat, managed somehow to turn the crank. By 10 P.M. we were becoming desperate. It was only Cochrane's cheering news that we were within two hours' run of the coast that kept the engine-room staff going. A run of five minutes meant a mile nearer home, so we carried on. An hour later, Cochrane told us all to sit on the starboard side, for it was on this side that the feed-pipe left the tank. This was sheer genius on his part. From that very moment the wilful engine behaved herself, and ran obediently till we meant her to stop. As we neared the coast, at a distance, perhaps, of three miles from it, Nobby fired off a Very's light, in case there were any patrol boats in the neighbourhood; but no answering light appeared. Next day, in Cyprus, we asked the police if they had seen the light. They had not seen it, they said, but had heard it. This proves how wonderfully sound travels over water, for we would not for one second doubt a policeman's story. But, as is hardly necessary to point out, a Very's signal, like little children, should be seen and not heard. Having had only our memories of the bearing and distance to Cyprus from Rendezvous X to guide us, we had worked out in the ravine that the bearing on which we had to steer would be S. 50° W. On sighting the island in the afternoon, we had found that this was too much to the west; so Cochrane had altered the course to make for the western end of the high range of mountains visible about due south of us. When about two miles from the shore we turned eastwards, and moved parallel to the coast, on the look-out for a good anchorage, if possible near a village. Finally, about a hundred yards from the shore, we dropped anchor in a wide bay. On leaving Yozgad each of the party had possessed a watch, but by this time only two were in working order, and these were Old Man's and Johnny's. As the chain rattled over the side, the latter looked at the time, to find that the hand once more pointed to the witching hour of midnight. This timepiece served its purpose well, for it was not till an hour later, when it had ceased to be so essential, that it shared the fate of most of its comrades and was broken. It was interesting to find later, on comparing the Old Man's watch with Cyprus time, that there was only two minutes' difference between them. We had checked our time occasionally by noticing when one of the "pointers" of the Great Bear was vertically beneath the Pole Star; the solar time when this occurred on any night had been worked out before we left Yozgad. Fairly accurate time-keeping was of importance, for on this depended the successful use of both the "sun-compass" and the star-charts. And so we had reached Cyprus, but we were all in too dazed a condition to realise for the moment what it meant; in fact, it took many days to do so. On arrival in the bay, Cochrane, with his keen sense of smell, had declared that there were cows not far off, and at about 3 o'clock we heard a cock crow. We said we would eat our hats, or words to that effect, if we did not have that bird for breakfast. There was not a single light on shore, and we had no idea whereabouts in Cyprus we had dropped anchor. As the stars disappeared in the coming light of dawn, we saw the coast more clearly. Then by degrees what we thought were ruins on the coast, rocks a couple of hundred yards east of us took form; later these proved to be the still occupied Greek monastery of Acropedi. Then a house or two near by stood distinct; then trees; and finally our eyes beheld not a mile away a large village, boasting churches, mosques, and fine buildings set in trees, and beyond a mountain-range rising sheer from the very houses. With the first light came a man to the beach opposite us. We shouted to him in English, French, and Turkish, but he appeared not to understand. Soon he was joined by two or three others. Then they started arriving in tens and twenties, men, women, and children. Mounted gendarmes galloped down. We shouted ourselves hoarse, but to no purpose. We tried several times to start up the motor, but we could not turn the handle. Finally Cochrane jumped overboard in a shirt borrowed for the occasion, as it was longer and less torn than his own. He must have felt still rather undressed for the ordeal, as when he reached the water he shouted for his hat, which was thrown to him. Clothed thus he swam towards the shore. In two feet of water his courage gave way, and his modesty made him sit down. So situated he harangued the crowd. Finally there appeared a gendarme who understood English. He said there was an English police officer in the village, which was named Lapethos; so borrowing a pencil and a piece of paper, Cochrane wrote a note to the Englishman reporting our arrival. He explained to the gendarme that we wanted to bring the boat ashore, but that we could not start the engine. When this was understood several men at once stripped and swam out to the rest of us. Cochrane came back smoking a cigarette, which he passed round when he got on board. The Cypriotes too brought cigarettes perched behind their ear like a clerk's pencil, and these we smoked with great appreciation. The scheme was for us to weigh the anchor, give the men towing-ropes, and they would then pull the boat inshore. The men, though small, were well built. As they had started swimming almost before they could walk, it was no hardship for them to tow our heavy vessel. Laughing and shouting, they pulled us along until they thought a rest would be pleasant, then they came on board again. They shouted now and then in sheer lightness of heart; they were very cheery fellows. We were not towed straight inshore, but to a small natural jetty a hundred and fifty yards west of us along the beach. Here we stepped on British soil, eight thin and weary ragamuffins. We know our hearts gave thanks to God, though our minds could not grasp that we were really free. * * * * * Our story is nearly at an end, though we have yet to bring our eight travellers to England. Should our already distressed readers hope against hope that the two authors will be torpedoed long before arriving there, we will put an end to any such fond anticipations by telling them truthfully that we were not. In order, however, to soothe in a small way their injured feelings, let us divulge the fact that we, with all but two of the party, spent several days ill in hospital before we reached home. One nearly died from malignant malaria, doubtless caused by the bites of the mosquitoes on the Turkish coast. Having given the reader this sop we will continue. Surrounded by a large but kindly crowd, we sat down on the rocks above the natural jetty on which we had landed, and waited for an answer to Cochrane's note. In the meanwhile a gift arrived from the monastery: a basket containing bread, cheese, olives, and pomegranates. No larks' tongues, nor the sunny halves of peaches, have ever been so welcome, and we had a wonderful meal, finishing with clean sweet water and cigarettes. About half an hour later an officer, in what looked to us then extraordinarily smart uniform, came down to see why this crowd had collected, and on hearing our story conducted us to the village. The road led through orchards whose trees were heavy with pomegranates and figs; past vineyards and banana palms, tobacco plants and cotton. Everywhere we could see the signs of a fertile prosperous land, and it struck us forcibly how different it all was from the barren tracts through which we had toiled down to the coast of Asia Minor. No more vivid testimony could be borne to the contrast between British and Turkish sovereignty. The officer with us did not belong to the police, but was on survey work in the island. We were taken, however, to the barracks of the Cyprus Mounted Police, and here, seated on chairs on the verandah, we were given coffee with sugar in it. Everything seemed wonderful. We could smoke as much as we wanted, and the barracks were scrupulously clean and tidy. One by one we went into the garden near a whitewashed well, and were shaved by one of the C.M.P. After a good wash we brushed our hair for the first time for five weeks. All that time we had had to be satisfied with a comb. As soon as Lieutenant S---- of the Police arrived, we were taken upstairs to have breakfast, and right royally did we feast. The meal ended, we were given the 'Lapethos Echo,' which contained Haig's and Foch's communiqués of the 9th September. These too were wonderful, and we were greatly amazed by the change which had come over the main battle front since we saw the last paper at Yozgad before we left; then the Germans were, so we were told, about to enter Paris. After breakfast a hot bath and clean clothes were provided for each of us, our rags being collected in a corner with a view to their cremation. A Greek doctor anointed us with disinfectant and bandaged anything we had in the way of sores or cuts. At about 3 P.M. two carriages arrived and our triumphal progress continued. We first paid a final visit to the motor-boat, collecting our few trophies in the way of rifles and flags. This done, we were driven to Kyrenia, a coast town eight or nine miles to the east of us: the police officer and Greek doctor stopping the carriages at every roadside inn to regale us with Turkish delight and iced water. At Kyrenia we were expected by the British residents, who accommodated us for the night and treated us with the truest British hospitality. Our sensations on finding ourselves once more between sheets in a spring-bed are more easily imagined than described. Late next morning, after a bathe in the sea and when many snapshots of the party had been taken, we were driven off in a motor-lorry, by Captain G---- of the A.S.C., to Famagusta, the port of Cyprus on the eastern coast. It was an eighty-mile drive, and what with stopping at Nikosia for lunch and at Larnaka for tea, we did not reach Famagusta and the mess of the Royal Scots, who had kindly offered us a home, till 9 P.M. All the recollections of our four-days' stay in Cyprus are of the pleasantest description, as were those also of our voyage to Egypt in two French trawlers. As much cannot be said of the fortnight we spent in Port Saïd, where we passed the first night sleeping on the sand in a transit camp and most of the rest in hospital: nor of our ten days in a troop-train crossing Italy and France. During this time we learnt--what perhaps we needed to be taught--that we were after all the least important people in the world. But to tell of these adventures in detail would be to fill another book. Suffice it to say that we were sustained by a few comic episodes. On one occasion, in Italy, we spent five minutes talking Italian, based on slender memories of school-day Latin, to men in another troop-train, before we discovered that they were Frenchmen. On another, in France, we remember opening a conversation in French with our engine-driver, who proved to be an American. At length, on the 16th October 1918, five of our party reached England together, preceded by Cochrane, who had managed to arrange for a seat in a "Rapide" across Europe, and followed by the Old Man and Nobby, who had had to remain in hospital in Egypt for another fortnight. Soon after arrival in England, each of us had the very great honour of being individually received by His Majesty the King. His kindly welcome and sympathetic interest in what we had gone through will ever remain a most happy recollection. Finally, we arranged a dinner for all our party, the date fixed being 11th November. This, as it turned out, was Armistice Night, and with that night of happy memories and a glimpse of the eight companions once again united, we will draw the tale of our adventures to a close. FOOTNOTE: [11] The following is an extract from a letter received from Lieut.-Colonel Keeling since we wrote the above: "At Adana I met the Turkish Miralai (= Brigadier-General)--Beheddin Bey--who was in command on the coast. He was fully expecting the party [_i.e._, our party], and put all the blame on the men in the boat [_i.e._, the lighter] to which the motor-boat was tied. These men were all Turks, the Germans being on shore. The loss of the motor-boat was discovered before dawn, and at dawn a hydroplane was sent out to look for her; but she only spotted a small boat a few miles out, presumably the boat with which they had towed the motor-boat to a safe distance before starting the engine. Beheddin Bey drew me a plan showing exactly how everything had happened." CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION. There is one note, however, which we feel we must add before laying down our pens. Many of our readers will have already realised that there was something more than mere luck about our escape. St Paul, alluding to his adventures in almost the very same region as that traversed by us, describes experiences very like our own. Like him, we were "in journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, ... in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, ... in weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness." To be at large for thirty-six days before escaping from the country, to have been so frequently seen, sometimes certainly to have aroused suspicion, and yet to have evaded recapture, might perhaps be attributed to Turkish lack of organisation. Our escape from armed villagers; our discovery of wells in the desert, of grain in an abandoned farmhouse, and of the water (which just lasted out our stay) in the ruined wells on the coast; and finally, the timely reappearance of the motor-tug with all essential supplies for the sea voyage--any one even of these facts, taken alone, might possibly be called "luck," or a happy coincidence; taken in conjunction with one another, however, they compel the admission that the escape of our party was due to a higher Power. It would seem as if it were to emphasise this that on at least three occasions, when everything seemed to be going wrong, in reality all was working out for our good. Our meeting with and betrayal by the two "shepherds" ought, humanly speaking, to have proved fatal to the success of our venture: we had thrown away valuable food, and were committed to crossing a desert which previously, without a guide, we had looked upon as an impassable obstacle. And yet we know now that it would have been entirely beyond us to have reached the coast by the route which we had mapped out to Rendezvous X, and that it was only the deflection from our proposed route caused by this rencontre which brought the land journey within our powers of endurance. It was the same when we were forced, against our will, to replenish supplies at a village; the breakdown of one of the party which compelled us to do so undoubtedly saved us from making an impossible attempt to reach the coast with the food which remained at the time. Still more remarkable was our failure to take the rowing-boat on the night of 10th/11th September, which resulted in the motor-tug falling into our hands and being the final means of our escape on the night following. We feel then that it was Divine intervention which brought us through. Throughout the preparations for escape every important step had been made a matter of prayer; and when the final scheme was settled, friends in England were asked, by means of a code message, to intercede for its success. That message, we now know, was received and very fully acted upon. We had also friends in Turkey who were interceding for us; and on the trek it was more than once felt that some one at home or in Turkey was remembering us at the time. To us then the hand of Providence was manifest in our escape, and we see in it an answer to prayer. Our way, of course, might have been made smoother, but perhaps in that case we should not have learnt the same lessons of dependence upon God. As it was, it was made manifest to us that, even in these materialistic days, to those who can have faith, "the Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save." PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. [Illustration: MAP OF ASIA MINOR ILLUSTRATING "FOUR FIFTY MILES TO FREEDOM." _Approximate Route followed shown thus_ ---- _M^c. Lagan & Cumming, Litho Edin_] * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation errors were ccorrected. Hyphenation was made consistent. P. 90: was not to carried -> was not to be carried. P. 196: an an old castle -> an old castle. P. 254: in case of eventualites -> in case of eventualities. P. 263: helped to keep the porridge moist -> help to keep the porridge moist. P. 267: unnecssary ripple -> unnecessary ripple. 
50970	----	AN ACCOUNT OF THE ESCAPE OF SIX FEDERAL SOLDIERS FROM PRISON AT DANVILLE, VA.: THEIR TRAVELS BY NIGHT THROUGH THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY TO THE UNION PICKETS AT GAULEY BRIDGE, WEST VIRGINIA, IN THE WINTER OF 1863-64. BY W. H. NEWLIN, _Lieutenant Seventy-Third Illinois Volunteers_. CINCINNATI: WESTERN METHODIST BOOK CONCERN PRINT. 1887. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, BY W. H. NEWLIN, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. PREFACE. The account contained in these pages was first written in 1866. Its publication was delayed in the hope that we should learn something of our two comrades who were left behind. After revising and abridging it somewhat, it is presented to the reader in its present form. We were compelled to rely on memory in preserving for publication the incidents here narrated, as while on our trip we had neither pencil nor paper. That reliance, however, was not in vain, as the scenes through which we passed, though here poorly portrayed, are of a character not easily forgotten. They are indelibly enstamped on the memory, and it seems each year as it passes renders the recollection of them more vivid and distinct. It is not needful to state the motives which prompted this compilation. Much of the same character has been written and published, but as this differs in one essential particular, at least, from all that has yet appeared, we hope that fact will form a sufficient excuse for introducing it to the public. W. H. N. This Narrative DULY AUTHENTICATED by SWORN STATEMENTS of Two Comrades who were on the Escape, is on file in Pension Claim, No. 352,023. [Illustration: After Seventeen Years Inquiry.] From all the information ever obtained touching the fate of first comrade left behind, the _reasonable_ conclusion is that he PERISHED at or near the place where we left him, his remains being found and decently buried near Blue Ridge Mountain. Whatever his _fate_ may have been, it was _self_ decreed. His reasons for preferring to be left alone were satisfactory to him, and were not _all_ disclosed to us. One explanation of this last rather singular circumstance may be found in the fact that the comrade was an Englishman, and had been in this country but a few weeks before enlisting. How much we should like to see the old "darky" to whom we said, "Put your ear to the string-hole," and on his compliance with the request we pronounced the word "_Yankees_." (See page 60.) "I'll git my trowserloons on." In the case of leaving the second comrade, as described on pages 72-76, there was no option or time for deliberation. The exigencies of the hour compelled a separation. Mr. Tripp succeeded in escaping the notice of our pursuers, though hid in their immediate vicinity, and hearing their talk enumerating reasons for their failure to "_take us in_." After several days and nights of wandering and hiding, and of varied and interesting experience, Mr. Tripp was recaptured, sent to Richmond, kept there until September, 1864, was paroled, exchanged, and discharged. He is now living near Burlington, Kansas. John F. Wood died June 20, 1864, "of wounds received in action." Referring to this, Sutherland, in a letter written not long since, says: "What a pity Wood had to die so soon after escaping prison. But he might have died a slow and miserable death at Andersonville had he not escaped." Sutherland is living in Michigan, near Eagle Station. Smith resides at Dundee, same state. Mr. Smith very narrowly escaped drowning at Craig's Creek. Mr. Sutherland's opportune landing on the opposite bank of the rushing stream barely in time to extend to Smith a helping hand is all that saved him. In addition to all others, we had the perils by "_Bogus Yankees_" to encounter or avoid. We _risked_ our lives to save them, and saving them we _risked_ them again and again for our country. Having been captured in our third battle, by escaping, at least two of us, added to the three, thirteen more. But all this was better than Andersonville. We _might_ have been numbered among the MARTYRS of the nineteenth century. "I would not make that trip again," said Smith, "for the whole state of Michigan," adding "unless I had to." DANVILLE, ILL., November 27, 1885. W. H. N. INTRODUCTION. In those "stirring times," during the late war, when powder, and ball, and the bayonet were the orders of the day, an escape from prison and a secret, hidden march through the Confederacy, was accounted an exciting, as well as a very lucky event. Even at this day, accounts of such are not stale, but possess a thrilling interest, especially to those who participated in them and to their friends. Our journey over mountain and valley, over hill and dale, and across rivers, branches, and rivulets almost innumerable, was accomplished mostly in the night time. We had neither map nor compass to guide us. The north star alone served us in shaping our course, and very often it was concealed by ominous clouds. We took many needless steps, and made many needless and weary miles in consequence of lack of knowledge of the country and of the course we were steering. Sometimes the desolate hour of Winter's midnight found us far from the public highway, and almost inextricably involved in the brush and tangled mazes of the forest. At such times, being almost at our wit's end, we would try to advance on a "bee line" until the open country or some road was reached. At one time, when much bewildered in the shadowy woods, in night time, we began to despair of success. We sat down to contemplate our condition and our cheerless prospect. Had an enemy been approaching us we could have well-nigh welcomed him, so he brought deliverance. At length the stillness and thick darkness of the night made our loneliness oppressive, and we groped on. Soon we found a road, and realized that the "darkest hour is just before day." Knoxville, East Tennessee, was the point at which we first aimed, but on nearing the line of the East Tennessee and Virginia Railroad we learned Longstreet's forces were in Bull's Gap. We then bore northward. On first setting out on our trip we were extremely cautious. During the first nights and days, after starting, we talked only in whispers. We passed houses with the utmost care, as dogs were at almost every house, and their acuteness in discovering our presence was astonishing, in view of the caution we exercised. Early in our trip, one night near eleven o'clock, as we were nearing a house, a dog barked savagely at us. Instantly the front door opened, and by the light of a fire in the fire-place we saw a woman in her night clothing, watching us pass. Late one night, after midnight, we met a citizen on the road. He was on horseback, moving slowly along. He gave the road, at the same time checking his horse slightly. When he had passed by, the way he made his horse scamper was lively, to say the least. "He must be after the doctor, the way he goes," observed Trippe. "He took sick mi'ty sudden," rejoined Wood. "The sight of us at this time is enough to make him sick," put in a third. We were walking in Indian file, and had our blankets drawn loosely over our shoulders and dragging almost on the ground. Doubtless we were scary looking objects, especially as Smith had his bed-quilt hung over him. Thinking the man had possibly gone for re-enforcements with which to "gobble" us, we hurried forward. The night of our discovery of the cavalry horses, being much wearied, and feeling we were going to be "hard pressed" for food, we climbed into a corn field to hunt for corn that might have been left on the stalks. Each of our party followed two rows across the field and two back, but not a "nubbin" could be found. Not finding a grain of corn on two dozen rows, and the corn blades being also gone, we concluded, as Taylor observed, "They gather their nubbins clean in the Confederacy." "Yes," added Wood, "they can't hold out much longer." Another night, at a late hour, after Taylor and Trippe had fallen by the way, when in Craig or Alleghany county, we reached a point where the road we were traveling crossed a pike. On reaching the pike we halted, and a disagreement arose among us as to the course we should take. We quarreled, words ran high, and we seemed to have forgotten our safety depended on secrecy, as there was no lack of emphasis in what we had to say. At last Sutherland ended the dispute by saying to me, "Let's go on." We started immediately, leaving Smith and Wood muttering. For more than an hour we steadily pursued our course, when, discovering it was nearly day, we halted in the woods, near the road side, to see if our comrades were coming up. Soon they came along the road, and one of them said, "They'd better not advance too far without support." "Yes," said Sutherland, "we are waiting for the reserves to come up." Soon after we were hid for the day. The Union people, the hardy mountaineers of Virginia, or those of them with whom we came in contact, rendered us valuable assistance. Without their aid, indeed, and the aid of the negroes, we could hardly have escaped through the almost barren country of the enemy, especially in the inclement season. We have heard from David Hepler, James Huffman, and Mrs. Mann since the war closed. In a letter from Hepler, received not long since, he says: "I have not forgotten the time I came to you in the woods and found you all asleep." We copy one of Huffman's letters in part. It was dated November 11, 1867: "As to information concerning your fellow-prisoner that was lost the evening you came to my house, it was not the Botetourt Guards that fired on your squad. It was the furnace company. I saw a lady, living near the furnace, who saw the men returning. They said they neither killed nor captured any of your squad. As to Paxton, he is living yet; so are the people that had the boy hid under the bed." Our latest information respecting Trippe is a report that he was recaptured, taken back, and shot as an example. Of Taylor, nothing has ever been heard, by us at least, and our painful conjecture is that he never reached the lines. Of our three comrades who reached the lines, Smith and Sutherland are living in Michigan, and Wood is supposed to be a resident of the Key-stone State. Smith, of the Fourth Michigan Cavalry, was present at the capture of the Confederate President, Jefferson Davis. A STORY OF THE WAR. CHAPTER I. CAPTURE--PRISON AT RICHMOND--AT DANVILLE--SMALL-POX--HOSPITAL AND CONVALESCENT CAMP--WARD-MASTER AND NURSES--ESCAPE PROM THE GUARDS--TRAIN OF CARS--FOILED AT SEVEN-MILE FERRY--NARROW ESCAPE--HIDING IN CAROLINA--CROSSING DAN RIVER--SINGING AND DANCING--EATING AT MIDNIGHT--SABBATH DAY RETREAT--PROVISION EXHAUSTED--EFFORT TO PROCURE SUPPLIES--ITS FAILURE--HARD MARCHING--HUNGER AT MIDNIGHT--HIDING PLACE--WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY--SLEEP. The writer hereof was among the prisoners captured by the enemy in the battle of Chickamauga, Georgia, September 20, 1863. Others of the regiment to which I belonged also fell into the enemy's hands. As we had served together through all the vicissitudes of a soldier's life in the camp, on the march, and in battle, we resolved to remain together, and stand by each other as prisoners as long as circumstances would permit. On the day after the battle, September 21st, we were placed on board the cars at Tunnel Hill, and sent under a strong guard, by a circuitous route, through Georgia and the Carolinas, to Richmond, Virginia. We arrived in Richmond on September 29th, eight days having been occupied in the transfer of prisoners from the battle-field. We remained in Richmond through the month of October, and until November 14, 1863, when we were removed to Danville, Virginia, which is south-west of Richmond about one hundred and fifty miles, in Pittsylvania county. The transfer was by rail, and each member of our squad succeeded in getting aboard the same car. Near noon of November 15th we reached Danville, and were immediately introduced to our new quarters. Our squad was allotted a space on the second floor of Prison No. 2, a large frame building, where it remained unbroken until December 15, 1863. A short time previous to this date the small-pox had made its appearance among the prisoners. On December 14th I was taken sick, the usual symptoms of small-pox appearing in my case; and on the 15th I was examined by the Confederate surgeon and sent to the hospital, in company with three other patients from other prisons in the vicinity. As I here separate from the six persons with whom I had been associated since my capture, and with whom so much discomfort and inconvenience and so many privations had been borne, I here give their names. They were John Hesser and John North, of Company A, Seventy-Third Illinois Infantry Volunteers, and James Kilpatrick, of Company B; Enoch P. Brown, John Thornton, and William Ellis, of Company C. They were all of the same regiment with myself, and the three last named were of the same company. The two first named and myself were all of our squad that lived through the term of imprisonment. My term, however, did not last as long as that of the others, as the following pages will show. If my information is correct James Kilpatrick died as a prisoner under parole early in 1865, at Wilmington, North Carolina. E. P. Brown and John Thornton died at Andersonville, Georgia, in September, 1864. Brown died on the first anniversary of his capture, September 20th, and Thornton died a few days before. William Ellis died at Charleston, South Carolina, near the close of the year 1864. Hesser and North were among the last of the Andersonville prisoners that were exchanged and sent North. On arriving at the small-pox hospital I was placed on a bunk in Ward No. 1. I kept in-doors for the space of five or six days, at the end of which time I was classed among the convalescents. On or about December 22d, three convalescents, of whom I was one, accompanied by only one guard, went into the woods on the right bank of Dan River, in quest of persimmons. We went some distance into the country, probably four miles, and secured a quantity of persimmons, which we distributed to the patients in Ward No. 1 on our return to it in the evening. While out on this ramble through the woods, guarded by only one person, I was favorably impressed with the notion of attempting an escape from the Confederates at some future time, when strength would permit. The idea was suggested to my mind by the carelessness of the guard, who more than once set his gun against trees and wandered some distance from it. About Christmas a row of eight wall tents was put up on the hospital grounds, to be used as quarters for convalescents. I was one of eight persons assigned to tent No. 1, and, as I was a non-commissioned officer, the hospital steward placed me in charge of the sixty-four men occupying the eight tents. It is needless to recite here what the duties were that belonged to my position, but I discharged them as faithfully as I could, so as to keep out of the prison-house in Danville as long as possible. Sometime in the month of January, 1864, the nurses in each of the three wards of the hospital escaped from the guards, and started for our lines. This necessitated another detail of nurses for the wards, and the detail was made from among the convalescents. The hospital steward did me the favor to appoint me as ward-master of Ward No. 1, giving me the privilege of selecting those who were to assist me as nurses in the ward. I selected those with whom I had become most intimately acquainted as convalescents. Lucien B. Smith, of Company F, Fourth Michigan Cavalry; William Sutherland, of Company H, Sixteenth United States Infantry; Watson C. Trippe, of Company H, Fifteenth United States Infantry, and John F. Wood, of Company G, Twenty-Sixth Ohio Infantry, were the persons selected. After a short time, Robert G. Taylor, of Company G, Second Massachusetts Cavalry, was added to our force of nurses, to make the burden of labor in the ward a little lighter on us. We attended the patients in Ward No. 1 day after day, and night after night, as well as we could with the scanty supplies of medicine and food furnished by the Confederates, until the night of February 19, 1864. Very many of our fellow-prisoners came under our care while we were acting the part of nurses. Many of them died, and we saw their bodies carted away to the burying-ground and deposited in their last earthly resting places. By the 12th of February the small-pox had begun to abate. As a consequence, the convalescent camp and Ward No. 3 were discontinued. A day or two later and Ward No. 2 was cleared of patients and its doors closed. Those who had been attending as nurses were returned to prison. Two weeks, or three at most, could hardly elapse before the hospital would be entirely broken up. In this event we should be returned to the dreary prisons in Danville, whence escape was scarcely possible. To be kept in prison many months, perhaps until death alone should bring release, was an unwelcome prospect, and we looked upon it with feelings of dread. We had friends and comrades among the prisoners, whom we disliked to leave behind us, but as our presence with them could do neither them nor us any good, we determined to improve the first opportunity of attempting an escape from the Confederates, and avoid the prison entirely. February 19, 1864, was a cool day for lower Virginia, and we would have deferred our escape for a few nights had we not luckily and accidentally ascertained that we should be sent into prison on the morning of the 20th. Our careful, though hasty, preparations for slipping off from the guards were accordingly commenced just before dark on the evening of February 19th. Before entering upon the detailed account of our escape and subsequent trip to the Union lines, it will be requisite to describe briefly the hospital buildings and surroundings. The hospital was situated one mile south-west of Danville, on the right bank of Dan River. The river runs in a north-east course, consequently the hospital was on the south of it. There were three wards at the hospital, each capable of accommodating fifty patients. The wards were numbered one, two, and three. There were also a cook-house, a steward's office, and a dead-house. These buildings were constructed of undressed pine lumber. Ward No. 1 was located on the top of a high round hill; near its south-east corner, and almost adjoining it was the cook-house. A few steps north of the ward, and equidistant from its eastern and western extremities, stood the steward's office. At the west end of the ward was the dead-house. About one hundred yards south-west of the dead-house Ward No. 2 was situated, on the hill-side. At the foot of the hill, nearly one hundred yards south-west of Ward No. 2, stood Ward No. 3. Directly east of Ward No. 2, and south of Ward No. 1, was the row of tents which had been used by convalescents. Still further east, at the foot of the hill, was a considerable branch, coursing its way northward to Dan River. Just across the branch, on its right bank, was a large wall tent, in and near which all the clothes washing for the hospital was done. The persons detailed to do the washing slept in the tent. The Confederate surgeon in charge of the hospital had his quarters in Tent No. 1 of the row of tents formerly occupied by convalescents. His tent was nearest the cook-house and Ward No. 1. The tent we occupied, when not on duty in the ward, stood just south of the surgeon's tent, and so near it that the ropes supporting it interlocked or crossed those which supported the surgeon's tent. In Ward No. 1 was the receptacle or place of deposit for all clothing that had been washed. Quite a lot of clothing, belonging in part to patients in the different wards, but mainly to the unfortunate ones who had died, was stored away for the use and benefit of those who might be insufficiently clothed. Wards No. 1 and 3 had been whitewashed, but Ward No. 2, which had been put up between them, at a subsequent date, was not. Near Ward No. 3, at the base of the hill, was a spring of water, from which the hospital was supplied. Between the wards and other hospital buildings, and all about over the hill-sides, stood tall and straight pines. To the north of the hospital, about three-quarters of a mile distant, was Dan River, with its swift, noisy waters, hedged in by steep, rugged banks. To the south-east and south were cleared lands, traversed by a branch and its tributaries. Still farther south were heavy woods, with one point of timber projecting some distance northward, into the cleared land toward the hospital. During the afternoon of February 19th, William Sutherland and myself were wheeling wood on a wheelbarrow from Ward No. 3 to Ward No. 1. Having to wheel it up hill it was a wearisome task, and we occasionally stopped for rest. Near four o'clock in the evening, while resting about half-way up the hill-side, Sutherland said to me, "It looks to me very much as if this hospital would be broken up soon." I agreed with him in his opinion, and remarked that our lease of time at the hospital was growing short. After a little further conversation, we resolved to consult with the other nurses on the propriety of attempting an escape, and get them to set out with us for our lines on the next night. In less than an hour's time we had finished our task of wheeling wood, and were resting on our bunks in the tent. Before either of us had met with our comrades, Smith, who was off duty that evening, came to us and informed us he had something to tell us that we would not like to hear. We told him to acquaint us with his news, however unwelcome it might be. We readily conjectured what it was that so interested Smith, and our conjecture proved correct. He had overheard some of the guards in their talking, and had learned that it was the purpose of the Confederates to send us to prison in the morning. This news did not surprise us, and we were heartily pleased to learn the intentions of the Confederates, although they were not of an amicable nature. We resolved to prevent, if possible, the carrying of these intentions into effect. Smith was then told of the resolution we had formed an hour before to set out on the next night for the Union lines. The sun had already disappeared behind the hills. We knew our fate if we remained at the hospital until its light should again break forth in the east. Our purpose to attempt at least, even if we did not succeed, to leave the hospital, the sick, the Confederate guards, and the Danville prisons that night was immediately and firmly fixed. Our preparations were at once commenced. We were obliged to exercise the utmost caution in all our movements, as a few of the guards were standing about over the hospital grounds; some of them were in the cook-house. We wished by no word, or look, or act of ours, to lead them to suspect our purpose of eluding them and striking for liberty. Smith left Sutherland and me in the tent and joined Trippe, Taylor, and Wood, who were on duty in the ward. Smith soon found an opportunity of conferring with his associates, and telling them of the meditated escape. Taylor and Wood were anxious to join it, but Trippe, who had but recently recovered from the small-pox, was distrustful of his strength; and as he had once before escaped, and got some fifty miles away, only to be recaptured and brought back, he did not so readily sanction the project. The nurses who were on duty in the ward now, assisted by Smith, gave their exclusive attention to the sick; they were even more attentive than usual. No one would have suspected from their conduct that they would ever forsake the sick ones under their care. Just before dark Sutherland suggested the propriety of determining on a place of rendezvous for our party after the guards were passed, as it was certain we could not all pass out at once without being seen. I stepped outside the tent, and walked leisurely up hill, and stood near the south end of the cook-house. Directly south of me, about a mile distant, was a prominent point of timber, projecting northward from the main body toward the hospital. This point of timber seemed suitable for the purposes of a rendezvous, and on returning to the tent I directed Sutherland's attention to it. He concurred with me as to the fitness of the place for a rendezvous, and went to the ward to call the attention of Smith, Trippe, Taylor, and Wood to it. As it was important that our party should fix in the mind the place of rendezvous before it was too dark to see, those who were engaged in the ward came out, one at a time, and glanced across at the point of timber. By so doing misunderstanding and delay, at the critical moment, would be prevented. While Trippe was out taking a look he noticed two or three guards approaching him. He walked on down hill in the direction of the wash-house, as if going after clean bed-clothes or other clothing for patients. Near eight o'clock, P. M., Sutherland sought an interview with the cook, but found the Rebels had not yet left the cook-house for their own quarters; so he quietly withdrew from the room. The cook--who of course was one of our own men--followed him to the door and asked if any thing was wanted. As the Rebels were within hearing, Sutherland answered, "There is a man in the ward who would like to have a little soup, but I guess he can get along without it. If he must have some," continued Sutherland, "I will come back and let you know." "All right," answered the cook. Soon after the guards went to their quarters, which were situated near the guard line, but little more than a quarter of a mile distant, south-west of the cook-house. The cook was again sought by Sutherland, and this time he was found alone, and just ready to retire for the night. Sutherland lost no time in making his business known to him. Six haversacks, the best that could be found in the deposit for clean clothing, were delivered to the cook, who agreed to fill them with the best provision the cook-house at the time afforded. Sutherland then busied himself in selecting clothing for our party from the deposit of clothing that had been washed and stored away. When he had selected the number of garments required he carried them down to our tent. He and I then took off the clothing we had long worn, and put on entirely clean suits. We then went to the ward and relieved our four associates, who immediately went down to our tent and put on clean suits also. The six haversacks, which were filled with the best provisions the cook could provide, were brought to the tent from the cook-house. Near eleven o'clock, P. M., our arrangements for leaving were about complete, or as nearly so as was possible with the means at command. Taylor, Sutherland, and Wood, each had an overcoat and blanket; Smith had an overcoat and a large bed-quilt. Trippe and I each had a blanket; we had no overcoats, but we wore an extra shirt and blouse apiece. For our feet we provided the best shoes that could be found about the hospital, and took pains to secure long and strong strings for them. During our attendance in the ward, patients about dying, or near death, had in several instances presented the nurses with their overcoats. These overcoats had been sold by the nurses to the guards for Confederate scrip. In this way we had obtained near two hundred dollars in scrip to carry with us on our journey. Taylor had a watch which was in time-keeping order. He also had a canteen. Smith had a half-moon tin bucket, which held about three quarts. The only knives we had were made of sheet-iron. We had watched in the ward, and perfected our arrangements for leaving by turns, until near midnight. A little after eleven o'clock we waked up two or three of the stoutest patients in the ward, and told them our departure was near at hand, and that they must watch in the ward for us, and keep the lights burning until morning. We then bid them good-by, cast a last glance over the sick, and closed the door of the ward behind us for the last time. We repaired immediately to our tent and completed our final preparations for the trip. As our tent was near that of the Rebel surgeon we were obliged to carry on our conversation in a low tone. We put out blankets in a convenient shape for carrying, and made every thing ready for starting. It was settled, in the first place, that we should slip out from the hospital grounds two at a time. Which two should go first was the next question that came up for decision. Six small sticks were prepared, and we drew cuts. These sticks were of three different lengths, and the two who held the short ones were to pass out first. The two who held the sticks next shortest were to follow in a given time, and the two holding the longest sticks, in due time, were to bring up the rear. When the drawing was over Sutherland and I held the short sticks. As time was precious we placed our haversacks and blankets under our arms and stepped outside the tent. We stood a moment at the tent door, listening for the voices or footsteps of the guards. No sound fell upon our ears save that of the wind blowing through the tops of the tall pine-trees. On starting we went to the top of the hill and stopped at the south-east corner of the cook-house, where we again listened intently, but heard nothing. The moon, which had been shining at intervals since night-fall, had become partially obscured by floating vapor clouds. We kept our haversacks and blankets under our arms in such a shape as to imitate closely a bundle of clothing. We then walked slowly down the hill toward the wash-house. We followed the path leading to the wash-house until we reached the branch. Instead of crossing the branch on the foot-log we turned to our right and went directly up stream, stepping sometimes on the ice and breaking it. We kept close to the bluff, and stooped slightly, so that it screened us from the west. To our left, on the east of the branch, was a flat or bottom, covered with pine shrubs and other bushes, which hid us from view in that direction. Unless the sentinel on duty had happened to be near the branch while we were passing, we could scarcely have done otherwise than escape unseen. At length we had proceeded, with much caution, a sufficient distance in the direction of our appointed rendezvous to feel light-hearted and secure. We pushed forward rapidly, crossed two rail-fences and gained the shelter of the woods, where we were to await the coming of Smith and Taylor, who had held the sticks of medium length at the drawing a few moments before. Sutherland and I laid our haversacks and blankets aside, and quietly, though anxiously, awaited their approach. While waiting, after the anxiety and excitement of the moment had somewhat subsided, we found the weather quite cold. Our whiskers became stiff and whitened with frost, and the winds penetrated our clothing. The moon shone out brightly. The sky was without a cloud. Those which had partially covered it, only a few moments before, had cleared entirely away. Our patience was severely tried, as our comrades, so anxiously expected, had not joined us. On getting quite cold in the breezes of the wintery midnight, we danced about on our feet, and extended our arms to quicken the circulation of the blood, and get ourselves warm. In this manner we passed some two or three minutes, when we stood still to listen for the coming of Smith and Taylor. We listened anxiously, but the sound of their welcome footsteps did not greet our ears. "Can it be that they have been caught?" we asked ourselves. "If they have been caught the Rebels will soon miss us, and be on the alert, searching for us," said Sutherland. "Perhaps we had better be off then," I answered. We listened a moment longer, but heard nothing. We then gathered our haversacks and blankets, and started westward through the woods. We had gone but a few steps before we heard the noise of persons climbing the fence. We halted and remained perfectly still, as we were not sure the rebels were not on our trail. Soon we could distinguish the forms of two persons in the moonlight. They were moving toward the point of timber we had just left. We now knew they were Smith and Taylor, and soon had the pleasure of hearing our names called in low, subdued tones by their familiar voices. Our whereabouts was soon made known to them, and they were soon with us. Smith and Taylor wished to know why we had not stopped in the point of timber, as agreed upon. We told them we had stopped there, had waited some time for them, and had given them up as lost, and then started on our journey alone, getting as far as that before hearing them. We had not long to wait for Wood and Trippe. They had followed Smith and Taylor more closely than the latter had followed Sutherland and myself. When Trippe and Wood had joined us, we introduced ourselves as Federals, and late nurses at the small-pox hospital near Danville, Va. As the squads of two each had formed a junction, our party of six was ready to move. After adjusting our haversacks and blankets about us, so that we could easily carry them, we set out through the woods in a westerly direction. In the woods we found that the snow which had fallen a few days before had not melted. We disliked to walk on it, as we left a distinct trail behind. We pushed on, however, and soon struck a wagon road, from which the snow had either blown off or melted away. It was not a public road, but was used merely as a timber road, to get out of the woods with loads of rails and wood. Its surface was very hard and gravelly, and we followed it a mile or two in a southerly direction without leaving many distinct foot-prints. The railroad leading from Danville, Va., to Greensboro, N. C., was soon reached, and we followed it in a south-west course: we walked on the ties, and made very good time. Soon we had reached a part of the road which ran over a high grading. On hearing a distant rumbling noise in the south, we judged there was a train of cars coming. In a few minutes more we saw the head-light on the engine as it came around the curve made necessary by the hills. We quickly slipped down the side of the grading into the bushes, and watched the train as it passed. But one person on the train was visible to us, and that was a man standing at the door of the last car with a lantern in his hand. On regaining the top of the grade, we resumed our travels, walking on the ties as before. We followed the railroad until we had gone about five miles from our starting-point, when we came to a wagon road, which crossed the railroad at right angles. This road had the appearance of being much traveled; by turning to our right and following it, we went north-west--the direction we wished to go. As we passed a house near the road side, Trippe recognized the place as one he had seen when out before, making his first attempt to escape. He also knew the road we were following would lead us to the Seven-mile Ferry. This ferry was so called from the fact of its being seven miles up Dan River from Danville. We wished to gain the left or northern bank of Dan River before daybreak, if possible, and we pushed on eagerly and rapidly. The road was smooth. Its white sandy surface could be plainly seen. Dense woods, with thick bushy undergrowth, closely lined it on either side. The hill leading down to the ferry was at length reached. It was a long, but not a steep hill. The road as it led us down the hill-side was meandering in its course. When we were but little more than half-way down hill, the thought that there might be a guard at the ferry happened to suggest itself to Trippe's mind. He proposed that we should retire into the brush near the road side, and wait until he should go on toward the ferry and reconnoiter. We assented to this proposal, and went a dozen steps or more from the road and halted. Trippe went on down hill alone. He was gone several minutes, a half hour almost it seemed to us in our restless anxiety and concern. We became impatient for his return, and quitting our places in the brush, walked down hill on the road. Near the foot of the hill we saw Trippe slowly retreating from the ferry. He had seen us, and removing the cap from his head, was excitedly motioning for us to halt. We stopped immediately, and kept still. Trippe also stopped, and turned around, looking anxiously toward the ferry. He looked only for a moment, and then quietly rejoined us where we had been waiting. He whispered to us, saying, "Let's go back up hill." We turned about, and walked silently up the road. No word was spoken until we had reached the hill-top. It was to us a moment of deep and thrilling interest and expectancy. [Illustration: "FOILED AT SEVEN-MILE FERRY."--PAGE 20.] On reaching the upland we halted at the road side, and Trippe reported the discoveries he had made at the ferry. He had gone very cautiously down hill, and had soon stood where he could see the river plainly, and also the ferry-boat. He had stood perfectly still until he had assured himself that no guard was near. He could see nothing but the forest-trees, the river, and the ferry-boat, in the light of the brightly shining moon, which made the frost and waters sparkle. He could hear no sound, save those of the swiftly running waters, and these amply sufficed to drown any noise he himself might make. He turned around and started back to us, to beckon us forward. Almost at the same instant he heard a noise. Thinking he might have trodden on a stick and broken it, thus making the noise himself, he proceeded half a dozen steps further; when, still hearing something, he stopped, and again looked in the direction of the ferry. A little to the right of it, in the edge of the woods, he saw the sparks of a fire flying upward. He watched the fire closely, and it sent up a blaze which shed light far around. One Butternut cavalryman was first seen to stir the fire, and then add fuel to it. Soon three others got up from their bed and warmed themselves. Trippe stood still, and watched them, until they laid down and covered themselves in their bed. He then silently withdrew, feeling sure he had not been heard or seen. As he did so, the horses of the cavalrymen neighed, and pawed the ground, as if manifesting uneasiness. As we were sure the Confederates were not aware of our presence, we felt glad we had escaped so well. Our escape was a narrow one, however; had we arrived at the ferry ten minutes sooner, we should most certainly have been recaptured. Our disappointment in not getting across the river at the ferry was great, as we could make no progress in the direction we wished to go until we had gained its northern bank. We consulted briefly as to the course we should pursue; and soon determined to retrace our steps until we should find another road, or some path that would lead us up the river. We started. As the weather was cold and morning approaching, we hurried on. An obscure road, leading off in a south-west direction, was soon found. We changed our course, and followed it. It led by some plantation houses. We left the road and houses some distance to our right, as we did not wish to alarm the dogs and set them to barking. On returning to the road, we followed it directly up the river until we had traveled five or six miles, from Seven-mile Ferry. It became evident that day-break was at hand. A safe hiding-place for the day next engaged our attention, and we halted. It was first determined that one of our number should go a quarter of a mile further up the road, to see if any houses were near in that direction. Sutherland went some distance ahead, and on returning reported none. As we had passed but one house since falling back from the ferry, we judged we were some distance from any human habitation. The query then arose, shall we hide in the open woods on our left, or in the inclosed woods on our right? After a short parley, we concluded to secrete ourselves in the inclosed woods. We could then get to the river without having the road to cross. Any parties of cavalrymen that might be out scouring the country, were also less likely to come across us in our retreat. Accordingly we crossed the rail-fence, and left it and the road directly behind us. We worked our way through the thickets of brush and briers until we were fully a quarter of a mile from the road, in the direction of the river. On a spot of ground entirely surrounded by pine-trees and bushes we made our bed, and, lying down, soon fell asleep. The weather being quite cold in the early morning, we waked up at sunrise, on account of cold feet and general discomfort of body. Trippe got up and took a partial survey of the adjacent woods. He went northward, still further from the road we had left at day-break, and found an open space where we could make our bed in the sunshine. To this open space, which was covered over with tall dead grass, we moved our haversacks and bedding. As we wished to rest well during the day, we took pains to make a good bed. Quite a lot of dead grass and leaves was first gathered. On the grass and leaves we spread the four overcoats belonging to our party. On the overcoats we spread Smith's bed quilt. Our caps, haversacks, and blouses were used as pillows, and our five blankets were used as covering. In this manner we usually made our bed all through our trip, varying it, of course, according to circumstances. Having completed our bed, we laid ourselves down to rest, and slept comfortably until late in the day. We made it a rule for each of our party to sleep as much as desired during the day. We did not require one of our number to keep awake as a watch for the others during the day. If we had done so, we, of course, would have watched by turns. The propriety of so doing was often discussed, but we generally deemed it safest to have no watch, as the person watching would have to sit or stand up, and would thus expose himself to the danger of being seen by somebody who might be passing, and so lead to our recapture. It was near four o'clock in the afternoon of February 20th, when we aroused ourselves from our first slumber as refugees from prison. We got up and went down into a hollow near us, where there was running water, and washed our faces. After combing our hair, we opened our haversacks, and were about commencing to eat, when we discovered that our corn-bread was frozen. Our matches--of which we had two small boxes--which we had luckily procured some two weeks before, now came in good play, as it was needful to have a small fire in order to thaw our bread. We secured a small lot of dry pine limbs and twigs, and built a fire in the hollow sufficient for our purposes; and soon we had dispatched our first meal since leaving Ward No. 1. After finishing our meal, we put our blankets and other baggage in traveling order. As it was too early to set out, we engaged in conversation, laying plans and expedients for effecting a crossing of the river. We resolved to put ourselves across Dan River that night, or on the following day, at almost any risk. As a final preparation for the night's marching, we each secured a stout stick or cane. One of the boys alleged our canes would be needed in case of attack. Taylor had a very large cane for a man of his size. On being spoken to concerning it, he remarked that he was going to cross the river on it. The evening wore away. The king of day having sunk below the western horizon, we began to look for the moon, whose light was to shine upon our pathway. It had not appeared above the horizon; soon afterward, however, the moon arose, and began shedding light. We felt a kind of loneliness on leaving the place which had sheltered us during the day. As Danville, Virginia, was within one mile of the southern boundary of the State, and as we were at least thirteen miles south-west of that place, we knew we were in the friendly brush and thickets of North Carolina. On setting out, instead of going directly back to the road, we traveled parallel with it for more than a mile. We then changed our course and went back to it, thinking it late enough to travel it without meeting any one. We had gone but a few miles on the road, and passed but one house, when the noise of the river assured us it was not far off. We then left the road and sought the banks of the stream. We crossed an old field, in which we found much mud and water. The walking was slavish and wearisome, as the wet, clayey soil adhered to our shoes. The snow, which had recently melted, had swollen the branches. We found it necessary to cross a branch or almost go back on our trail. By means of a fence, a water gate, and some rails, we succeeded in crossing it without much difficulty. It required time and close watching, however. On leaving the branch behind us we climbed a fence and entered the woods. These woods were dense, and there was a thick, brushy undergrowth, which greatly impeded our progress. We found it impossible to go directly to the river. It was quite dark, for, although the moon was shining brightly, its light penetrated the heavy woods imperfectly. From the incessant roar of waters we judged we were near the river; but we struggled on through vines and thickets for a full half-hour longer. It was not a great while until we could see, ahead of us, quite an opening; it was the course of the river through the forests. We pressed on and soon stood upon the bank, against which dashed the angry waters. Huge pieces of ice were borne swiftly down the swollen stream. We had thought of constructing a raft of poles and rails, lashing them together with bark and vines; but such materials were not at hand, and the condition of the river forbade the attempt at crossing on a raft. We longed to get across the river, but the prospect seemed all but hopeless. We pushed on up stream, hoping to find suitable materials for building a raft and a place where the condition of the river would admit of launching it. We had gone a mile or more without discovering any means by which we could cross the stream; still we did not despair; hope continued to struggle against reality. We must get across the river that night, we thought, or venture too far and risk too much to-morrow. The current of water became more rapid and impetuous as we advanced; the roar of the river sounded much louder than before, and our chances of getting across did not seem to improve. We soon came to a drift of logs, slabs, and rails, but owing to the condition of the stream, the quantities of ice and other obstructions in it, we concluded it would be time and labor lost to make a raft and attempt a crossing there. Our resolution to follow on up stream, keeping close to the water's edge until morning, was then fixed. If we failed to find a canoe or other means of crossing before that time we were then to resort to other measures to get us out of our difficulties. After our minds were fully made up as to the course we should pursue we traveled about two and a half or three miles, when Sutherland and I, who were considerably in advance, espied a canoe fastened to the shore-with a chain and padlock. We were almost overjoyed at the discovery. We could not wait for our associates to come up, but followed back down stream to meet them. They were soon informed that we had found a canoe, but they were almost incredulous. In a few minutes, however, all doubts were removed, as they beheld with their own eyes the object of our anxious and careful search. We felt as jubilant and hopeful as if deliverance from all our troubles was just at hand; but, in the excitement of the moment, we did not forget to exercise caution. It was evident the canoe had not been used for several days; the oar was lying in it, frozen in the ice, which had thawed but little; the ice near the middle of the canoe, where the oar was lying, was about three inches thick. In loosening the oar and breaking the chain which secured the canoe, much noise would be made. It was necessary to have two or three rails or poles. Smith and I went out some distance from the river to procure them, and to see if any house was near. We found an old orchard, inclosed by a dilapidated fence. On the southern borders of the orchard we found two log huts, but they were old and tenantless. We returned to the river carrying with us three or four stout rails. As we were satisfied we should not be heard we set to work regardless of the noise we made. We found the canoe was locked or fastened in a large slab of ice, which extended beyond it into the swift water. We first used our sheet-iron knives and some sharp-pointed and sharp-cornered rocks, and loosened the canoe from its icy bed. A passage-way for the canoe was next broken through the ice to the current of the stream. We then took our stoutest rail and broke the chain by prying on it. I took a rail and placed myself in the end of the canoe farthest out from the shore. Our haversacks, coats, and blankets were then placed in it, and Trippe and Taylor came aboard. Trippe, with the oar in hand, launched us out into the river. We found a swiftly rushing current, and were compelled to row up stream. We kept bearing to our right, however, and soon came in contact with the ice, which extended out from the opposite bank. I took my rail and began breaking the ice. Soon I had broken a narrow passage-way for the canoe, into which we thrust it, and it became steady. I kept on breaking the ice and pushing the pieces aside. The canoe was pushed nearer and nearer the bank. Soon I could reach the low branches of a tree, which stood near the water's brink. I held on to the boughs of the tree, and walked ashore on the ice. Taylor and I removed our baggage from the canoe to the bank. Trippe went to bring over our three comrades, who had been patiently waiting and watching. He found some difficulty in entering the passage way as he neared the bank upon which they stood. In due time our party was safely landed on the shore, for which we had been anxiously striving the best part of two nights. The first great obstacle to our journey was surmounted. We felt freer and safer. We were several miles from Danville--at least twenty. It was past midnight. The sky above us was perfectly clear. The moon was high in the heavens, and sent down rays of silvery light. Northward, in the direction we wished to travel, the country appeared clear of timber, and we had hopes of finding a good road before going a great distance. When we were ready to leave the river this question arose: what shall we do with our canoe--tie it up or allow it to float down the river? We felt gratefully, even tenderly toward it. It had done us a great service. We concluded to lash it fast to the tree, whose branches hung low upon the bank. We did so; and left it and the river behind us. We pushed due northward across the cleared fields. Some houses were soon discernible in the moonlight, not far ahead of us. Turning a little to the left, we soon reached a point directly west of the houses. We heard much noise, and stopped to see if we could make out what it meant. We approached a few steps nearer, and heard singing and dancing. We thought it late for such exercises; but as it was Saturday night all was explained, that night being known in Carolina as negroes' night. As we had provisions enough for a meal or two, we did not interrupt the exercises, or make our presence known to the negroes. Nor did we tarry long, as we had no time to lose. We were in Carolina, and had many miles to travel and many weary marches to make through a bleak mountain country before our escape was made good. Our circuit around the houses was continued at a safe distance, until we struck a road running south-east and north-west. We turned to our left and followed the road north-west a little more than a mile. As we felt somewhat hungry, we halted among some bushes at the road side and eat a few pieces of corn-bread. After eating, we pushed on, feeling much refreshed. In a short time we came to a cross-road, when we changed our course and went due north. In that direction we traveled until day-break. A safe hiding-place for the day was next in order, and we set about finding it. We went into the woods some distance to the left of the road, where we found quite a cluster of cedar bushes, in the midst of which we thought we could safely spend the Sabbath day, February 21st. Our bed was at once made and we gladly laid ourselves down to slumber soundly. It was near three o'clock in the evening when we awoke. On looking about us in all directions, and seeing nobody, we got up. We ventured to a branch, nearly a hundred yards distant, and washed our faces. The canteen and bucket were filled with water and brought near where we had been sleeping. Our toilet was completed by combing our hair, after which we sat down and eat the last of our provisions. How we should procure another supply became the subject of discussion. Various plans were proposed; one of which we determined to try. If it failed we were, of course, to resort to another. The late hours of the evening were passed in adverting to the good fortune which had attended us so far on the trip. The possibilities and probabilities of the future were also alluded to. As we became deeply interested in our talk the time passed quickly. The tall forest-trees cast long shadows over us. The sun was disappearing in the west. The sky was cloudless. Our preparations for the third night of travel were complete. Soon after dusk we emerged from our hiding place, and in due time were upon the road. Our rest during the day had been refreshing, and we walked briskly forward. We passed one house early in the night. It was too early, we thought, to try our plan for procuring food, and the appearance of the house and its surroundings did not justify the belief that the occupants had any food to spare. So we passed on. Near ten o'clock we came to another house on our left. It was near the road, not more than twenty yards distant. From appearances all inside were asleep. At least no light was visible, and silence reigned. At most of the houses we had passed, the dogs had barked at us. It was not so at this one. We went a few yards beyond the house and halted in the road. Five of us were to lie in wait, while the sixth went forth on the errand of necessity. Which one of us should go upon the errand was a question for decision. It was decided by drawing cuts. Taylor was chosen to attempt the experiment. Taylor's overcoat was of a light-gray color, and had once belonged to a Confederate soldier. Smith's cap was also of "secesh" antecedents. Taylor donned them both, and was to play the Confederate soldier on furlough. He was to go to the front door of the house and knock. When the door was opened to him, if he was asked to come in he was to decline on the pretext of not having time. He was then to apply for something to eat, enough for himself and two comrades a supper that night and breakfast the next morning, which would suffice for one meal for our party. He was to insist on immediate compliance to the request on the plea that he and his comrades were hungry and obliged to march all night. If asked why so? he was to answer that they had been home on furlough, that their time was nearly out, and that they must report to the company by a certain time--we had anticipated many questions that we judged would be asked, and had answers to suit. After we had drilled Taylor for a few minutes at the road side, and found him to be a hungry soldier, with nothing Confederate about him except his overcoat and cap, he started to the house. Our eyes followed him as long as he could be seen. We then retired from the road to the fence and waited about twenty minutes, until Taylor returned and made report. He entered the yard in front of the house and approached the door. Before reaching the door his heart suddenly failed of its purpose. He felt himself unequal to the emergency. He immediately turned to his left to examine a smoke-house or other out-house, in which he hoped to find something that would do to eat. The door was securely fastened, which fact caused him to suspect there were some provisions inside. The house was constructed of round logs, and Taylor reached his arm through the space between them to see if he could feel any meat. He examined carefully on each side, but his arm was too short. He could feel nothing. In the mean time, his attention was attracted to another out-building, and he went to examine it. He passed the dwelling, leaving it between him and the road. His search was still unfruitful. While examining the second out-house he noticed a stable or shed about sixty yards distant. By going to it he would be still farther from the dwelling, and he would feel safer while prosecuting his search. As a last resort before going to the dwelling, he visited the stable in the hope of finding some corn, upon which we would have subsisted in preference to running too great a risk in procuring more palatable food. He could find no corn in the stable, nor grain of any kind. There was some hay or straw, and a lot of corn-blades tied in bundles. In a shed adjoining the stable were six or seven horses feeding on corn-blades. Taylor was impressed with the idea that they were cavalry horses, and on farther examination a saddle or rig for each of the horses was found. He then determined not to visit the dwelling at all, as it was certain there was half a dozen or more men, perhaps cavalry-men, inside of it, sheltering for the night. He then quietly rejoined us at the road side. We had run a great risk; our escape had been narrow. Had Taylor gone half a dozen steps nearer the house he would have walked on some plank or slabs in front of the door; his footfalls might have been heard by those inside, and his presence become known. It was manifest that good fortune was still a companion of our journey. Had the plan we had devised been followed our recapture would certainly have ensued. It was yet early in the night--near eleven o'clock--and we determined to put several miles between those cavalry-men and our stopping-place in the morning. Before starting, however, we held a short parley as to the propriety of taking the horses and riding them until day-break. On the question of taking the horses our party was about equally divided. The views of those who opposed the project prevailed. The chief objection to it was the great and necessary risk, at the time, in getting the horses to the road without disturbing their owners, and that in case we were retaken, and found guilty of horse-stealing or other depredations, it might go hard with us. By the light of the moon we discovered we had made numerous foot-prints in the road. We could not obliterate them without taking time, and leaving even plainer traces behind us. So we walked backward several yards on the road. On the north of the road were open woods. We stepped aside from the road a few yards and walked parallel with it, face foremost, through the woods, where we could make no tracks. On going about a mile we crossed to the opposite side of the road. In so doing we went south, but left tracks in the road as though we had gone north. We walked rapidly through the woods near the road until we had gone another mile, which brought us to fields. As the walking was not good in the fields on account of the moist clay, we took the road and hurried forward. At short intervals we went on the double-quick. By midnight we had traveled ten or eleven miles. More than one-third of the distance had been gone over since we had found the cavalry horses. Our speed had been accelerated by that discovery. We were much wearied, and halted at a fence near the road side to rest. We were hungry, and would have eaten something, but our haversacks were empty, and hanging loosely at our side. Our rest was brief, but sufficiently long to stiffen our knee and ankle joints. Our journey was resumed, and we trudged on slowly at first, but soon increased our speed. There were but few houses near the road, and these we passed with cautious steps. A second attempt to get rations was not made that night, as we were fearful of making a second failure, and losing time besides. We resolved to wait until the morrow, and trust to luck or Providence to feed us. The road improved as we advanced, and we made good progress. It bore a little north of west. On crossing a branch we halted and took up some water in our half-moon tin-bucket and drank freely. We then filled our canteen and bucket with water and carried it with us. We were exceedingly tired, and did not wish to take the time and trouble to look out for a hiding-place convenient to water. The gray light of morning was faintly appearing in the east, and we knew our journeying must cease for a time. Our sense of hunger had subsided, or been overcome by weariness. We left the road and went some distance south of it into a heavy forest. When nearly a mile from the road we halted, and quickly spread our bed upon the ground. We then sank wearily to rest, and were sleeping soundly before sunrise. It was on the morning of February 22d that we had thus sought repose in the wintery forest of Virginia. We had got out of Carolina soon after crossing Dan River, and had traveled almost due northward until we passed Martinsville, Henry county, Virginia. We passed about two miles to the right of Martinsville, and then bore a little west of north. On February 22d we were hid not many miles--probably not more than a night's march--from the southern boundary of Franklin county, Virginia. It was the anniversary of Washington's birth. We remembered the fact, and revered the memory of Washington, although his native State had tendered us a very poor and meager hospitality, and was treating us shabbily. The forest of Virginia, however, protected us from her own and our country's enemies. CHAPTER II. SLEEP DISTURBED--NOISE IN THE WOODS--ITS CAUSE--NEGROES FURNISH FOOD--WE HIDE NEAR THE TRAIL--HOUNDS AND HORSEMEN--EXCITEMENT OF THE CHASE--WE BUY A QUANTITY OF PROVISIONS--OUR OBLIGATIONS--ON THE HIGHWAY IN DAYLIGHT--UNDER DIFFICULTIES--WOOD CHOPPER--WOMAN AND DOGS--WE PASS ROCKY MOUNT C. H.--INSECURE HIDING-PLACE--CHANGE OF BASE--WE COME ACROSS A CITIZEN--HE TAKES STEPS TO CATCH US, BUT IS TOO SLOW--OUR FLIGHT--OUR ESCAPE--RUN INTO A WAGON TRAIN--HID AWAY--MAKING MUSH--SNOW--SORE FEET AND LAMENESS--TAYLOR FALLS BEHIND--TAYLOR LEFT ALONE--HIS CONDITION. When the sun was nearly an hour high, we were aroused from our slumbers by a loud and incessant racket in the woods. We did not uncover our heads at first. A squad of cavalry-men was the first thing of which we thought, but on uncovering our heads and raising up on our elbows, we found it, was the noise of wood choppers that had disturbed us. We looked all around us, but could see nobody. The chopping continued, and from the noise we judged several axes were being used. We at once concluded that a party of negroes were at work not far from us, and that we would have an opportunity of procuring supplies. The prospect pleased us. Had we known our conclusion was correct we should have been in an ecstasy of gratitude. About one hundred yards south of us was a high ridge extending east and west. East of us, about seventy yards distant, was another ridge or spur putting out due northward from the main ridge. We judged from the sounds that the wood choppers were east of us and the ridge last described. By consent of our party, Sutherland and I got out of bed and walked eastwardly to the ridge, striking it not far from the point where it was lost in the level ground. We then crept along on our hands and feet, keeping close together so that we could talk to each other and be understood without speaking loudly. Soon we got around the point of the ridge to a thicket of brush, where we halted. We could see the colored folks at work, plying their axes vigorously. We waited and watched anxiously a few minutes, to see if any whites were with them. We saw none, and were glad of it; we returned to our comrades and made report. We were in a blissful state of mind, and comforted ourselves on the cheering prospect before us. Our feelings no doubt were similar to those of weary travelers in the desert on approaching an oasis. Our determination to consult with the negroes, and make overtures for food and such other assistance as they could give, was soon made. It was agreed that Sutherland and I should go upon this delicate mission. We went, and soon reached the point from which we had watched the negroes before. We again watched them closely, and assuring ourselves that no whites were near, we emerged from the thicket, and walked briskly toward them. As we approached one of the negroes noticed us. He immediately called the attention of the others to us. Instantly all chopping ceased, and quiet succeeded. At the same moment we halted, and Sutherland put his hand to his mouth and asked if any whites were about? The negro nearest us answered, "No, sah; massa was heah dis mornin', but he done gone home now." We then advanced to the fires, around which the negroes had collected to the number of ten or a dozen, large and small. Our wants were immediately made known to them. They were quite willing, even anxious to respond to our call for food. They offered to divide with us at noon, when "missus" brought their dinner out. We told them they would not have enough to spare, as there were six of us, and we were very hungry. The oldest negro or "boss hand," as he was called, then sent one of the younger ones to bring us something to eat. The negroes were all deeply interested in us, and were anxious to learn where our four comrades were hid. We told them, and inquired if that was a safe place. We were informed it was safe enough, but there was a better place south of it, across the ridge. We told the boss we would cross the ridge and look out a good hiding-place. He promised to bring our dinner to us as soon as it was brought to him where he was at work. Sutherland and I then returned to our comrades and informed them it would not be long until we should have something to eat. In accordance with the advice received from our colored friends we gathered our things and moved across the ridge. We had passed the summit of the ridge and were going down its southern declivity when we came to a bench or level place, where we concluded to stop and make our bed. We had intended to go to the level ground near the base of the ridge, but on reaching the bench we knew of no reason why we should not stop there for the remainder of the day. We made our bed anew, and then washed our hands and faces, using the water from our bucket and canteen for that purpose. We then seated ourselves upon our bed, and quietly awaited the approach of the "boss" with our dinner. We had waited a short time, probably a half hour, when we saw him with a large bucket in hand near the base of the ridge hunting for us. One of our party rolled a small stone down hill toward him to let him know where we were. He soon discovered us, and climbed the hill-side, and delivered to us our dinner. We began eating immediately, and found we had been bountifully provided for. A bucket full of eatables, consisting of fried ham, fried eggs, boiled beans, and corn-dodgers, was furnished us. We had a keen relish for such fare, and devoured it all. When we had finished eating, the negro took his bucket and returned to his work; first telling us he would see us again in the evening. Our appetites were fully satisfied, and we covered ourselves in our bed and went to sleep. We had slept but a short time before our rest was disturbed by a considerable noise. It was the noise of cavalry-men, without doubt, we thought, or of horses running at their utmost speed. We uncovered our heads and raised them slightly. On looking southward we saw two hounds pass near the base of the ridge. They ran swiftly, and were hot in pursuit of game. They were closely followed by three or four white citizens on horseback. The hounds and horsemen were soon out of hearing, and we felt greatly relieved. Just then the excitement of the chase was not agreeable to us. We were heartily glad we were not the objects of pursuit. Had we gone to the level ground, at the base of the ridge, before halting, as was at first intended, we would most likely have placed ourselves directly on the trail. The result to us in that case would have been unfortunate. As our hiding-place was on the steep side of the ridge, almost surrounded by small trees and brush, we thought it a safe one, and again gave ourselves over to rest. We slept well until late in the day. When we awoke the first object almost which met our vision was our colored benefactor sitting near us whittling a stick. He informed us we should have another meal at dusk. We told him any thing good to eat would be acceptable to us, and place us under lasting obligations to those who furnished it. We told him, too, that we had some Confederate money, and would buy as much provisions as he could deliver to us at dark, if it was not more than we could carry. He promised to see if we could be supplied, and told us to come up where they were at work after sunset. As the day was already far spent, we began to fit up for another night's journey. On completing our preparations, we waited a few minutes longer for the sun to disappear in the west. Soon it had shed its last ray over us for the day, and we picked up our things and started from our retreat. By the twilight we made our way through the woods to the place where the negroes had been at work during the day. Just before dark we reached them. They had ceased from their labors and were expecting us. Some fruit pies fried in grease were furnished us for supper. While we were eating, the negroes asked what kind of provisions we could carry most of, or most conveniently. We told them we could do best on meat, salt, and meal. Two or three of them then went to bring us a supply of those articles. In due time they returned with a ham of meat, a little salt, half a bushel of meal, and half a dozen corn-dodgers. Wood had with him a clean pillow-slip, brought from the hospital. In it we put the corn-meal. The ham was cut in pieces and put in our haversacks. The salt was carried by one of our party in a blouse pocket. On setting out we had the corn-dodgers, for which there was no room in our haversacks; and as, on account of their size, we could not get them into our blouse pockets without breaking them, we carried them in our hands until midnight. The ham had cost the negroes three dollars a pound, and it weighed twelve pounds and a half. We paid them thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents for it in Confederate shin-plaster. For the meal, salt, corn-bread, and what we had eaten during the day, we gave them twenty-two dollars and fifty cents. We paid them sixty dollars in all. It was not necessary, they did not exact it, but we had the scrip and were made no poorer by parting with it. It was current there at the time, and was much below par in the country we hoped to reach ere long. We conversed briefly with the colored people before leaving them. We learned from them that we had traveled twenty-three miles the previous night, and that it was about forty miles to Rocky Mount Court-House, in Franklin county. It was growing late. The moon had risen, and was advancing in its course. Every hour of the night was precious to us and must be improved. We expressed to our benefactors our obligations. We thanked them heartily and sincerely. We told them they had no idea of the value of the service they had performed. It was a service to us; it was also a service to the cause in which we had struggled and suffered much. We could not pay them adequately, but hoped in the end they would have their reward in the results of the war. We bade them good-night and left them, and sought the road immediately; on reaching it we could but contrast our feelings with those we had experienced on leaving it early in the morning. Our minds were at perfect ease on the question of supplies, as our pillow-slip was full, our haversacks were full, and each of us had a corn-dodger in his hand besides. We thought we should make a long stride toward our lines before our supplies should be exhausted. The meal in the pillow-slip was carried by turns. As we had eaten a great deal during the day we did not feel like walking rapidly. We put in the whole time, however, until after midnight, when we stopped to rest and eat some bread. A few minutes' rest sufficed, and we resumed our travels. As no incident in our travels particularly interesting, or worthy of record, transpired for two or three nights or days, we pass on to the events of a subsequent date. We will say, first, that during the interval of time over which we pass without noting every circumstance of our journey, we were very cautious. In the night-time, while passing houses near the road, we maintained the strictest silence. We walked carefully, and even then the dogs often discovered us, and made the night dismal with their howling. We made it a rule not to allow daylight to find us upon the road; but before we go much farther in our narrative we will give an instance in which it did so find us. The first rays of the sun generally shone upon us in our bed asleep. During our waking hours in day-time, when hid in the lonely woods, we were careful not to talk, or laugh out boisterously, knowing the liability to be heard at a distance. We did not stand up or walk about a great deal. When we had supplies there was no occasion to incur risks, or purposely come in contact with any persons, black or white. We always hid, if possible, where water would be convenient to us. We had fire in day-time with which to broil our meat and make mush. During the day we prepared our midnight lunch. When we were in a secure retreat for the day we generally prepared a quantity of mush, for fear our hiding-place next day would be in a place too much exposed to admit of fire or smoke. In all our movements we tried to exercise the utmost caution. As the distance between us and our prison became greater we became, if possible, more cautious. The farther we got from prison the greater would be our disappointment in being caught and taken back. The early morning of February 24th found us upon the road, which led through an open country. Cleared and fenceless lands bordered it on either side. We pushed on, in the hope of reaching woods, until broad daylight. At length the rays of the rising sun began to illuminate the face of Nature. We were then obliged to leave the public highway. The road had led us northward the last two nights, and still led us in that direction. We looked to our right, where the lands were hilly or a little broken. We went in that direction, thinking we could hide behind a knoll, or rising ground. Soon we gained a point or crest, from which the ground sloped gently to the east. A hundred yards or more ahead of us we saw the tops of scattering trees projecting above a bluff. We pressed on, and soon stood upon a precipice, and looked beyond it, over a narrow wooded valley. We clambered half-way down the precipice to hide among the rocks. We had laid our blankets, haversacks, and bag of meal aside. We were going to make our bed, but found the space in which we stood was not large enough for all of us. We would be hampered by the rocks. Smith and I had unrolled our blankets; Sutherland, Wood, Trippe, and Taylor had gone a little farther down among the rocks to find more room. About the same time we saw a smoke rising through the trees in the valley. We were sure a house was there, although we could not see it. It was south-east of us, apparently half a mile distant. We were about beginning the preparations for our daily rest when the noise of an ax resounded in our ears. The noise was so unexpected and so near us that we were startled, and at first looked around wildly, and in amaze. We soon recovered from the shock of astonishment and surprise, and peered cautiously around the rocks and looked below us. Not more than a hundred yards from us, in the woods near the base of the precipice, we saw a single white man wielding his ax. His dog was near him. On account of the dog we lay low. If he had got a glimpse of us his master would have become aware of our presence. We could not make our bed; we could do nothing but keep still. Smith and I had near us all the blankets, and all the provisions belonging to our party. Our comrades were about thirty feet below us, almost under us. Smith ventured to drop their blankets to them, after which we all kept quiet. We slept but little. As long as the ax was used we felt no fear of being seen by the man, but every half hour we peered out from the rocks to see if the dog was near him. About noon, or a little later, the man ceased chopping. We thought we should have a short respite while the man went to dinner, and would embrace that opportunity to eat our own. We looked out to see him leaving. We were greatly disappointed. A woman--his wife perhaps--had brought his dinner to him, and he was eating. She was accompanied by another dog. The two dogs then pranced and prowled about in the woods, and we watched them closely. We were fearful they would go around, and get above and behind us, but they did not do so. We were in a very restless and impatient mood; each moment seemed an hour almost. We would have parted with jewels, if we had possessed them, to have been away from there. When the man had finished eating, the woman took her bucket and went away, followed by the dogs. We were highly pleased to know the dogs were gone, for they had annoyed us greatly. The man resumed his toil unconscious of our presence. As he chopped almost incessantly, and could, therefore, look around but little, we felt a little safer. Smith and I opened our haversacks and took out some meat. We cut off a few thin slices and sprinkled them with meal. On raw meat and meal we made our dinner. While eating, Smith and I exhibited ourselves to our comrades below us. They looked up wishfully, and signified their desire to eat. As Smith and I had all the commissary stores we continued eating, to tantalize our comrades. At length we put some meal and a chunk of meat in a haversack and dropped it to them. The day had been a long one to us. Our rest had not been refreshing. We were in constant apprehension and suspense. The loss of sleep and comfort, in consequence of having no bed, had its effect upon our bodies. We felt chilled and sore, and we longed for the approach of night. Near four o'clock, P. M., the wood chopper ceased from toil and went off with his ax on his shoulder. Erelong the sun went down, and, as soon as we got every thing ready, we climbed the precipice and went directly to the road. Early in the night we found we were about entering the suburbs of a town. It was Rocky Mount Court-House, Franklin county. We approached it on a road which bore a little west of north. We fell back a few paces and began our circuit around the place. On leaving the road we first climbed a fence and went across the corner of an inclosed tract of timber lands. We then climbed a second fence and entered open fields, in which we continued until the road north-west of the place was reached. In making our circuit we were guided by the lights in the town, which were yet burning. Near midnight we halted and eat some meal and meat, upon which, with an occasional swallow of water, we made a respectable supper. On the morning of February 25th, as on the previous morning, we were in an open country. At daylight we looked ahead of us on the road, but saw no woods. A house, however, was discernible in the distance. As we dared not pass it, we left the road which had been leading us westward. South of the road, about half a mile, we saw a space of ground covered over with numerous rocks, large and small. To it we directed our steps, in the hope that the rocks would afford us shelter for the day. We soon reached the place, but did not much like it, and were loath to remain in its inadequate protection. But as the sun was up, we could not look for a better or more secure hiding-place without incurring even greater risks than there would be in making our bed, and keeping it during the day, where we were. We cleared the small rocks from a space sufficiently large for our bed and spread it upon the ground. We then lay down to sleep. Our heads were near the base of a large rock which was between us and the road we had left a few moments before, and it hid us from view in that direction. To our right and left and at our feet were many rocks of smaller size, which partially concealed us as long as we lay low. On lying down we looked all around us, but scarcely a tree or bush was visible. Nothing but a waste of barren ground with an undulating and rocky surface could be seen. South of us, perhaps a little west, and nearly a mile distant, was higher ground. Beyond and above it, a few of the topmost branches of the tallest trees projected. The chief feature of the country immediately surrounding us was barrenness and nakedness. We could not resist the impression that our hiding-place was poorly chosen. A feeling of insecurity crept over us. The primeval forest of Virginia, with only the exception of the previous day, had hitherto protected us from the view of the rebellious citizens of the State. Near three hours of undisturbed repose was granted us. Near ten o'clock, A. M., we were awakened by a clattering noise. Taylor looked out cautiously and discovered it was made by a wagon passing over a stony road. It was not on the road we had left in the morning, but on one just west of us, which crossed or intersected it. It was nearly two hundred yards from us. The man in the wagon was driving north-east, having come on the road from the south-west. On stopping in the morning we had not noticed the road, as the surface of the ground was a little broken, and many rocks and knolls intervened between it and ourselves. It had washed and worn considerably below the level of the ground. On finding we were so near a public highway, we felt uneasy, and still more dissatisfied with our hiding-place. We did not leave it yet, however, as the wagon had passed on out of hearing. We again essayed to sleep. We fell into a kind of dozing sleep, from which we were soon aroused by the hum of voices. We looked westward and saw several persons, mostly women and children, walking on the road. They were a great while passing, it seemed to us, and were disposed to loiter by the way. We felt in an exceedingly disagreeable and unsafe position. At length the hum of voices died away and we tried to feel at ease, but could not. Very soon another rattling on the stony road disturbed our equanimity and patience. We looked and saw a cart on the road driven by a negro. It was a one-horse concern, and was followed by a white man on horseback. We judged we were not far from town, and resolved to flee our hiding-place, for fear some strollers, or home guards, or somebody should come upon us and report us, and take measures to recapture us. We waited and watched until nearly noon, when, concluding there would be no passing on the road, we put our things in convenient shape for our first day-time traveling. Just as we had completed our preparations, we looked westward and northward to see if any persons were upon the road. We saw none. We immediately started southward, bearing slightly to our left. We did not run, but walked rapidly, without looking behind us. When we had gone about a mile, we reached a point from which we could look down an inclined plane into woods. We halted and looked all around us, but saw no one. We judged we had not been seen, and deemed our movement a successful one. We were glad to see woods once more, and pushed on until we stood in the midst of forest-trees. We sat down on a large rock to rest and watch awhile. We were on a wooded hill-side, which sloped gently to the south-west. Trippe got up from his seat and went in a south-east course on the hill-side, to look for a place in which to hide. He was gone some time, and we became impatient for his return. We did not wish to leave the place where he had left us until he came back, as he would not know where to find us. Nearly a half hour passed before we saw Trippe returning. He was walking slowly and hesitatingly. He occasionally looked back in the direction he had gone. Before he reached us we discovered something wrong had happened; or if nothing wrong, something at least which we would rather had not transpired. Trippe was vexed and almost spiritless. He had been recaptured once, and now he thought his time had come to be caught again and taken back to prison. He told us the cause of his discouragement. He had gone south-east of us, an eighth of a mile, or more, along the hill-side. He had turned directly south to go down hill, when he saw a man clad in "butternut" coming up hill. Trippe thought, and hoped, he had not been noticed by the citizen, and stood still to see if he would pass. The citizen came on up hill. His foot slipped, and he caught hold of a little tree to keep from falling. In getting around and above the tree his head turned slightly, and he noticed Trippe, about twenty steps from him. As soon as he recovered from his surprise he approached Trippe, and asked what he was doing there. Trippe said he was just looking through the woods a little. Other questions were asked, and answered by each party. Trippe tried at first to equivocate, but found it useless, as his uniform was plainly that of a Federal soldier. He told the citizen he had been a prisoner at Danville, and with others was trying to make his way to the Union lines. He also told him where we were, and how many there were of us in all. The citizen feigned sympathy with Trippe, and expressed a hope that he would get home all right. Trippe had very little faith in him. He advised Trippe not to fight any more against the South, and at the same time offered his hand. Trippe took the hand in his own with not the slightest confidence in its possessor. The Rebel pledged to Trippe his word and honor not to lay a straw in his path, and immediately turned and went directly back on his trail. Trippe watched him, and soon saw that he hurried himself, as if suddenly imbued with a new purpose. When Trippe related the circumstance to us we became intent on getting away from there, as quickly and as far as possible. We placed no reliance in the promise of the Confederate not to lay a straw in our path, but thought he would take measures to interpose greater obstacles in the way of our progress. Our things being already in compact marching order, we started immediately. The meal in the pillow-slip, though not heavy, being more than two-thirds used, was all the surplus thing we had to carry. All else was in our haversacks. We went south-east, and soon reached the spot where the citizen had been encountered by Trippe. We then turned to our right and went south-west. On reaching the base of the ridge we found we would emerge from the woods and cross cleared lands, in a narrow valley, or change our course. There was no time for debate, and we pushed ahead. Near the outskirts of the woods two little boys and a little girl were playing. As we passed, the largest boy cried out, "Uncle Jim has gone for the guards to catch you uns with." We hurried forward, scarcely taking time to thank the children for the information. If we had to be hunted we were glad to know it. A short distance ahead of us was a house. We passed near it, leaving it a little to our right. When we were just opposite the house, a woman came to the door and exhorted us to hurry. She said her brother-in-law was a "mean man," and had gone to report us to the home guards. As time was gold to us just then, we did not halt, but heeded the exhortation so earnestly given. As we crossed the branch which traversed the narrow valley we heard the woman say her husband had been killed in the war. She talked on, but we were soon out of hearing. As we approached the upland, on the opposite side of the valley, we began to think about obscuring our trail. We noticed where a hollow, or ravine, entered the valley from the wooded hill-side. We got into the hollow and followed on its rocky bed, where we made no tracks, until we got some distance into the woods. A portion of the time we went on the double-quick, and sometimes, when on level ground or going down hill, we went even more rapidly. It was two o'clock, or a little later in the day, when we first halted to listen for "Uncle Jim" and his guards. We did not hear them, nor did we wish to; so we pressed on. We had so far traveled three miles or more, mostly in a western direction. A point had been reached from which we could look across fields and open country in all directions, except south, south-west, and east--the course we should take in retracing our steps. As we did not wish to cross fields, or go back on our trail, we turned southward. In that direction we proceeded until we had gone over a mile, when we turned to our right, and again pushed rapidly westward, through a heavy wood. Soon we came to a branch of clear running water. As we were tired we concluded we would wade in the water, following the stream down, and thus obscure our trail. As we had made tracks in the wet soil near the branch on approaching it, we pushed on across it, going some distance until the solid ground was reached. We then got back to the branch, walking on scattering rocks, sticks, and logs, so as to leave no traces behind us. If the guards were on our trail, we hoped, when they reached the branch, they would cross it, and push on westward as speedily as possible. We followed down stream in a south-west course for more than a mile. When in the water we traveled at a moderate gait, as the branch traversed a very narrow, thickly wooded valley, and we could not be seen at a distance. A point on the branch was at length reached where a road crossed it. The road had the appearance of being traveled a great deal, and we looked up and down it to see if any body could be seen. On seeing no one we crossed to the south of the road, still wading in the water. After getting a short distance into the woods, south of the road, we left the branch and pushed rapidly westward. Our feet had become wet, and we resorted to brisk walking to get our socks dry. We would have taken time to take our socks off and wring the water from them, but, should the guards come upon us, we did not wish to be barefooted. Our flight was continued until sunset. We had intended traveling on a line parallel with the road, but found it necessary to bear southward occasionally to avoid crossing open fields. When the sun had gone down we called a halt. The country was very rough and broken where we halted; heavy woods and brushy undergrowth were all around us on all the hill-sides. We took refuge in a thicket, near a considerable bluff. No sounds of pursuers could be heard; every thing was still. We rested well, and slept a little. Our feet were worsted by the wetting they had received and our subsequent rapid walking. On a few scraps of meat dipped in meal we made a scanty supper. We dared not build a fire after dark or we would have made some mush and taken a fuller meal. Before the moon arose it was very dark. We waited half an hour or more for its appearance above the horizon. At length its light shone dimly through the woods. The sky was a little clouded and the woods were dense, but the moon served to guide us upon our course, if its light did shine imperfectly and at intervals. We gathered our things and started. We steered northward. When obliged to turn aside, or vary from that course, we varied to the west. Many difficulties beset us. Our hurried march in the day had considerably taxed our powers of endurance; our rest at dark was brief, only, long enough for our limbs to stiffen; our feet were sore; we were hungry; our hasty meal at dark had not sufficed. It was the first we had eaten since midnight of the night before, on getting around Rocky Mount Court-House. The country was hilly; we got over and down one hill only to begin the ascent of another; the woods were dark, and logs and brush obstructed our pathway and impeded our progress. We persevered, however, and pressed on. One of our party went in advance and pushed the brush aside; the other five of us followed just behind him, in "close order." Fully an hour passed before we emerged from the brush and woods into more open ground. We climbed a fence and crossed a field. On getting out of the field we struck a road running east and west. We followed it at a moderate gait until we had gone a mile, when we reached a cross-road. We then turned to our right and went due north. On going two miles or more we called a halt. We were much fatigued; nearly worn down, in fact, and, besides, we were faint and hungry. The road we were following seemed not to be much traveled. We had passed no house since dark. We had stopped on the road, where it was winding along the side of a ridge, which was heavily wooded. We determined to look for a retreat where we could rest awhile, build a fire, and make some mush. We left the road and went up hill west of it. Soon we gained the top of the hill or ridge. We then went down the hill on its western slope, and in the bushes near the foot of it we halted. The noise of rippling or running waters could be distinctly heard. Two of our party took our canteen and bucket and went to fill them. While they were gone we built a fire. A blanket was unrolled and spread on the bushes above the fire to partially conceal its light. Our bucket was then made three times full of mush. Small, thin slices and bits of meat were cut off and put in the mush as it was cooking. Soon our hunger was appeased, and our weariness hung not so heavily upon us. We put up our things, scattered our fire, sought the road, and resumed our journey. Near midnight, and just after we had crossed a branch, we were startled by hearing a solitary shot in the woods. We immediately halted. Seemingly the sound of the shot came from a point not very far ahead of us, but some distance to our left. Our first conjecture was that we were in the vicinity of a cavalry bivouac. Two or three of our party thought the home guards had been posted on the roads, and were about to hem us in. There was no time to be lost in parleying, and we determined to go on slowly and slyly. Before going two hundred yards we came to a turn in the road. The road had been leading us northward, but on going around the turn it led us west. We again halted, thinking it was possible there was a guard on the road, as it led in the direction from whence the sound of the shot had proceeded. Trippe proposed going on a few paces to see. He did so. We followed him at the distance of fifty or sixty paces. In this way we advanced fully half a mile, when we reached a point where the road passed between fields. Trippe waited until we came up, when he pronounced the road clear, as far as pickets were concerned. We then pushed on, and discovered we were about passing a house on the left of the road. We checked our speed and passed the house with care and celerity. When we had got about twenty steps beyond the house, and just as we were becoming careless again, the dogs began a lively barking. We proceeded a dozen steps further when we noticed the sparks of a fire flying upward. The fire was about twenty steps ahead of us, on the left of the road. It was near the corner of the rail-fence, where the lane terminated. We stopped instantly, but said nothing. We watched the fire closely for a moment. The dogs kept up their howling. In the light of the fire, which soon blazed up, we distinctly saw several covered wagons ahead of us near the road side. We knew, or thought at least, that we were about running into a supply train. We hardly knew what to do. The dogs continued barking furiously, and would soon arouse somebody, to see what disturbed them. We could not go forward, as the guards, or teamsters, with the train would discover us. We did not wish to go back by the house, as there was danger of being observed by persons within, or about it. There was no time for deliberation. We climbed the rail-fence to our right on the north of the road. We were careful not to make any noise; although the dogs made hubbub enough to drown any noise we should make. We had left tracks on the road, and found on getting into the field that its surface was moist and impressible. We determined to make a trail that would mislead any person who might have the curiosity to follow us. On reaching a point in the field about a quarter of a mile due north of the road we turned east. In that direction we traveled half a mile. We then turned south and crossed the fence at the corner of the field. On getting into the road we followed it east nearly a quarter of a mile, when we went some distance in a south-east course. By so doing we got into thick woods where the ground was covered with leaves, where we could leave only very indistinct traces behind us. We then turned and traveled directly west, keeping parallel with the road, and a little more than a quarter of a mile south of it. The dogs at the house still kept up their howling; and as the train and those with it were just at hand, we kept off at a safe distance. The shot we had heard an hour before, we judged had been fired by some one with the train. When we had gone far enough, in a western direction, to reach a point directly south of the house, where the dogs were still barking, we bore considerably to our right, and went north-west. We continued in that direction until we struck the road some distance west of the wagon train. After going something more than a mile further on the road, in a direction a little north of west, we halted. It lacked an hour or more of being daylight, but as we were very tired, having traveled many miles in the last twenty-four hours, we determined to look out for a secure hiding-place for the day. We accordingly left the road and penetrated some distance into the woods on the north of it. Just after crossing a small branch we halted, and made our preparations for a refreshing sleep. We fell into a sound slumber immediately on lying down on our bed. About mid-day we awoke and found ourselves very stiff and sore all over. We felt very little like moving about. We had pulled off our shoes on lying down, and on getting up we found our feet were so very sore that we could hardly get them on again. The sky was overcast with clouds, threatening snow. Our stock of provisions was getting very low, and other circumstances seemed to conspire in making the woods around us and the prospect before us quite cheerless. That we had not fallen into the hands of the home guards was the only circumstance that afforded us consolation. After getting our shoes on, we set about building a fire. We went to the branch near us and washed our hands and faces; afterward feeling some better. Our vessels were filled with water at the branch, to be used in making mush. When we had dispatched our dinner we had some meal left, also a little salt, but no meat. The meal was emptied from the pillow-slip and made into mush, which, with the exception of the last bucket full made, was put into the pillow-slip. The last mush made was left in the bucket. When the mush became cold it sliced off nicely, and was ready for our midnight meal. Shortly after noon one of our party wandered out northward from our hiding-place some distance, and spied a man engaged in plowing in an old field. It was early in the season, we thought, for plowing, but as we had seen plowing near Danville in January, we knew it was nothing unusual for that country. Sutherland and I went out and lay close to the fence which inclosed the field, to watch the man who was plowing, and see if we could determine whether he was white or black. It so happened that he did not plow on out to the fence near which we were hid, as a strip of sod or grass land intervened between him and the fence. We were somewhat disappointed, as we could not make out at that distance whether the man was white or black. If we had been assured he was a black man, we would have made an effort to procure more food. Near the close of the day we went to the branch and bathed our feet thoroughly, hoping, if it did not improve them, it would keep them from getting sorer than they were already. We then lay down and slept about an hour, and on waking we found that our blankets and the ground were covered with snow to the depth of an inch. We got up and shook the snow from our blankets, and put every thing in order for the night's marching. Awhile before sunset the snow ceased falling, the clouds began to clear away, and the weather was perceptibly cooler. No clouds obscured the sun as it shed its last rays over us for the day, and sank from view in the west. Just at dark we left our hiding-place and went directly to the road. It was quite dark, as the moon had not appeared; but as our feet were sore, we could only advance slowly any how, and we pushed on. In the road, where there were no leaves, the snow had melted, making the walking slippery and slavish. When the moon arose we walked at the side of the road, and got along some better. Early in the night Taylor began to fall behind. Sore feet, we judged, was the cause of his slow progress. He fell behind several times, and we waited as often for him to come up. We asked him no questions, only supposing that his feet were sorer than our own. About ten o'clock, or a little later in the night, we struck a pike running north-east and south-west. The road we had been following did not cross it. As we had to change our course, and as Taylor was some distance behind, we waited for him to catch up. When he had caught up we waited awhile longer for him to rest. On renewing our travels we followed the pike in a north-east course toward Lynchburg. Before going very far on the pike, we passed one house on the left. We went nearly half a mile beyond the house, when we discovered an obscure road leading westward. We changed our course, as we wished to reach and cross the Blue Ridge Mountains as soon as possible. Taylor had kept up with us while following the pike, but again fell behind on leaving it. The road was a poor one. Its clay surface had been considerably moistened by the melting snow, late in the day and early in the night. Before midnight the mud began freezing, and it stuck tenaciously to our shoes. The country was rough and broken, and the road led us over a succession of ridges and hollows. In breaking the frozen crust of mud our feet were continually slipping backward or forward, or sideways, as we went up and down the hills, making our march extremely fatiguing and wearisome. We were obliged to keep the road on account of the trees, logs, and brush near it on either side. Our way, however, was plain before us, as the road looked black in contrast with the snowy woods. We trudged on in the difficult and lonely way, and, though our progress was slow, Taylor had fallen far behind. Near midnight we were on the point of stopping to eat some mush, but concluded to move on slowly for awhile, and give Taylor a chance to catch up with us or gain on us. We slackened our pace considerably, and, on going half a mile, we halted at the road side. Taylor had not caught up with us, neither was he in sight or hearing. We sat on a log, and waited patiently for his approach. Several minutes passed while we were waiting. We took the mush from our bucket and cut it in slices ready for eating. While so doing Taylor came dragging himself along the road. We called to him, and he turned aside to join us in the woods. He was lame and weary. On reaching us he sank almost exhausted to the ground, sitting in the snow and placing his back against the log upon which we sat. We made no inquiries of Taylor as to the cause of his lameness, supposing he could not tell us more than we knew already. One or two observations were made respecting the bad condition of the road, after which we began eating our midnight lunch. When we had finished eating we gathered our things and started. Trippe and I were ahead, and had reached the road and gone on it a few steps. Wood and Sutherland were closely following us. Sutherland looked back and saw Smith coming, but did not see Taylor. Sutherland then asked, "Smith, where is Taylor? an't he coming?" Smith answered, "I thought he was following me;" and then looked behind and called aloud, "Come on, Taylor." Smith not understanding Taylor's reply, went back to him. On being asked why he had not started, Taylor said he was unable to go any farther, as his broken leg had failed him. Smith at once called to us to come back to the place where Taylor was. We did so. It was painfully apparent that he could go no farther that night. We learned for the first time that he had been wounded in the leg, and had one of its bones broken. He was not a Chickamauga prisoner, but had been wounded and captured at or near Leesburg, Virginia, in a cavalry engagement, early in July, 1863, at the time of the battles of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. During our four or five weeks' association with him it so happened we had not learned of his wound. We at once concluded that our travels for that night were at an end, and began looking around for a place in which to lie over until the following night. When Taylor heard our determination he objected, saying he felt sure he would not be able to travel by the following night, and might not be able to renew the journey for a week. He would not consent that we should remain with him until the next night, unless he knew he would be able to go on with us by that time. We insisted on waiting with him as long as that, as we should lose only three hours' time by so doing. Taylor still objected, saying he would not detain us a single hour, and if we failed in reaching the lines, it should not be laid to his charge. We determined to remain, when Taylor assured us he could not travel for at least three or four nights, and was unwilling to feel himself responsible for the consequences that might ensue from so long a detention of our party. We then offered to divide our party, to leave two with Taylor, and let the other three go on. But he objected to this proposal also, saying he would not delay a single one of us, and probably be the cause, immediate or remote, of the return of that one to prison. He would rather take his chances of ultimately reaching the lines alone, and feel clear of responsibility for any accident or disaster that might overtake us than to do otherwise. [Illustration: "LEFT ALONE."--PAGE 53.] We had offered fairly, as we thought, and concluding Taylor knew the nature and extent of his disability much better than we did, we determined to leave the case to him. If he said remain, we would cheerfully do so; or if he said for us to go on and leave him behind, we would do that regretfully. Taylor then said for us to lose no time on his account, but to push on to the Union lines, and make our escape good. It required but a few moments to arrange for resuming our journey, and to advise Taylor as to the best course to pursue; to say to him the parting good-by, and leave him behind. The mush in the pillow-slip, all the provisions we had, except a little salt, was then taken out and divided into six parts. The largest part was given to Taylor. The other five parts were put in our haversacks. Nearly or quite half of the scrip on hand was given him, as he was going to tarry awhile in the Confederacy, and might use it to advantage. A portion of the salt was also given him. The canteen which had been used by our party so far on the trip, and which belonged to Taylor, was left with him. He had a watch and a supply of scrip to barter for food, or for the services of a guide, to conduct him to the lines, or both. With these, and with his canteen and haversack, we left him alone in the woods, wrapped in his overcoat and blanket. It was a sad and melancholy scene we witnessed in parting from Taylor. It was painful and trying to us to shake his hand, and say to him "good-by." Our feelings were similar to those occasioned by the fall of a comrade on the battle-field. We had left Taylor, and were getting into the road when we heard him say, "Company G, 2d Massachusetts Cavalry," giving his address, and asking us to write to him if we reached the lines. We each of us then gave him the name of the company and regiment to which we respectively belonged, so that he might write to us if he got through all right. The substance of the advice we gave to Taylor was to remain where he was until daylight, at which time he could move to a better or more secure hiding-place, if able to do so, where he could command a view of the road, and see persons that might pass upon it. The first negro, or party of negroes, he saw passing, if no whites were with them, he was to hail, and beckon them to him and make his condition known, and get them to harbor him, or take him to some house where he could be harbored until he was able to renew his journey. If he saw no person pass during the day, he was to go in the evening in search of a habitation where assistance might be given him. When able to travel, he was to secure, if possible, the services of a guide, to conduct him to some point within or in the vicinity of the pickets or outposts of our army. He could reward his guide, if fortunate enough to secure one, with his watch and Confederate money. It was the night of Friday, February 26, 1864, that we left Taylor behind. We left him within six miles of the Blue Ridge Mountain, at a point between eighty and one hundred miles south-west of Lynchburg, Va., and nearly three miles west of the pike leading to that place. We must have left him somewhere near the boundary line between Franklin and Bedford counties, Va., in the north-west corner of one, or in the south-east corner of the other. If it was trying to us to part with Taylor and leave him, it must have put his resolution and self-denial to a severe test to persist in being left alone in his crippled and almost helpless condition. On stopping he was warm, as the road was bad, and he had exerted himself to catch up with us. By sitting down in the snow, he cooled suddenly, and his lame leg became stiff and useless. His condition was critical and unenviable, as he was unable to move about with ease or comfort, and his supply of food was small in quantity and poor in quality. No house was near him. We had not passed a house since leaving the pike. The weather was cold, as the snow and mud was freezing. He was in a bleak mountain country alone. No friend was near him. We had been his friends and comrades, and were his friends still, but had forsaken him. His prospect was cheerless. His desponding heart had little on which to predicate a hope. He dreaded to meet a man of his own color, for fear of meeting an enemy, and in the mountain districts the blacks were few. The woods around him were dreary, although the ground was covered with snow, and the moon shone brightly. The trees with their leafless branches and skeleton shadows could be dimly seen, but were poor companions for a maimed and wearied traveler in an enemy's land. It was a touching, but a necessary or unavoidable incident of our journey to leave Taylor behind in the Winter, and in the wilderness, as a lonely and solitary sentinel in the silent watches of the night. But we could do no better, as our supply of provisions was nearly exhausted, and we could not recruit it, or seek assistance for him without jeopardizing his safety as well as our own. So we left him to whatever fate might fall to him in the merciful dispensation of Providence. I have never heard from or of Taylor to this date, December, 1869. Whether he got able to travel, and succeeded in making his escape from the Confederacy, or whether he was recaptured and returned to prison, is not known to me. He may have perished from starvation where we left him, on account of inability to get away from there. CHAPTER III. PROVISIONS GONE--CROSS THE BLUE RIDGE--SECURING FOOD--GOING THROUGH BIG LICK--RAIN AND DARKNESS--WE ARE COMPELLED TO SEEK SHELTER--LYING OVER--THE TOBACCO--ITS OWNER--MORE FOOD LAID IN--UP THE VALLEY--STRIKE FOR THE ALLEGHANIES--DIFFICULT TRAVELING--ROUGH COUNTRY--WE REACH A STREAM--TOO WEARY TO FORD--FALL BACK TO HIDE--MAKING OUR BED--FALL ASLEEP. Having parted with Taylor, our travels were resumed through the later hours of the night. Once or twice in traveling the distance of four, or four and a half miles, we almost concluded to return to him, but feared disaster might come upon us if we turned back. It soon became evident that daybreak was at hand, but we proceeded a mile farther before turning into the woods. The sun was just rising when we began making our bed, for the 27th of February, in a place surrounded by woods and brush. On lying down we fell asleep. We awoke about the middle of the afternoon. Shortly after arousing from our slumbers, we eat the last of our mush. A little salt was all we had left of the supplies we had received from our negro friends in Henry county. When, where, and how our next supply of food should be secured we did not know. We judged we should cross the mountain during the approaching night, and determined to give ourselves no concern on the score of rations until the valley on the other side was reached. The sad event of the previous night formed the subject of our conversation for the evening. "It wouldn't surprise me a bit," said Wood, "if Taylor should beat us to the lines yet." "He may," said Trippe, "if he lives through the first night or two, does well, and is lucky enough to secure the services of a good guide to take him through by the short cuts." "Our lines will be down this way some of these days," said Smith. "The only difficulty with Taylor," remarked Trippe, "will be in avoiding Rebel citizens and finding a true Union friend to care for him a few days." "He must have nothing to do with any body but a negro," said Sutherland, "or he's a goner." "Boys," he continued, "supposing it should become necessary for us to separate into two squads, how'll we divide?" "Draw cuts," answered Wood. "If it should become necessary for us to separate," remarked Trippe, "it will most likely be under such circumstances as will forbid drawing cuts." "Yes, boys," answered Wood, "we'll have to draw cuts now, and have the thing understood." Five small sticks were accordingly prepared. They were of two different lengths. It being understood how the division should stand, we drew cuts. It was decided that Smith, Wood, and Sutherland should go in one direction, while Trippe and I should go in another. We determined, however, never to separate unless no other alternative would answer, and to push on and endeavor to reach our lines together. At sunset we began arranging our things for journeying. As soon as it was dark we sought the road, and on reaching it we heard voices. We retired a few paces into the bushes and waited until a half dozen or more persons, mostly if not all colored, had passed by. "Now, boys," whispered Wood, as the women and children were passing, "here is a good chance to get something to eat." But we had decided to cross the mountains before looking after food, and allowed the opportunity to pass. We then set out on our ninth night of travel, and had gone but little more than a mile when we came to a considerable branch. We crossed it with but little trouble, and soon after passed near a house on the road whose occupants had not retired for the night. We got by the house without attracting attention, or at least without exciting curiosity. On following the road a little further, we found it commenced its winding ascent of the mountain, passing through a gap near the boundary line between Franklin and Bedford counties, Va. We had heard before leaving prison that the Blue Ridge Mountains were infested with bush-whackers. We had a wholesome dread of these, and advanced cautiously up the road, hoping, if there were any, we should hear or see them before they should hear or see us. In little more than an hour's time we reached the highest point in the gap, over which the road passed. We met with no one to dispute our progress, and the descent of the western slope was immediately commenced. We had followed the road but a short distance down the mountain-side, when, on making a turn in the road, we saw a light ahead, apparently about one hundred yards distant from us. Judging it to be the light of a torch, or small fire, we halted, and, on doing so, we heard voices engaged in conversation. Trippe at once proposed going ahead alone a few yards to see what might be seen. We consented, and he did so. A few minutes of intense anxiety to us passed, as we imagined the reports concerning bush-whackers were about to be verified. Before Trippe returned we heard a door shut, the fire or light at the same time disappearing. We then knew there was a house, or hut of some kind, near the road, not far from us; but of the number and character of its occupants we were not so well informed. On coming back to us Trippe reported a house down there, and the light we had seen was the light of a fire in the house. Trippe said, further, that some one was just leaving the house, and, as soon as that person had started off down the road, the conversation ceased, and the door of the house was closed. We waited a few minutes for the folks in the house to get to sleep, and for the person on the road ahead of us to get out of our way, when we again started forward. On coming to the house we found it a very small one, situated within a few steps of the road. Passing it without discovery, we slowly walked on, and in due time reached the valley below. Near the foot or base of the ridge was what appeared to be a considerable stream of water; but on reaching it we found it to be more wide than deep. We went a short distance down stream and found four foot logs, from sixteen to twenty feet long, extending across the stream. On these we crossed, and on reaching the opposite side we halted for awhile to rest before proceeding to the road. "If we only had some meat and bread," said Smith, "now would be a good time to eat it." "This would be a good place, too," added Sutherland, "as water is handy." "I guess we wouldn't be particular as to the place," observed Smith, "if we only had something to eat." Being reminded of the fact that we were out of rations we resolved to try our luck at the first house that came in our way. We were not long in reaching one, probably not more than half an hour. As we had crossed the mountain without difficulty; as we felt glad we had not met with guerrillas--felt considerably hungry, and were, withal, much emboldened, we were not overcautious in our movements. Each of our party of five entered the yard through the gate in front, and on reaching the house--an old two-story frame house, unpainted--we rapped violently at the front door. There was no answer from within. We called and rapped repeatedly, but with the same results. We then passed around the house to its south side, where we found another door. Sutherland knocked loudly on it, but no response came. He then put his mouth to the string-hole and asked, "Is any body at home?" A man inside answered, in a tone of voice indicating fright, "I guess there's somebody about." "Why don't you get up, then?" asked Sutherland. "Nobody's going to hurt you." "What do you want?" inquired the man. "We want something to eat, and want you to get up and set about getting it forthwith," said Sutherland. He refused to even get out of bed, whereupon Sutherland demanded, "Shall we burst your door down?" and Wood added, "and come in and burst your noggin?" The man said, "That rests with you," and inquired, "Who are you, and where are you going?" "We are soldiers going to Rocky Mount Court-House," Sutherland answered. "Go on over the mountain, and you will be fed in the morning," returned the man. Preferring to risk our chances at the next house to doing any very rash or violent acts, we left this one, telling the man he showed a very poor quality of patriotism. "If it was any other time, if it twas daylight, I might do something for you." "We don't have to stand picket in the night-time; we don't have to march, skirmish, and frequently fight in the night-time, I suppose?" retorted Sutherland, in a very unamiable voice. "And skedaddle in the night-time from such rusty Butternuts as you are," added Smith, in a tone just loud enough not to be heard by the man, as we were withdrawing from the yard. We passed out of the yard through the gate to the road as quickly as we could, intending to hurry on our way. As Sutherland closed the gate he threatened the man with, "We shall report you when we get to Rocky Mount, mark that." On starting forward on the road Wood observed, "We commenced too heavy on the gentleman: we got him so badly scared he didn't know what to do, or how to do it." We kept up our conversation, dwelling chiefly on the causes, real and supposed, of our failure in procuring food, and of the method to be resorted to in supplying our necessities. It was agreed that Wood and I should try our hands at the next house. It was after midnight, and should we not reach the next house soon we decided not to disturb its inmates, as we must have time to get out of reach after so doing before hiding for the day. In a few moments we halted in front of a house on the south of the road at a distance of sixty or seventy yards from it. Wood and I entered the yard and approached a door in the one-story part of the house, supposing the darkies slept there. On knocking slightly at the door, and hearing no answer, we jerked the latch string once or twice. A voice inside--which was undoubtedly that of an elderly white person--remonstrated strongly against being disturbed at so late an hour. Wood seeing the smoke-house a few steps to his left, went to examine it, and proceeded from thence to the yard south of the house. At the same time I stepped upon the porch in front of the two-story part of the house, and walked on it until I discovered a pair of steps or stairs. On going up the steps I found the porch had a second story also. Just at the top of the steps was a doorway to the second story of the main building. I found the door fastened, when I called out, asking if any one was inside. A voice, plainly that of a negro, answered there was. I told him to get up, and come out doors, as there were some folks at the road who would like very much to see him. The negro declined, saying, "You can't come dat game on dis chile: Ise not coming out dar." "Get out of bed and come to the string hole," said I, "I want to speak to you." He did so, when I said, "Put your ear to the string-hole." He complied; and in a loud, distinct whisper, I pronounced the word "Yankees." As soon as the negro could draw on his clothing, the bar of the door came down and he and I descended the steps into the yard. On seeing us, Wood approached, saying to the negro, "Where did you come from?" "Ise from Knoxville," was the answer. "But just now, where did you come from just now?" asked Wood. "From up in the loft," was the negro's reply. "Come out to the road, old fellow," said I, "there's some more Yankees out there." "Lord, massa! golly! dat so?" ejaculated the astonished negro. We then went to the road accompanied by the negro. On rejoining Trippe, Smith, and Sutherland, at the point where we had left them, the last named, on seeing the negro, remarked, "You don't expect us to eat that fellow, do you?" We lost no time in telling the negro what was wanting; that we were hungry and had no provisions. The negro said the cellar and smoke-house were locked, and the old master had the keys. We asked him how soon he could get something for us to eat. He replied, "In the mornin', 'fore massa and mistress gits up." "How about the keys; don't the whites get up and unlock?" "No, sah; we gits de keys, onfastens, and gits breakfast 'fore de white folks gits out o' bed," replied the negro. On ascertaining beyond doubt that provisions would be furnished us in the morning, we had the negro conduct us to a safe hiding-place for the day, which was near at hand. He took us to a secure retreat in the midst of a large grove of heavy oak timber situated about a mile from the house, on the north of the road. In all directions from our hiding-place for the day--Sunday, February 28th--were open fields. The woods or grove we were in covered three or four hundred acres of land. Our camp for the day was close to a rivulet, and was immediately surrounded by tall dead grass; and a little further from us were numerous small trees and bushes. The negro told us he would fetch us breakfast by ten o'clock, and then hurried home. It was an hour or more before day when we made our usual preparations for sleep. Soon after lying down we were lost in slumber. Near nine o'clock, A. M., we awoke from our slumbers and got up and washed our faces at the rivulet. Our toilet completed, we had not long to wait for the appearance of our negro friend, with a small basket of eatables, a pitcher of milk, and a mug of molasses. We fared sumptuously on wheat cakes, fried bacon, potatoes, molasses, and milk. When we had finished our meal the negro took the molasses and milk pitchers in his basket and went homeward. While eating we learned from the negro that we were in Roanoke county, and that the nearest town on the road we expected to travel was Big Lick, a station on the East Tennessee and Virginia Railroad. Shortly after noon the negro came out and talked quite a while with us. He wished to know when we would have another meal brought out. We expressed our willingness to receive another meal at any time before sunset. We asked the negro how much provision he could furnish us to carry with us. He replied that he had not a good chance in day-time to get at the meat, flour, and potatoes, without being seen by his master or mistress, and at night he had no chance at all to secure any thing, as the cellar and smoke-house were always locked at dark by the whites, who kept the keys until morning. The man on whose provision we were subsisting was named Schooler, or Schuyler. Being an original secessionist, he left Knoxville, Tennessee, and settled in Roanoke county, Virginia, where he would be less troubled with Federal troops. The negro had also lived in Knoxville, and had before seen Yankee soldiers. When he left us he went home, and soon returned with another supply of food for our present consumption. While we were eating, the negro informed us that Schooler, his master, had seen the man at whose house we had attempted to get rations on the previous night. The man told Schooler of the demonstrations we had made at his house before leaving it to go on over the mountain. Schooler in turn told the man that he, too, had been interrupted during the night, but the disturbers of his sleep had done no harm, and gone on, he knew not where. Our supper finished, we had an understanding with the negro as to the place where we should receive the corn and meat. He then left us, and we rolled up our blankets and made other needful preparations for our tenth night's travel. Just at dark we started for the point designated to receive what provisions our negro host could provide for us. As we found him there with the corn and meat, we were not long delayed. We were told it was seven miles to Big Lick, and that Salem Court-House was nine miles west of that place. I gave the negro one of my blouses as a slight compensation for his services to us, and as a token of remembrance. We thanked the negro heartily for befriending us in the hour of need, and then put the corn, which was shelled, in our haversacks, and the meat in our pillow-slip, and started for the road, accompanied that far by the negro. On reaching the road we bade our negro friend farewell and left him. We found the road better than we expected, and pushed forward rapidly, hoping to get around Big Lick by midnight. We had thought of bearing to our right and passing east of the place. As soon as we thought we had gone six miles we saw a few small houses not far ahead of us, and concluded to pass them before commencing our circuit around the town. When we were just opposite the first house, Wood supposed it to be the domicile of a negro family, and went to the door, opened it, and asked how far it was to Big Lick. "You are there now," was the answer given. Closing the door without asking any more questions, Wood hastily rejoined us at the road. On finding we were in town we pushed on through it, walking silently and briskly. Near the railroad depot we halted, and after consulting briefly concluded to leave the road, so as to elude pursuers, fearing the man we had inquired of might be a white Rebel, and might collect a party to look after us in the morning. After leaving the road we reached in a few minutes' time the railroad bridge. We passed under the bridge, walking partly in the waters of the little stream which it spanned until we gained the woods north of the railroad. We then traveled due northward until the sky became cloudy, when it grew much darker, and we found great difficulty in making our way through strange woods, with no road to guide us. Before morning it began raining, and the night became black and dismal in its last hours. We could scarcely proceed, but we kept on the move. Just at daylight we came to a road running east and west. It seemed to be a very public one. As it was raining hard we thought we should not be seen, and we crossed the road and pushed on northward something more than a mile, when we halted in the midst of a considerable forest of pines. Through this forest was a string of rail-fence, and as it was raining hard, so that we could not make our bed down on the ground, we placed rails across from one panel to another, on which we sat with our coats and blankets disposed about us so as to shed the water off as much as possible. In this manner we occupied two corners of the fence; three of us in one corner and two in the other. Near noon we were compelled by the severity of the storm to seek shelter. We started and kept close to the fence on its north side, going in an easterly direction. In a few minutes we came to another fence, running north through open fields. We changed our course, and followed it until we came to a branch running in a south-east course. As the ground was much lower near the branch we could follow it and at the same time be screened from view. Soon we came in sight of a lone building to our left a short distance, in the edge of the woods. We went directly to it, and found it to be a tobacco-house. In it we found shelter from the rain, as the roof was good. We then took off our coats and blankets, and wrung the water from them. As there was a lot of corn-blades tied in bundles stacked in one corner of the room, we soon had a good resting-place. A small lot of tobacco leaves, hanging above our heads, soon attracted our attention, when the following conversation took place: "There's some tobacco," said Smith. "I'll bet there will be somebody out here before night to look at it." "Not while it rains this way," said Trippe. "Well, let them come," said Wood, "it belongs to nobody but a darkie, any how." "And when he comes out here we'll only have him to furnish us with more rations," said Sutherland. "I'm only afraid he won't come," added Trippe. There was no floor in the tobacco-house, and we cleared the corn-blades and straw from the center and built a fire. For fuel we used tobacco sticks, of which there was a large quantity piled up in a corner of the building. After burning enough sticks to make sufficient coals and ashes for the purpose, we went to parching corn. This we did by scattering the corn near the fire and raking hot ashes and coals over it. When the corn was parched sufficiently, we raked it from the ashes with small sticks. After eating all we wished of parched corn and broiled meat, we parched a lot of corn for future use. The rain continued falling, and the day was far spent, when we came to the conclusion we should be compelled to lie over for the approaching night--February 29th. At dark we stretched our blankets on sticks around the fire, for the twofold purpose of drying them and concealing the fire. Soon we were obliged to allow the fire to go down, as its light shone against the roof and through the cracks of the building between the logs. We had seen but one house during the evening from where we were, and that was away some distance to the north of us. But for fear somebody would be passing, and see the light of our fire, and thus discover us, and publish the fact of our presence in the vicinity, we put it out entirely. Becoming reconciled to the necessity of stopping over for the night and following day, we thought we would make the best of it, and rest, and recuperate as much as possible in that time. So, taking time and pains, and a goodly quantity of corn-blades, we made us a good bed. A roof over our heads and the pelting rain-storm without were conducive to sleep, and the night was passed in quiet and repose. We waked up shortly after daylight in the morning, but did not get out of bed until about eight o'clock, A. M. The rain had ceased, but clouds still overspread the sky, causing us to feel doubtful about getting off even that night. We went out one at a time to the pools of water, and washed our hands and faces. Soon after we built a fire and began parching corn, and broiling meat for breakfast and dinner. While thus engaged, Sutherland, looking through a crack between logs, espied an old negro approaching. As he was alone he gave us no concern, and we were not averse to his coming. Approaching nearer and nearer the building, the old negro finally came upon our trail and noticed our tracks. He followed them a few steps, when, discovering they led to the tobacco-house, he came to a halt. He watched the house closely for a moment or two, when hearing or seeing us, he turned to go back. Sutherland opened the door and said, "Hullo, old man! that'll never do; come in here, we'll not hurt you." The old man turned about, and after further entreaty approached the house and entered it. He had come out to examine his tobacco. He was well stricken in years, being ninety years of age, having children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. On account of his age he was slow of speech and comprehension. We had trouble in getting him to understand who and what we were, and the situation in which we were placed. He did not seem, at first, to correctly understand the meaning of the term Yankee, but soon came to it, inquiring, "Is you uns some of them fellers that's penned up in the 'backer-houses in Richmond?" We answered that we were. We found it necessary to impress on his mind the necessity of keeping secret from the whites the fact of our presence in the country. Our need of procuring provisions from time to time was also explained to the old man. We urged the old man to either bring or send us some meat of some kind, if nothing else, and to have it at the tobacco-house by sunset. He promised to do so, and shortly after examining and arranging his tobacco, he went slowly on his way home. We finished our breakfast, and continued parching corn for awhile. A little before noon we laid-ourselves down, and slept until about three o'clock in the evening. On getting up we finished parching corn, and then all the provisions we had with us were ready for eating. When we first got up the sky was partially clear, and by sunset it was cloudless. Just after sunset the old negro arrived with some six or eight pounds of meat, mostly boiled beef, the remainder being a small piece of side meat. A couple of corn-dodgers were also furnished us, which we set apart for our midnight meal. Having got our baggage, quartermaster and commissary stores, ready for the trip, we expressed our obligations to the aged negro who had befriended us, and bade him good-by. He then started home, and soon after we set out on our eleventh night's journey, March 1, 1864. Finding the ground soft and well saturated with water, we thought we should do well if we trudged through eight or ten miles that night. On reaching the road, which had been pointed out to us by the negro, we found the walking much better than we expected, as the water could not so easily penetrate its hard surface. In a short time we passed the house where lived the owner of the plantation to which the tobacco-house in which we had been sheltering belonged. The house was near the road, and the lights in it were burning brightly. While we were passing the house the dogs began a lively barking, and kept it up until we had gone some distance, and crossed a creek, when we heard no more of them. Near midnight we halted at the road side amid a cluster of small trees, and eat some beef and corn-bread. We soon resumed our travels. As we could not walk very rapidly, owing to the condition of the road, we put in the whole time until day-break, so that we could have it to say that we were at least eight or ten miles nearer our goal than when setting out. The road we were traveling bore northward in its general direction, but as the country on either side was covered with unfenced woods, it frequently deviated from its general course. At length day-break came, and we went to the left of the road in search of a secure hiding-place for the day, March 2, 1864. The distance gone over during the night had not been more than eleven miles, or twelve at the furthest, but we were that distance further north, which was a gratifying feature of the night's journey. The ground being yet very damp, we were compelled to seek an open space in which to make our bed, and a quantity of brush and leaves on which to make it, so that our bedding should not get damp or muddy. A suitable hiding-place having been found, we collected leaves and brush from the adjacent woods, and made our bed on them, and retired to sleep for the day. We went about a mile from the road before locating our camp. It was further than may have been necessary, as the road was not a very public one, judging from appearances, and the country was very sparsely settled. Some time in the evening we awoke and got up, finding the sky clear, and the weather mild for the time of year. We found we had not stopped convenient to water, but on looking around a little we found water not far off sufficient for our needs. As we had no use for fire we built none, but made a meal on parched corn and beef, and quietly awaited the approach of night. The evening was spent in conversation, dwelling chiefly on our trip, past and prospective. We talked of things that had taken place, which, if we had them to do over again, we should do differently; of some fork of the road or cross-road, where, if we were only there again, we would take a different course. Sometimes we would imagine certain things to happen us, and decide in our minds what we should do, should the event actually transpire. Our minds seemed always occupied, either with thoughts and reflections on the journey, so far as completed, or with plans and expedients for the journey yet before us. At dark our luggage was fitted up in readiness for starting out on the twelfth night of our travels, being the thirteenth night out. In a half hour's time we were on the road, wending our way northward. We found the road had improved under the day's sunshine, and we were enabled to make better progress than we had made on the previous night. On coming to a cross-road near midnight we stopped a few minutes to eat a little and consult as to the course to take, north or west. It was evident that, no matter which course we took, we should soon reach the first ranges of the Alleghany Mountains. As we had previously determined to travel in day-time across the ridges, gorges, valleys, and barren wastes of those mountains, we thought we would turn west and reverse, as soon as possible, the order of our times of sleep and travel, sleeping at night and traveling in day-time. We accordingly turned our faces to the west. By so doing we did not reach the mountains as soon as we should have done had we continued in the northward course. We spent another night and day, March 3, 1864, in the valley between the Blue Ridge and Alleghany Mountains. Nothing deserving of particular notice transpired during that day. An hour or more before day, on the early morning of March 4th, we came to a considerable stream, washing the base of one of the principal ridges of the Alleghanies. We had been traveling the greater part of the night over a very rough and hilly road, and were getting tired and sleepy. As we expected to begin traveling in day-time over the mountains on the day then approaching, in accordance with our previous programme, we determined not to cross the stream that night, or morning rather, and followed the road back a short distance to where the woods bordered it on the south. We then left the road and entered the woods, going in a south-east course a little more than a half mile. In a spot surrounded by small trees and bushes, where the surface of the ground was covered with rock large and small, we halted for the day, March 4th. We cleared the rocks from a small space, sufficiently large for our bed. We then made it and went to rest for a few hours. CHAPTER IV. AWAKENED--WATCHING IN AMBUSH--AVERILL'S CAVALRY--WOMAN MAKING SUGAR--WE SEE MEN DRESSED IN BLUE--DECEIVING THE WOMAN--CHANGE OF BASE--MISLEADING PURSUERS--WE EAT LAST OF OUR SUPPLIES--START OUT IN DAY-TIME IN ACCORDANCE WITH AGREEMENT--OUR DISCOVERY--OUR PURSUIT--OUR FLIGHT--TRIPPE FAILS--HE FALLS BY THE WAY--REBELS THREATEN--OUR SPEED OUR SAFETY--TRIPPE'S PROBABLE FATE. Near nine o'clock, A. M., March 4th, we were awakened by the rumbling noise of a wagon running over a rough and stony road not far to the east of us. We supposed this road intersected the one we had been traveling during the night, but we had not noticed the point of intersection. On finding we were near a road upon which persons would be passing during the day Smith cautiously ventured in the direction of the road to a cluster of cedar bushes, from which, while concealed from observation, he could see any one passing. Soon another wagon was heard coming down the road. Smith watched in the bushes until the wagon passed, when he returned to us, reporting that the wagon was a common army wagon, and that the driver had on a blue overcoat. "Can it be," said Smith, "that Averill's cavalry are on a raid through here?" As we knew the Confederates wore blue coats whenever they got possession of them we did not comfort ourselves with the hope that Union troopers were in the vicinity. We rather concluded there was a squad of Confederate military in the neighborhood, and thought best to look about us a little. Smith, having been out east of us and taken a survey of the road and adjacent woods, thought he would take a look to the south and south-west of us. Keeping under cover of the brush as much as possible, he went out south of us, intending to be gone only a few minutes. Fully a half hour passed and Smith had not returned, and, finally, we suspected something wrong, and quietly, though quickly, folded our blankets and got ready for a "skedaddle." We did not, however, intend changing our location before Smith returned, or until it was certain he would not return at all, unless somebody else came upon us in our present retreat. We had but a few minutes to wait before we saw Smith approach from the south in a brisk, though cautious walk. "What does this mean?" asked Smith, on noticing we had torn up camp, and were looking as though we were about ready to fly. "It means that we had given you up as lost or captured," answered Trippe. "Well," said Smith, "I think it will be policy for us to shift from this place." "We have been in momentary expectation of a summons to surrender," added Trippe. Smith had gone south of our camp but little more than a quarter of a mile. He was bearing considerably to the west, when he noticed to his right, and just beyond a bluff or ledge, a smoke curling upward. Not hearing or seeing any one, he walked up to the edge of the bluff and looked over and saw a woman engaged in boiling sugar-water. As he was endeavoring to gain the shelter of the bushes the woman noticed him shying off and asked, "What are you afeared of?" "O nothing; only I was afraid you would be scared if you saw me," answered Smith. While conversing briefly with the woman Smith found she thought it nothing strange to have met a man dressed in blue. Just as he was on the point of asking if there were Federal soldiers near he happened to see four or five men approaching a log cabin, which was situated in the center of a cleared space of ground. Two of the men were dressed in blue; the others were clad in butternut. The cabin was quite a quarter of a mile distant to the south-west. Smith observed to the woman, "There is a company of soldiers not far from your house." This remark was made in such a tone and manner as led the woman to believe that Smith was acquainted in the vicinity. As it was also half inquisitive, the woman answered that there was a company of soldiers not far off, and asked, "An't you one of 'em?" Having gained the information desired, and seeing the opportunity of deceiving the woman, Smith replied, "Of course I am." "Well," said the woman, "I thought it curious if you wasn't." "O, yes," returned Smith, "I'm a soldier." As there was a horse tied to a tree near the woman having a man's saddle on it, Smith expected a man--perhaps a soldier--would be there presently, and started off, observing as he left, "Well, I must go back to camp." On leaving the woman, Smith went in a direction contrary to that which he expected to take on getting out of her sight. He soon after approached our hiding-place from the south, as before mentioned. On hearing Smith's narration of facts, as given above, we gathered our things and started eastward. On reaching the road on which the wagons had passed, we walked backward across it. We went through the woods some distance further east, and then we turned north. We soon came to the road over which we had passed during the night, and crossed it, walking backward. We continued in a northern direction until we had gone something more than a mile from the road, and had reached heavy woods with a thick bushy undergrowth, in which we halted for awhile. After a few moments' rest and consultation, we retraced our steps a short distance to a branch we had crossed, and in it we washed our hands and faces. We then eat the last of our provisions, and had nothing left to carry with us to subsist on. Near three o'clock, P. M., having got every thing ready, we started on our travels in daylight, in accordance with previous arrangement. We made our way through the woods and brush with some difficulty, in a western direction, until we had gone about a mile, when we noticed an opening not far to our left, where the timber had been cleared away. We approached this cleared land, in order to avoid the thickets of brush. On reaching it, we saw a small log cabin in the edge of the woods, on the opposite side of it. As we saw no one, we went along near the brush and woods, going toward the stream we had encountered at day-break, before we had found our place of refuge for the day. When within two hundred yards of the stream, having gained a point directly north of the cabin, we looked toward it, and saw a woman standing near its south-west corner. As she was not looking at us, we judged she had not noticed us, and as she was almost half a mile distant, we deemed it unnecessary to change our course on her account. On reaching the bank of the stream, and before going down to the water's brink, we again looked toward the cabin, and saw that the woman was just disappearing. Almost at the same instant we heard the loud, shrill, blast of a horn or bugle. Not knowing for what purpose the bugle had been sounded, we thought it boded us no good at least. When we reached the margin of the stream we removed the shoes and socks from our feet, then putting our shoes on, we waded the stream. Wood and Trippe had reached the opposite bank, and Smith, Sutherland, and I were nearing it, when looking to our left we saw a man on horseback coming down the road that passed between the stream and the ridge of the mountain. He came toward us rapidly until he saw us plainly, when he wheeled suddenly about, and dashed back up the road with great speed. He was bare-headed, and when he turned about in the road, displaying his long locks of hair, and the cape of his overcoat, with its brass buttons glistening in the sunlight, we at once realized our situation, and the necessity of getting away from there as quickly as we could. We took time, however, to put on our dry socks; then putting our shoes on, and lacing them securely, we left the bank of the stream and the road directly in our rear, and pushed up the mountain-side as rapidly as the nature of the ground would permit. The ridge near its base was thickly covered over with pine and cedar bushes, but as we neared its summit, the bushes were more scattering. The side of the ridge was covered over with rocks, large and small, and it was impossible to make a footprint on its stony surface. Near the top of the ridge, and on its summit, were innumerable rocks of large and massive size. Trippe having been recaptured once and sent back to prison, was determined to avoid, if possible, the recurrence of an event fraught with such calamitous consequences. On the first appearance of danger he had hurried his preparations for leaving the stream, and had started out in advance of the other four of us. We only aimed to keep Trippe in view, and allow the distance between him and ourselves to grow no greater. Trippe was within two hundred yards of the summit of the ridge when he stopped to rest. As soon as we saw he had halted, we did the same, although we were not much wearied. But we wished to husband our strength as much as possible, knowing we should be hunted and pursued. Smith, Sutherland, Wood, and I kept near together, that we might consult each other as we hurried forward, for we recognized the value and importance of concerted action in the expected emergency. We had rested a very few minutes when we looked up the mountain and saw Trippe hurrying to the top of it. Supposing from his extraordinary exertions that he had seen pursuers from his more elevated position, we cast a glance below us. At first glance we saw no one, but thought we could see the tops of the bushes moving near the base of the ridge. We watched for a moment only, and then saw five or six bare-headed Butternut gentry appear in sight, as they emerged from the bushes, about two hundred yards below us. They had guns, with bayonets attached, but were minus their cartridge-boxes. We pushed ahead at a moderate run for the top of the mountain, occasionally looking behind us to see if the Rebels were gaining on us. On reaching the summit of the ridge we followed it, as Trippe had, in a north-eastern direction. Soon we came to a deep chasm, or gorge, through the top of the mountain. On the sides of this chasm were many large rocks, and a few scattering trees or bushes. Should our pursuers fire on us, we thought we could make it very difficult for them to hit us, by constantly dodging about, and disappearing behind the huge rocks. As Smith, Sutherland, Wood, and I were going down the south side of the chasm, Trippe was hurrying with might and main up its north side. Just as our pursuers reached the chasm, on its south side, we gained the top of the ridge on the north of it. Should the Rebels all commence to cross the chasm at once, we should be out of sight before they got over; so they divided their squad, two remaining to watch our movements, while the others crossed in pursuit of us. Just as we had gained the top of the ridge north of the gorge, the two Rebels on the south side of it cried out, "Halt! halt! you d--d Yankees, you, or we'll shoot you." Having little fears of bullets at such long range, and feeling sure they had but one round of ammunition with them, we paid no attention to their threats. No shots were fired at us, but threats to shoot were repeated as long as we were in hearing. Although we had hurried considerably, we discovered Trippe was out of sight, and we increased our speed, as much to get a view of him as to gain on our pursuers. We had gone but a few yards after so doing before we came to Trippe lying on the ground, near a large crevice or opening in a huge rock. He was completely exhausted, and unable to speak or make himself understood. We scarcely halted on reaching Trippe, as three or four of the Confederates had gained the top of the ridge north of the gorge, and were yelling at us to halt and surrender. They were not more than a hundred yards distant, but many rocks of huge proportions intervened between them and ourselves. Trippe at this moment motioned to us with both arms, and then began crawling into the opening in the rock near him. What he wished us to do we did not know, and had no opportunity of ascertaining, as we were obliged to flee for our own safety. He attempted to speak but could not. We left Trippe to his fate, and hurried on without stopping, until we were entirely out of hearing of the Rebels. When we were beyond the immediate reach of the enemy, it was a question with us whether we should pause for a few moments, to see if Trippe had escaped their notice, or push ahead. We halted and listened for a few minutes, but heard nothing. We concluded the enemy had found Trippe, and were now looking among the rocks for us, and determined to push forward. We kept on the top of the ridge for the distance of nearly two miles, when we came to a gorge leading down the western slope of the mountain into the valley. We followed down this gorge until we were fully half-way to the valley. In a place entirely surrounded by cedar bushes, we halted to rest. The sides of the gorge were high and rugged, and huge rocks projected from them, and hung almost directly over our heads. No sound fell upon our ears; not even of the wind gently blowing, or of running water's low murmur. It was truly a place of solitude. The unfortunate event of the evening, the loss of our comrade, made it doubly sad and solitary to us. As we had made very few, if any, foot-prints, we knew the enemy could not easily trace us; and though sorrowing and dejected in spirit, we felt safe in the loneliness and seclusion of the place. We felt deeply the loss we had sustained in our separation from Trippe, as we had hitherto deferred to him in all the straits and critical situations in which we had been placed. It was the second time he had been recaptured--if really recaptured this time--and foiled in his attempts to escape prison, and on that account we felt sorry for him. We called to mind the reluctance manifested by him to starting with us on the trip to the lines; also his great discouragement when he came across the citizen in the woods, about ten days previously. We conjectured the Rebels had certainly found Trippe. We conjectured, too, that Trippe, in motioning to us, had intended to be understood as directing us to hide, as he was doing; that the Rebels would question him as to where the rest of us were, and that he would answer that we were hid among the rocks somewhere near; that they would look for us, and, failing to find us, would accuse him of deceiving and delaying them in their pursuit of us until we were out of reach. Taking this view of the matter we feared the Rebels would become exasperated at Trippe, and would treat him cruelly, if they did not murder him. Whatever the result of the fray might have been to Trippe, we knew we were yet free. Knowing it was entirely beyond our power to rescue or protect him, we sadly realized the extent of our loss, and began to look out again for ourselves. To this date, February, 1870, I have never heard either from or of Trippe, and know nothing as to his fate. He was about thirty-four years of age, was a man of good judgment, and possessed many excellent qualities of mind and heart. I think he had been at one time Orderly Sergeant of his Company, Company H, 15th United States Infantry. He enlisted at Columbus, Ohio, in the year 1861. He was never married. CHAPTER V. ACROSS RIDGE AND VALLEY--WE SEE NEW CASTLE IN THE DISTANCE--CHILDREN SCARED--WOMEN AMAZED--WE VISIT THEM--THEY THINK WE ARE "SECESH"--WE THINK THEY ARE "SECESH"--EACH PARTY MISTAKEN--ALL GOOD UNIONISTS--A DESERTER HID UNDER THE BED--HE COMES FORTH--AT "JEEMES" HUFFMAN'S--HE THINKS WE ARE CONFEDERATES--FINE SUPPER AT MIDNIGHT--WE ARE BEWILDERED IN THE DARKNESS AND RAIN--DUCKED IN CRAIG'S CREEK--WE AVOID REBEL RENDEZVOUS--HIDE IN THE MOUNTAINS--AT THE HOUSE OF A CONFEDERATE HOME GUARD--HE IS SICK--PROVES TO BE A UNION MAN--ONE CORN-DODGER--HE SENDS US TO ANOTHER UNION MAN--WE LOSE OUR WAY--PRECIOUS TIME LOST--WE ARRIVE AT WM. PAXTON'S--SUPPER AT MIDNIGHT--AN OLD REBEL BADLY FOOLED--PAXTON DIRECTS US TO ROBERT CHILDS'S--CHILDS NOT AT HOME--HIS WIFE PRETENDS TO BE SECESH--SHE THINKS WE ARE SECESH--CHILDS COMES HOME--HE VISITS US IN THE WOODS--HE IS A RABID SECESH--ADMITS WE ARE UNIONISTS--BUT BELIEVES THE CONTRARY--THE MYSTERY ACCIDENTALLY SOLVED--MRS. CHILDS A UNIONIST--MR. CHILDS A UNIONIST--THEY COME TO KNOW WE ARE UNION SOLDIERS--GOOD FEELING--WE ARE FED--WE ARE SENT TO DAVID HELPER--WE SEPARATE FROM CHILDS. We rested in the gorge for the space of half an hour. Soon after leaving it we reached the valley. We crossed the valley, and immediately began the ascent of another ridge, and on gaining its summit we could see a town in the distance to the west of us. We ascertained, late in the day, that the town was New Castle, Craig county, Virginia. We went down the mountain-side into another valley, and then changed our course, and followed up the valley in a direction a little east of north. In passing through a dense thicket we came to a dilapidated rail-fence. We crossed the fence, and soon emerged from the thicket into more open ground. We were bearing considerably to the east, following around the thicket, when we suddenly came upon a hut. Three or four children were at play near the door. They saw us and ran into the house immediately, when two women appeared at the door and gazed at us in apparent amazement. As it was growing late, the sun having gone down, we knew the women could bring no harm upon us, and we approached the humble dwelling and entered it without waiting for an invitation. We took seats, and opened the conversation by telling the women to set before us, on the table, what they had cooked, as we were hungry, and had nothing to eat. The women complied, setting out a few slices of cold boiled meat, a couple of corn-dodgers, and four bowls of milk. We sat around the table and eat all that had been placed upon it. After eating we told the women that was the first milk, with one exception, we had drank for many months, and that was the first bread we had eaten for two days. The women seemed very much astonished, and inquired who we were, and where we were from. We told them we had been prisoners at Danville, Virginia, and were now trying to make our way through the mountains to the Union lines. They then apologized to us for the scantiness of the meal they had given us, saying they thought we were Confederate guards from New Castle. We also apologized to them for ordering them, in so abrupt a manner, to set out supper for us, saying we thought they were "Secesh." The women then called for "Jim" to come out from under the bed. "Jim" immediately came forth. On our approach he had hid under the bed, thinking we were Confederate home guards. Jim was a deserter from Buckner's army in East Tennessee. We told these Unionists of the event of the afternoon; of our being pursued, and of losing one of our number in our flight. They seemed to manifest much anxiety on account of the lost one, and asked us many questions concerning him. We inquired if there was any good Union man living in the valley of whom we could procure provisions to carry with us. We were told that "Jeemes" Huffman lived four miles up the branch, and could furnish us with provisions. A path was pointed out to us that led up to Huffman's house. Just at dusk we bid our Union friends "good evening" and set out, intending to give Huffman a call. About half the distance had been gone over when darkness fully set in. After dark our progress was much slower in following the strange and devious pathway. Near nine o'clock, P. M., we saw the light of a fire, shining dimly through Huffman's window. We crossed a fence and followed the path a short distance up the mountain-side to the house. The door was standing open, and we entered and stood before Huffman and his wife. They were not a little surprised, and seemed doubtful as to the manner in which they should treat us. We were soon seated before the fire, however, and began to acquaint Huffman with our condition and necessities. Having heard with interest our narrative of the facts in our case the woman asked if we would have supper. We answered in the affirmative, and she went to work, and by ten o'clock, P. M., we sat down to a table bountifully supplied with food. While eating we learned from Huffman that he lived two and a half miles from New Castle, Craig county. We learned, also, that the home guards at New Castle searched the premises of the mountaineers every two weeks for deserters from the Confederate army. When we first entered the house Huffman supposed we were home guards from New Castle, and the hesitancy on his part to avow, at first, his Union sentiments, was the result. Huffman said it had been two weeks since his house had been searched, and he was in hourly expectation of the guards. As Huffman was engaged in shelling corn, we asked of him the privilege of shelling a few ears to carry with us to eat on the morrow. This favor was readily granted, and some three or four dozens of Irish potatoes were also furnished us. Near eleven o'clock on that night of March 4th we were ready to set out again on our travels. Huffman gave us directions how to get across Craig's Creek, and how to avoid a certain house, which he described, where a Rebel family lived, and where the home guards sometimes stopped, when out on their semi-monthly rounds. After bidding Huffman and his wife good-night, we left them, and followed, as well as we could, the directions we had received. It had become very dark and cloudy, and before we reached Craig's Creek it began raining, and we found it impossible to follow the directions Huffman had given us. But we pushed on in the darkness, and in the course of an hour we reached the stream. We found we were considerably off the track, having missed the crossing Huffman had described. We spent half an hour or more in wandering up and down the creek, looking carefully for the crossing, but failed to find it. We spent another half hour in procuring a stout staff, or stick, apiece, to be used in the stream while wading it. Having supplied ourselves, we plunged into the waters of the creek, steadying ourselves against the swift current with our sticks as best we could. It was very dark, and the rain continued falling. To add to the difficulty of crossing, we found that the bed or bottom of the creek was very treacherous, being full of rocks and holes. We found the water very cold, and the current strong and swift. We stumbled often, and came near falling into the water, but finally got safely across, with a thorough and cold wetting. All our clothing was wet, and dripping with water, as we stood upon the bank. We took off our blouses and wrung the water from them. After re-arranging our things, we set out again in a northern direction, following up the valley. We found it necessary to walk briskly before morning, in order to excite warmth of body to dry our clothing. As we had not crossed the creek at the point where we had expected to do so, we had avoided the house which was the rendezvous of the Rebel guards. A road was soon reached, on which we walked with much energy, and the clothing next our bodies soon became dry of the dampening effects of the plunging and stumbling in Craig's Creek. Daylight having broke upon us, we began looking for a hiding-place. Owing to the ill luck attending our first day's travel, we were induced to fall back on the old plan of lying by in day-time. As there were home guards in the country, we thought we should feel safer in trusting ourselves to the friendly shelter of the woods during the day. Day-break found us on the road where it passed between two high ridges of mountains. There was no alternative but to hide far up in the side of the ridge east of the road. We began the ascent of the ridge, and were not long in gaining its summit; and on its eastern slope we halted for the day, among the huge rocks. In a short time we cleared a space sufficiently large for our bed. Our bedding was a little damp; but as we had lost much sleep in the last twenty hours, that circumstance did not hinder us from sleeping soundly. We slept until late in the day, when we made a fire preparatory to parching corn and roasting potatoes. We eat as much as we wished of the potatoes and corn, and finding we did not much relish such fare, since the excellent though late supper at Huffman's the night before, we determined to have something better to eat the next day, if possible. We resolved that the first house we came to, after setting out, should be the scene of an attempt, at least, to get some provisions. The time of starting having arrived, and all being in readiness, we crossed the summit of the ridge and descended to the road in the valley. We walked leisurely along the road, not wishing to reach the first house too early in the night. Near nine o'clock we came to a house on our left, a short distance from us. We heard music as we halted, and questioned the propriety of entering the house; but finally concluded not to forego our resolution to try our hand at procuring supplies. We crossed the rail-fence a few steps from the house, and went to the door. We opened the door, entered the house, and took seats without waiting to be asked to do so. Four or five children were seated before the fire. The oldest, a boy about fifteen years old, had been playing the violin. As we entered the house the mother of the children stepped out the back door, but did not close it entirely. The mother held the door slightly open, and listened to what we had to say to the children. On finding we talked kindly, she came into the room, and then we made known the object of our call at such a time. The woman represented herself as being very poor, with a sick husband and five children to provide for. She pointed to the bed in the corner in which her husband lay. On looking, we saw the unfortunate man, and conversed with him. We learned he had lost his health while serving in the Confederate army under Buckner. On account of disability, he had been discharged from service, and allowed to return to his family. He now belonged to a home guard company. In the course of the conversation, the sick man claimed he was really a Union man, but had been obliged to yield to the pressure of public opinion, and had been conscripted into the army. He now belonged to the home guards, to keep from being again sent to the front. He said he would gladly give us something to eat, but as it was beyond his ability to do so, he could only direct us to a man who could provide for us. After giving us particular directions how we should find the home of William Paxton, he said no more. We bade the sick man and family "good-night," and left the house. Before we had reached the fence, one of the children opening the door called out to us to wait a minute. We waited, and the boy brought us one corn-dodger. Taking it, we expressed our thanks, and went on our way. On getting some distance from the house, we debated as to the propriety of seeking Paxton's aid. We feared Paxton was a Rebel. It seemed strange that a late follower of Buckner, and a Confederate home guard, should give directions to escaping Federals; but as he had given us bread from his limited supply and had told us just how to avoid and get around a certain house where Confederate guards often met, we concluded to follow his directions, if possible, and if we found things as represented, we would go to Paxton's. It was seven miles to Paxton's house, which was situated on the road as it passed over a mountain. After going some four miles on the road, we came to the house where the Rebels congregated. It was near the road, and lights shone from all the windows. We passed some distance south of it, but near enough to hear the noise of revelry. At a point nearly two miles west of this house, we should have gone on the mountain; but owing to the indistinctness of the road, and the darkness of the night, we missed our way. When we found we were off the right track, we retraced our steps for over a mile. As it was near morning we began a careful search for the point where the mountain road led off to the left from the other, and found it just at day-break. We could now do nothing but look out for a hiding-place for the day, Sunday, March 6th. According to the account of the sick man, we were hid but little more than a mile from Paxton's abode. Our retreat for the day was close to a spring, where we could wash and get water to drink. In the evening, fearing ramblers would come to the spring, we moved further from it. Having eaten our corn-dodger the preceding night, we were obliged to resort for subsistence to the remnant of roasted potatoes and corn left over from yesterday's fare. The day seemed long, but it wore away, and we took up our line of march, near nine o'clock, P. M., for Paxton's house. In less than two hour's time we came to a house answering the description we had received. We passed through the gate in front and approached the door. We rapped gently, and were invited by an old man to come in. As we were being seated, one of our party asked the old man if his name was Paxton. He answered that it was; and wished to know how and where we had learned his name. We told him, and he seemed much surprised, as our informant had been considered by him as a disunionist. All had retired to sleep at Paxton's excepting himself. We told him we wished something to eat, and he immediately called his two daughters to get our supper for us. Paxton knew we were Federals, and made no attempt to conceal his Union sentiments. While waiting for supper, we conversed on war topics, on prison life, and our trip since leaving prison. When supper was announced, we sat down to a table bountifully supplied with food. While we were eating, an old man stopped at Paxton's, who had been out from Fincastle, where he lived, to take a woman to her home in the country. This new-comer did not seem to notice us until we had finished supper and taken seats before the fire. As I was sitting next him, he took hold of my pants at the knee, and inquired rather roughly, "Where do you belong?" Not knowing what answer to make, under the circumstances, to such a question, I merely turned my head, and glanced at my three comrades, who in turn looked immediately to the old man Paxton, who very quickly spoke up saying, "They belong to the 22d, which you know is stationed at the bridge." Paxton immediately added, "They have been home on furlough, their time is up, and they are now on their way to the bridge." The old Fincastle man seemed satisfied with Paxton's explanation. One of our party soon after observed, as he was rising from his seat, "Well, boys, we must be off now; we must put in an appearance at the bridge as soon as possible." We then gathered our things and went out of the house. As we passed out, Paxton was seating the Fincastle man at the supper table. That done, he opened the door, and said to us, "Boys, you'll find it cold traveling over the mountain to-night." "Yes," said Wood, laughing, "but we'll only walk the faster and get to the bridge sooner." Paxton then came out, closing the door behind him. He told us the old fellow at the supper table was a notorious Rebel. As Paxton wished to get in the house as soon as possible, to attend to his Rebel guest, thus keeping down suspicion, he told us where and how to find the house of Robert Childs, who lived eleven miles from there. Childs, he said, was a good Union man, and his wife was a true Union woman, who would be glad to help us on our way. On getting over the mountain, and reaching a point about seven miles from Paxton's, we were to turn to our right, and go north four miles to another road, on which Childs lived. We then set out anew on the night's travel. In two hours' time we had traveled, as we thought, about seven miles, and we called at a house and inquired of a negro how far we were from the road leading north to the mill. We were told it was half a mile east of there; and without delay we hastened back on the road a short distance, and began looking carefully for the turning off place. We soon found it, and also found much difficulty ahead of us. The road, it seemed, was a new one, having been cut but recently through a heavy wood. We made slow progress; we stumbled often over stumps and rocks. The moon was shining, but its light scarcely reached our pathway, as the dense woods closely hedged it in. We trudged slowly on, and reached Childs's Mill before day-break. The mill was near the point where the road we had been following intersected another running east and west. Although it was not yet day, we concluded to call on Childs at his house, tell him our wants, and ask him to show us where we could stop for the day and be safe. We halted opposite the house, and Sutherland went into the yard and rapped at the door, but no answer came. He next attempted to raise a window, but a woman's voice protested against it. Sutherland then inquired if Childs was at home, and the woman answered that he was not. The woman's tone of voice plainly indicated that she was considerably frightened; so we determined to seek a hiding-place in the forest. When we had found a suitable place, we made our bed and lay down on it to sleep. Morning was faintly appearing when we lay down, and we heard chickens crowing in the distance. In about two hours' time we awoke, and found the sun shining brightly. We consulted briefly as to what we should do, and determined that one of our party should go back to Childs's house, to see if he had got home, and to get something to eat, as we had brought nothing with us from Paxton's on account of the presence of the Fincastle Rebel. Each of us was anxious to perform the errand, and we drew cuts to see which of us should go upon it. It fell to my lot, and I at once started. As it was early in the morning, I encountered no persons upon the road. On reaching the house I rapped moderately at the door. Mrs. Childs first looked at me through the window, and then admitted me. I first told her I was one of those who had called at the house before day. I then asked her if her husband had got home. She answered that he had not. I asked when she expected him. She answered that he would be at home by ten o'clock in the day. She then inquired what business we were on, and what we wanted with her husband. I told her we had been prisoners of war at Danville, and had been trying for over two weeks to make our way through the Confederacy to the Federal forces. I told her of our stopping at Paxton's, and of his directing us to Robert Childs. At this Mrs. Childs seemed surprised, and remarked that Paxton would better be in other business than giving aid to Federals. Mrs. Childs talked very much like a Rebel, and though I could hardly understand the situation, I felt no uneasiness. After further talking I asked her if she could furnish us something to eat. She said she supposed she could, but wasn't in the habit of feeding roving squads of soldiers. She then asked me to sit up to the table and eat with her; but I declined, telling her if she would allow me to carry a dishful to the woods, and share it with my comrades, I would be thankful. Mrs. Childs and her children eat their breakfast, while I sat by keeping up the talk with her. Shortly after finishing her meal, Mrs. Childs gathered what she had left on a large dish and gave it to me. I thanked her, and told her there must be a mistake somewhere, as we had found things very different from what Paxton had represented. "Paxton don't know every thing," said Mrs. Childs. "Time alone will settle the matter," said I. I told the woman where we were hid, and asked her to send her husband to see us when he returned. She answered that she would do so. "If you will," said I, "we shall have a friendly talk with him, do him no harm, and send your dish back to you." I then returned to our retreat in the woods. On the way I felt, from some cause, that Paxton was not mistaken in his opinion of Mrs. Childs, and that some recent development had made necessary her avowal of disunion sentiments. We found the provisions furnished by Mrs. Childs very acceptable, whether she was a secessionist or not. After finishing our meal we spent the time in conjecturing the cause of Mrs. Childs's strange conduct, if she was really a Union woman. We became satisfied that, for some reason yet to be explained, she had only pretended to be a devotee of the Confederacy. Near noon Robert Childs came to us in the woods. He approached us with extreme caution, and looked as if he would rather not see us. We talked with him an hour or more. During the whole conversation he upheld the Confederacy. He could not imagine how Paxton got the impression he was a Union man or a disloyal citizen. We asked Childs if he should take any steps to recapture us. He replied that he would do nothing either to help or hinder us. To this we replied, that we could ask no more from a "Secesh." He started home when we gave him the dish, and told him we were grateful to his wife and to him for what we had received from them. We urged Childs to call on us again before night. He said he would if he had time, and then went homeward. Near four o'clock, P. M., he came out again to see us, and remained with us until near sunset. The tenor of his conversation was the same as in the morning. He had no word of encouragement to give us, and, of course, offered us no assistance. It was growing late, and we began getting ready to travel. We continued talking with Childs, however, and Smith said to him, "I suppose you haven't reported us, have you?" "I've seen nobody to report to," he answered. "Hasn't any one been to mill?" inquired Smith. "O, one or two," answered Childs, "but they were in a hurry, and didn't stay long?" "You didn't say any thing about us, then?" asked Wood. "I didn't say a word about you to any body," said Childs. Sutherland then said, "I'll be switched if I don't believe he is a Union man after all." Childs manifesting some uneasiness, then said in an emphatic manner, "Don't fool yourselves about that, boys." Sutherland then asked, "Did you ever see or hear of any Yankee prisoners escaping through here before?" Childs said he had heard of a squad passing through about six weeks before. "How many were there in the squad?" Smith inquired. "Only two, I believe," was the reply. "I'll bet," said Smith, "they were Davis and Tige; they left the hospital about two months ago." Childs seemed to evince unusual interest in this remark of Smith's. Sutherland then said, "I wonder where Davis and Tige are by this time?" "O, they've got through before now," I replied. "Unless they've been caught and sent back," added Sutherland. Childs then inquired rather anxiously who Davis and Tige were. We told him who they were, where we had known them, and described them particularly. Davis had been steward at the hospital near Danville, and Tige had been a nurse. Childs then recanted his secession doctrines, and confessed he was a Union man, and had harbored Davis and Tige for three or four days. He also explained in full the reasons for his conduct toward us in pretending to be a Rebel. It seems the Confederate commander in that district--General Echols, I think it was--had adopted a plan of ascertaining who were aiding Federal prisoners in their efforts to escape. He had dressed small squads of his men in tattered Federal uniforms, armed them with weapons concealed about their persons, and had sent them over the country to such persons as were suspected of Unionism; to whom they would apply for food and other assistance in making their way to the Union lines. These squads were called "bogus Yankees" by the Union people, who learned to keep continually on the guard against falling victims to their deceptive practices. Many true Union citizens of the South were made prisoners by the "bogus Yankees," taken from their homes, and imprisoned at Richmond, Atlanta, and other points, for many months. Childs thought we were "bogus," and was glad enough to help us when he found the contrary was true. Paxton had not yet learned of the "bogus Yankees," and Childs had only been put on his guard a day or two before by hearing of the arrest and carrying off in irons of one of his Union friends, who had the misfortune to fall into the hands of the impostors. Childs said he would take it upon himself to go and see his friend Paxton, and warn him of the danger of playing into false hands. Robert Childs, in treating us as he had, only thought he was evading arrest and a hopeless imprisonment. He first assured himself of our genuineness; then, knowing our actual need of assistance, he did not withhold it. It was purely accidental--perhaps Providential--that our real character became known to Childs. The allusion to Davis and Tige was the merest accident in the world, but proved sufficiently powerful to dispel the mystery we had been unable to solve. The day, March 7th, was drawing to its close. It was time for us to resume our secret march. Before we set out Childs went to his house and brought us enough provisions for one meal, which was all that we required, as he then gave us particular directions as to how we should find the house of David Hepler, another good Union man, only eight miles away. We then parted with Childs, who had so recently proved our friend, in a better mood than we had anticipated an hour before. We were sorry we could remain no longer with him after he had found us also true, and of the number in whom he could confide. CHAPTER VI. "HAD NO HORNS LATELY"--WE REACH HEPLER'S--HE IS ON HIS GUARD--WE KNOW HOW TO TAKE HIM--SUPPER AND LODGING--ADIEU TO HEPLER--WE GO TO LEWIS'S HOUSE--LEWIS NOT AT HOME--TROUBLE AT LEWIS'S HOUSE--ITS OCCUPANTS PROPOSE MAKING US PRISONERS--WE PROPOSE DIFFERENTLY--NEITHER PARTY ACTS--ONE-SIDED MISUNDERSTANDING--AN UNDERSTANDING NOT ATTAINABLE--WE RETURN TO HEPLER--HE DREADS TO SEE US--HE IS SOON ALL RIGHT AGAIN--HE ASCERTAINS LEWIS'S FATE--IS UNABLE TO SECURE US A GUIDE--WE ARE PRONOUNCED "SPURIOUS"--FINAL ADIEU TO HEPLER--WE RETURN TO LEWIS'S HOUSE--GET PROVISION THERE AND SOMETHING MORE--FURTHER TRAVELS--OUR MATCHES LOST--WE REACH GREENBRIER RIVER--COME UNEXPECTEDLY TO TWO WOMEN--THEY SEND US TO MRS. MANN'S--WE BEST OURSELVES--VOLUNTEER GUIDE. It was near sunset when we separated from Childs. Just before dark we felt uncertain as to whether we had not got off the route to Hepler's. As there was a house a short distance to our left, we concluded to inquire the way, as we preferred risking a little to getting bewildered in the darkness. We found one young woman and two older ones at the house. On seeing us they seemed badly scared, and were about to forsake their dwelling as we entered it, leaving us in full possession. After some entreaty on our part, the young woman came in cautiously and deferentially, and was followed by the older ones. Our inquiries were principally addressed to the young woman, the older ones standing near gazing in mute astonishment. In the course of the talk we had occasion to acknowledge that we were Yankees, when one of the old women blurted out, "I'd say! I thought they had horns." "We do have, sometimes," said Wood, "but not lately." On gaining the information desired, we resumed our journey. By eight o'clock we had traversed the rough, broken country lying between Childs's and Hepler's house. We found Hepler on the look out for false Unionists; but as Childs had told us Davis and Tige had been befriended by him--Hepler--we found no difficulty in proving our genuineness to him. Near nine o'clock we took supper at Hepler's table, and after a two hours' talk, we were comfortably lodged in his house. After breakfasting the next morning, having got ready to set forth again on our journey, we bade Hepler's family adieu, and he conducted us to the top of a lofty range of mountains, at the base of which his house stood. Having reached the highest elevation in the mountain, Hepler pointed out to us another range upon which the home of William Lewis was situated. The exact locality of Lewis's house was pointed out, although we could scarcely see it, and were eight and a half miles distant. Hepler told us we could go to Lewis's in day-time without much risk, but it would be impossible for strangers to go over the route by night. He also informed us that it was probable we could get Lewis to guide us a portion of, if not all, the way to the Federal lines. On hearing some further instructions to enable us to find our way more easily, we bade our friend adieu, and left him. It was fully ten o'clock in the day when we set out on our journey to Lewis's house. We crossed two ridges, as many valleys, and many small rivulets of the mountains before reaching our objective point. On commencing the ascent of a third ridge, we found a path of which Hepler had spoken. We then knew we were on the ridge upon which we would find the house of a friend. We took the path as a guide, and followed its devious course. When little more than half-way up the mountain side we met two men and a woman and child. The men were on foot. The woman, with her child in her arms, was on horseback. The largest man was carefully leading the horse down the mountain path. No word was spoken at this meeting, each party maintaining silence and casting suspicious glances at the other. Soon after we gained the top of the ridge, and came in sight of Lewis's house, situated in a bowl-shaped depression in the top of the mountain. We did not wish to go to the house while it was yet day, for fear of finding some Secessionist there, and thus placing Lewis as well as ourselves in an embarrassing situation. We went aside from the path nearly two hundred yards, and hid in the brush. We found we had stopped in a place from which we could watch the house. Our position also commanded a view of the path we had just left, and of persons that might pass upon it. It was near four o'clock, P. M., when we halted. We kept our eyes at intervals on the house and its immediate surroundings, but saw no person during the evening. One dog, a calf, and a few chickens, were the only living objects visible. The doors of the house were closed, and we concluded Lewis and his family had gone from home; but as smoke was issuing from the chimney, we hoped they would return by dark. We feared the man we had met leading the horse was Lewis with his family, going with a friend to make a visit. If so, we should be delayed, we thought, in our journey, and be compelled to push on without seeing him. We decided to wait until dark in our hiding-place, and see if Lewis would return. Just after sunset the man we had met on the mountain, leading the horse, went along the path to Lewis's premises. He was leading a horse, and was accompanied by two other men, each leading horses. They first put their horses in the stable and fed them. They then chopped some wood at the wood-pile and carried it to the house. Darkness came on, and we saw sparks flying from the chimney top. Feelings of joyous gratitude heaved our bosoms as we felt certain we should soon meet Lewis and enjoy the company and consolations of a native thorough-bred Union man. We were destined to meet with disappointment, however, and to experience difficulties from which a mere allusion to Davis and Tige would not relieve us. In less than an hour after dark we left our position in the thicket and went to the house. We knocked three times before we were told to come in. With a show of reluctance on the part of the three men, we were furnished seats near the fire. Wood, addressing the largest of the men, asked, "Your name is Lewis, I suppose?" "No, but Lewis is a brother-in-law of mine," was the answer. "Well, this is Lewis's house, is it?" Wood asked. "We were told it was." "Where is Lewis?" inquired Sutherland. "I don't know," said the man, "he hasn't been at home for several days." "What's your name?" continued Sutherland. "My name is Hepler." "Are you akin to David Hepler?" Sutherland asked. "Yes, David Hepler is my father," replied the man, at the same time turning very pale. Judging Hepler was fearful some great calamity had befallen his father through the agency of "bogus Yankees," I said, "You think we are Rebels," and Smith immediately added, "We have not harmed a hair of your father's head." We assured Hepler we were real Union soldiers, honestly endeavoring to make our way from prison to our lines. "I don't know so well about that," said Hepler, "but as for myself, I belong to the Confederate army." We then told him we knew he belonged to the Confederate army, and knew, too, that he was a Union man, having been informed of those facts by his father. David Hepler had told us how his son, in the earlier months of the war, had hid himself among the rocks and caverns of the mountains for more than eighteen months, and how at last he was caught by the Rebels and conscripted into the army. We spent some time, two hours at least, in trying to convince young Hepler we were not "bogus," but all in vain. He said he knew what he was, and supposed we knew what we were, and was going to have nothing to do with Federal prisoners, unless it would be to catch them and take them to Jim Crow's. As he spoke thus he directed our attention to a stack of guns in the corner. "There's as many of us as there is of you," suggested Wood, "when it comes to that." "Jim Crow's" was a small town a few miles distant, as we afterward learned. We became satisfied that our efforts to procure assistance, or derive information from young Hepler and his associates would prove unavailing, as they refused to answer our questions as to the roads, the streams, or the nature of the country west and north of us, and refused us the shelter of the house until morning. We, however, understood the situation perfectly, knowing that the only difficulty with us was our inability to furnish satisfactory proof of our genuineness as real "Yankees." Hepler having been absent in the service, knew nothing of Davis and Tige, or of the aid his father had rendered them, and our telling him of them was of no avail. We could not establish our character as escaping Federals to the satisfaction of those who, we knew, would have been our friends could we have done so, but were compelled to leave them under the impression we were really soldiers of the Confederacy. Near eleven o'clock that night, March 8th, we left the house of Lewis not a little discomfited. Where we had expected assistance and encouragement we met only with disappointment and defeat. We felt our defeat more keenly in consequence of the certainty we felt that Hepler and his associates would have been quite willing, even anxious, to aid us on our way had they been assured beyond a doubt as to our real character. [Illustration: "TROUBLE AT LEWIS'S HOUSE."--PAGE 93.] After we had gone out of the house we halted at the fence, a few steps from the door, and consulted briefly as to the course to pursue. Our situation was critical in the extreme. We were in Alleghany county, in the midst of the rugged and barren mountains, where the country was thinly inhabited. We had no supplies with us, as we had left David Hepler's expecting to get food at Lewis's. We soon determined to return to David Hepler's, tell him of the situation at Lewis's house, and see if he could give us other directions to follow. Smith suggested that young Hepler might be willing to go with us to his father if we should wait until morning. Smith called to him to come out, saying, "We wish to talk with you." Hepler did not come out; but on being called the third time he came to the door and said, "Kill me in the house if you want to; I sha'n't come out there to be killed." We were trying to assure him that we would do him no harm when he closed the door in our faces and barred it. We then started away from the house, going about a mile east of it. Near the mountain top we halted until daylight of March 9th. The sky was overcast with clouds, threatening rain, when we stopped, and we felt very much disheartened. Our hopes were exultant before going to Lewis's house. We expected to get assistance there, and possibly a guide to conduct us on our way; but all had failed. We felt we had been turned empty away from the house of a friend, and Nature it seemed was about to frown on us. We came near regretting the start we had made from prison. One consolation, however, was left us; if there was any change in our prospects it would be for the better. We made preparations for sleep, but there was little sleep for us that night. Before day rain commenced falling, and we were obliged to fold our blankets, to keep them as dry as possible. We leaned against trees, and so disposed our coats over our shoulders as to shed most of the rain off until daylight. As soon as we could see our way plainly we set out on our return to David Hepler's. We had a very disagreeable time in walking over the mountains in a drenching rain shower. We reached Hepler's just at twelve o'clock. We found him at home. He was very much surprised, even astonished, at seeing us again. He even dreaded to see us, as he at once concluded his time had come to surrender himself a prisoner into the hands of sham Yankees, his country's worst enemies. We soon explained to him the reason for our return, telling him all that had transpired since separating from him the morning before. He immediately conjectured that Lewis had fallen a victim to "bogus Yankees," and said he would go to-morrow to see his son, with whom we had met at Lewis's house, and ascertain what had become of him. After taking dinner with Hepler's family we went some distance up the mountain-side and hid ourselves among the rocks. The rain continued; but we could not shelter under Hepler's roof, as it would not do, either for Hepler or ourselves, to be found there by Rebel citizens. Near night our suppers were brought to us by Hepler. Soon after dark we took refuge from the storm in a small log hut near the road, which passed through Hepler's premises. Early in the morning of March 10th we breakfasted at Hepler's table, and soon after hid for the day among the rocks of the mountains. At noon our dinner was brought to us by Hepler's wife and daughter. At night Hepler brought our suppers out, and reported the information he had received from his son concerning Lewis. As had been conjectured, a squad of Confederates had called at Lewis's house, and solicited his services as a guide to conduct them to the Union lines. As they were dressed in blue, and represented themselves as Federal prisoners trying to escape, Lewis consented to conduct them as far as Greenbrier River. After the necessary preparations, he started with them from his house, and, when only a few hundred yards away, these "bogus Yankees" suddenly presented their revolvers and made him their prisoner. His captors conducted him to White Sulphur Springs, and from that place he was sent, in company with three or four others, under a strong guard, to Richmond. David Hepler's son was a brother-in-law of Lewis. At the time we were at Lewis's house, young Hepler and those with him had come there to get the household goods belonging to the family, intending to carry them over the mountain on horses the next morning. It was young Hepler, with Lewis's wife and child, accompanied by another person, that we had met on the mountain. Mrs. Lewis and her child, and the plunder, were moved to her father's house, to remain during her husband's captivity, or longer if he died. Had young Hepler known we were not "bogus," and not trying to deceive him, we could have had all the provisions we desired when at Lewis's house, and could have been sheltered there until morning. But, unhappily, we had been unable to convince him of our honesty of purpose, and as he was determined to avoid the calamity which had befallen his brother-in-law, he felt obliged to deny us all "aid and comfort." In the evening of March 10th the rain ceased and the weather became cooler. On the morning of the 11th the mountains were covered with snow. During the day the snow melted away, and the mountain streams became swollen and almost impassable. While waiting for the waters to subside, we mended our shoes and other clothing, and washed our shirts. The pegs and other materials for cobbling were furnished by Hepler. We parched a quantity of corn, to carry with us on going forth anew on our journey. During our stay Hepler tried to procure a guide to conduct us to the lines, but failed. One man whom he tried to enlist in our behalf, although a good Union man, refused to have any thing to do with us, alleging we would yet prove spurious. Hepler would have guided us as far as the Greenbrier River, had not his aged parents, who were in a feeble condition, been under his care. On the morning of March 12th we took leave of Hepler and his family. In our most cheerless hour of adversity we had found with them a harboring place. They befriended us when we were encompassed by enemies and suspected by friends. During the days of rain and snow, and swollen streams, we incurred a debt we can not easily repay. We are under lasting obligations to them. Having been provided with sufficient food to last us two days, we set out for the lines afresh. Hepler could send us to no one who could direct us on our way, and we went westward until we came to Lewis's house. We reached it before three o'clock in the evening. We watched in its vicinity for over an hour, and saw no one; not even the dog, the calf, or smoke curling from the chimney, could be seen as when we had watched it before. We went to it, and finding the doors securely fastened, we judged there was something inside worth looking after. We thought we might get a supply of provisions that would partially compensate us for the disappointment of our first visit to the house. We entered it through the window, and levied on all we could find that would do to eat. A small sack nearly full of meal, a cup of salt, a part of a ham of meat and a ham of venison, were obtained as the fruits of our seizure. We got out of the house with our commissary stores, taking an iron pot with us, and went west about a mile into a gorge through which ran a small stream of water. Here we halted, built a fire, and made mush by the quantity. After eating to our satisfaction, we had enough left for breakfast the next morning. By ten o'clock that night we had made our arrangements for a comfortable sleep. We rested well. With the first dawning of morning light on the 13th, Wood and Sutherland returned to Lewis's house and got four case-knives, one for each of our party, a file, and a tin cup. The file we thought would be of use in loosening canoes or in opening smoke-houses as a last resort in procuring food. We completed our preparations for the day's travel, and were on our way shortly after sunrise. The country traversed was very rough and mountainous, being little more than a barren waste. It would have been impossible for us to have made our way over it in the night-time. We saw no person during the day. When following high ridges we occasionally saw huts and houses in the valley on either side below us. Sometimes we could see smoke when the house or chimney from which it came was concealed. Just after sunset we halted in a depression of the ridge we had been following, prepared our suppers, and made ready for the night's rest. As near as we could estimate, we had traveled during the day about fourteen miles in a north-west course. The night was passed in quiet sleep. On the morning of the 14th we awoke before day. On getting up we rebuilt our fire, and hastily prepared our breakfast. Soon after we were equipped for our day's journey. We were in excellent spirits. We could but contrast our feelings with those we had experienced in the early morning, after our signal disappointment at Lewis's house. Then we were discouraged and baffled, now we were cheerful and hopeful. The sky was clear, the air was pure and bracing, and we made good progress. We traveled quite fifteen miles in a direction a little north of west, over the ridges, valleys, and streams of the mountain districts. At night we halted in the valley, where water was convenient. After making a fire, we spent an hour or more in preparing and eating our suppers. Our sleep during the night was refreshing. Before sunrise on the 15th we had finished our breakfast. Our provisions were not yet exhausted, and there was no need of running any risks in replenishing our stock. We traveled only about six miles before discovering that the country became more open and more thickly settled. It was prudent for us to go no further in day-time. We accordingly looked about for a safe retreat for the residue of the day. After finding a place in the woods in which we thought we could trust ourselves, we devoted the greater part of the day to sleep, as we expected to travel at night. Just at dark we were ready to move. The first thing necessary on setting out was to find a road on which to travel. Our journeyings of the past three days had been off the roads, across mountains and valleys, in a rough, broken country, almost inaccessible to travelers except on foot or on horseback. We found much difficulty in finding a road that would lead us aright. We kept on the move, however, taking care that our steps should be toward the goal we wished to gain. A little after midnight we halted, as the sky became cloudy, and we could not see our way plainly before us. We went some distance north of the last road we had been following, and made our bed in the woods. Very soon after lying down we fell asleep. On waking up on the morning of the 16th, we found the ground covered with snow. Getting up we found the air very cool. We set about collecting suitable material for building a fire, but on searching for our matches we found we had lost them. As it was too cool for comfort without briskly exercising ourselves, we determined to set out in a northern direction. After getting our things in readiness we started through the woods. We had proceeded but little more than a mile before we reached an open space. In crossing it we noticed not far to our left, just beyond the crest of a hill, a small log cabin. Smoke was issuing from the mud and stick chimney and curling gently upward. After a moment's deliberation we concluded we should hazard little in visiting the tenants of this humble abode and warming at their fire. We did so, and found the two women and one boy whom we found there to be friendly and disposed to make us comfortable. While waiting half an hour for a warm breakfast we learned we were in Greenbrier county, and within three miles of the Greenbrier River. Having ascertained that the folks were Unionists, we questioned them concerning the people in the surrounding country. We learned that the Rebel element held sway and that the few Union people were obliged to keep their sentiments to themselves. Breakfast over, we set out again on our travels. Before leaving the cabin we discovered that snow had commenced falling. We had not gone far until the large flakes almost blinded us as they fell. We felt certain no one would be out on such a wintery day, and we thought we should incur but little risk in pushing forward to the river. Near ten o'clock we reached it, and began looking up and down the bank for a canoe in which to cross. After the snow had almost ceased falling, we were passing through a sugar-camp and came suddenly to two women, who were turning the troughs over. As they had seen us plainly, we being within a few yards of them when we first noticed them, we did not try to avoid them. We approached nearer the women, and one of our party made some observation on the state of the weather, and Sutherland added, "It's a bad day to be out." One of the women, smiling, answered, "I'll guess you are out a good piece from home." On being questioned further, we told the women who we were, where we were from, and the point we were aiming to reach. They told us their "men folks" were in the Kanawha Valley, which was within the Union lines. We were not long in assuring ourselves that the women, as well as their "men folks," were strong Unionists. We were invited to the house. We accepted the invitation, and were soon seated before the fire, where we remained for a few minutes. Just before noon the women told us they were poor and unable to furnish us a meal, but Mrs. Mann, who lived about a mile back from the river, was not only able, but willing to keep us over until the following night, if we wished to stop so long as that. The eldest woman had already gone to Mrs. Mann's to see if any Secessionists were there. She soon returned, accompanied by two of Mrs. Mann's little boys, who were to conduct us by an obscure way to their mother's house. As no one was at Mrs. Mann's, we started immediately to her house, her boys leading the way. These boys were quite young--aged about nine and eleven years--but seemed to understand perfectly the necessity of our keeping out of sight of the Rebels. We arrived at the house of Mrs. Mann by one o'clock. A little after two o'clock we took dinner. The dinner reminded us of the days gone by, and made us think we were almost home again. After dinner we conversed at length with Mrs. Mann and her family, treating mainly of the war as it affected the Union people of the South. Mrs. Mann had been despoiled of much property during the war by Confederates; and soon after the breaking out of hostilities her husband had been arrested because he would not forsake his Union principles. He had been imprisoned at Richmond, where, after lingering a few months, he died. In the evening a man was seen approaching the house. When he was near enough to be recognized it was ascertained that he was a Rebel, and we were sent upstairs forthwith, to remain there until he should leave. We were detained nearly an hour upstairs, when the "Secesh" having taken leave, we were permitted to come down, and were interrupted no more that evening. A little after dark we had supper. Soon after supper we began our preparations for setting forth on our way, but Mrs. Mann urged us to stop until the following night. As we were considerably worn and fatigued, we decided, after a short consultation, to do so. We passed the night of March 16th in Mrs. Mann's haymow. We could not stop in the house for the reason that a Rebel doctor from Frankfort was expected there that night to see a sick child. On the morning of the 17th, after the doctor had gone, we returned to the house for breakfast, and remained there during the day. When any one was seen coming we went upstairs, being very careful not to leave any caps behind to excite inquiries. About four o'clock, P. M., a young man called at Mrs. Mann's, who belonged to a Union family west of the river. He offered to conduct us, after dark, to a man who would guide us some distance on our way, and give us directions to follow which would lead us to Gauley River. We eagerly accepted the offer. Our delay of twenty-four hours, it seemed, was going to prove profitable. We had supper just at dark, and soon after our preparations for the journey were complete. Our haversacks were filled with food sufficient to last us two or three days. We tendered our sincere thanks to Mrs. Mann and family for generous treatment received, and bade them farewell. CHAPTER VII. ARE GUIDED BY NIGHT TO ALDERMAN--ALDERMAN CONDUCTS US TWENTY MILES NEXT DAY--GIVES US PLAIN DIRECTIONS--RETURNS HOME--WE FIND ALDERMAN'S BROTHER-IN-LAW, WHO PUTS US ON THE NORTH SIDE OF GAULEY RIVER--WE FOLLOW DOWN GAULEY RIVER--PASS THROUGH SUMMERVILLE--COME IN CONTACT WITH AN IRISHMAN--RECEIVE ADVICE FROM HIM AND FOLLOW IT--WE REACH THE PICKETS AT GAULEY BRIDGE--WE RECUPERATE AT CAMP REYNOLDS--GO TO CINCINNATI, OHIO--GO HOME ON FURLOUGH. Our volunteer guide mounted his horse and started to the ford, some distance up the river, to cross it, while we were conducted to a point below, where there was a canoe, by Mrs. Mann's two boys. On reaching the river, and being told by the boys to fasten the canoe to the opposite shore, we said "good-by" to them, and set about crossing. In about twenty minutes, after running aground two or three times, and being compelled to get out into the water to set the canoe afloat again, we landed on the opposite bank. After securing the canoe, we took our shoes and socks off, drained the water from our shoes and wrung our socks dry. We then put on our socks and shoes, and laced the latter securely, and hastened to join our guide at the point previously agreed upon. We were soon on the way, our guide on horseback going some distance in advance on the road. In little more than an hour we reached the home of our guide. We waited close by for a few minutes while he put his horse away. He then conducted us on foot to a point within a mile of James Alderman's house, and then he returned homeward. Following instructions we had received, we soon reached the house of the man whose services as a guide we expected to secure to conduct us on our journey. As we approached it the dogs set up a furious barking. Mrs. Alderman soon succeeded in quieting the dogs, and we entered the house. On seeing no one but the woman, we asked where Alderman was. The woman said he wasn't at home, and she didn't know exactly where he had gone. We made known our object in calling at such a late hour in the night, it being near midnight. Mrs. Alderman was evidently alarmed at our coming. She wished to know how we learned that Alderman lived there. We told her a young man named Gillilan had piloted us to the foot of the ridge, and directed us how to find the house. We told her further that the young man had informed us her husband would conduct us a portion of the way to the Union lines. The woman's fear seemed to be allayed on hearing this, and she stepped out the door and called her husband. Mr. Alderman soon made his appearance, but acted as if he was not sure we were there on an honest errand. When his dogs commenced barking he had hurried out of bed, and gone to the woods to secrete himself--as he had often done before--from the Confederate guards, who were on the watch for him to impress him into the service. Our business was soon made known to Alderman, and he consented to conduct us as far on our way as we could travel by four o'clock the next day. It was after midnight when we made our bed on the floor of Alderman's cabin, to rest until the light of the 18th dawned. By sunrise we had breakfasted, and were on the way, Mr. Alderman going ahead of us several steps. Alderman carried his flint-lock gun with him, saying he "might shoot something before he got back." We suggested the risk in traveling by daylight, but Alderman said he would take us over a route where we would be seen by none but good Union people. By one o'clock we reached a house where lived a family named Ramsey. We took dinner with them. Shortly after two o'clock we set out again on the way. One of the Ramseys gave us a letter to be left at a point twenty miles east of Gauley Bridge, known as the Twenty-mile House. By four o'clock we had reached the small stream called Cherry Run, where we halted under a temporary shed which had been erected by hunters for shelter. We had no matches, and Alderman struck fire with his knife from the flint of his gun and kindled a fire for us. After receiving from Alderman particular directions how to find his brother-in-law's house, on the north side of Gauley River, he left us, saying he "must be at home by midnight." We had traveled twenty miles, and had stopped for the night in a dense forest, several miles from any house. In all directions from our hiding-place the ground was deeply marked by narrow paths made by deer going back and forth for water. We made our supper on the supplies brought from Mrs. Mann's. We were in a place where we would not be likely to be seen, and we kept our fire burning until late in the night. Being surrounded by dense and darkening woods, with nothing to break the almost perfect stillness of the night but the murmurs of the little brook near us, we felt very lonely, more so than we had felt before on our travels. By ten o'clock we were soundly sleeping. We awoke at the break of day on the morning of March 19th. We breakfasted early and were on the way by sunrise. We had only to follow down Cherry Run to its mouth at Cranberry Creek, and then follow down Cranberry Creek until we came to a road crossing it and running on its west side to Gauley River. The ford on Cranberry Creek was reached before three o'clock in the evening. We secreted ourselves in the woods south of the road and east of the creek until after dark, when we could travel the road in safety. The greater part of the evening was passed in sleep. On waking we snatched a hasty meal, and made ready for further travels. Soon after dark we were on the way. In due time we were wading Cranberry Creek at the ford, having first taken off our shoes and socks. We found the water very cool, and a little more than ankle deep. As soon as we got on our socks and shoes we set out on the road for Gauley River. The road led to a ferry on the Gauley, near the mouth of Cranberry Creek. It lacked nearly two hours of daylight when we reached the ferry. We went up Gauley River until we came to Cranberry Creek. We then partially stripped ourselves and waded Cranberry Creek to its east side. We found the water much deeper and the current stronger than when we had crossed it early in the night. After dressing ourselves, we went on up the river nearly a mile further, and halted in the woods to await the dawn of day. We had not long to wait. As soon as we could see our way we started on up the river. Soon we noticed a smoke over the river, rising through the woods, and a few more steps brought us to a point from which a house could be seen. We gave two or three loud hallooes, and a man came out of the house and toward the river. A few moments more and he was in his canoe and half across the stream. As he neared the shore on which we stood we asked, "Are you a brother-in-law to Alderman?" He said he was, and we exclaimed, "All's right," with feelings of exultation. We were soon set across, and the sun was just rising when we sat down to breakfast. After breakfast we went to the woods north of the house and hid away for the day, March 20th. At noon we returned to the house for dinner. Our host stood in the yard while we were eating, to notify us of the approach of any one, so we might slip into the brush adjoining the yard and hide. We were not molested, however, and after making arrangements with our host--whose name we can not now recall--to furnish us at our hiding-place enough food for two or three meals, we left the house. Just at sunset, according to arrangement, we received supplies. Our host informed us that his house was forty-eight miles east of Gauley Bridge, and twelve miles from Summerville, the county seat of Nicholas county. We were also told that the road leading from the ferry ran down Gauley River, through Summerville, and by the Twenty Mile House, to Gauley Bridge, where the nearest Union pickets were posted. Our things having been put in readiness, we started out just at dark on our travels. In a half hour's time we were upon the road, and making reasonable progress in a western direction. A little after midnight we reached the suburbs of Summerville. No lights were anywhere to be seen. Every thing was still. We stopped and listened carefully for a few moments, when, hearing nothing, we advanced briskly through the town on the main road. We kept a keen lookout on either side of us as we passed through the place. The town seemed fully half burnt down. On reaching its western borders we again halted and listened, but all was quiet as before. We supposed the place might be, at least, a harboring place for scouts. On starting we pushed forward rapidly, traveling four miles, if not more, by day-break. During the last hours of the night the weather was quite cold, and the early morning was frosty. At daylight, on the morning of the 21st, the road was leading us through an open country. Ahead of us, over a half mile distant, were woods, through which the road passed. We intended halting for the day as soon as we gained the shelter of the woods, and we pushed on briskly. Just ahead of us, inside an inclosure and beyond a turn of the road, were a few scattering trees. Among the trees were two or three hay-stacks. After getting around the turn of the road, and just as we were leaving the stacks in our rear, we discovered an aged man pitching hay to his sheep. As he was staring at us, we accosted him with, "How are you, old fellow?" The old gentleman was an Irishman, and it was only with close attention we could understand what he said. We luckily found him strong in his attachment to the Union, and too old, as he said, to change his principles. He evinced much interest in our welfare, and readily answered all our inquiries. He told us it was only twenty-eight and a half miles to Gauley Bridge, and that Captain Ramsey's Union Scouts were patrolling the country between that place and Summerville on both sides of Gauley River. He assured us it would be perfectly safe to travel the road that day provided we did not stop short of the pickets at night. Rebel citizens would make no attempt to capture us in day-time, we were told, but should they see us hiding for the night they would most likely collect a party and take us prisoners. We decided, after consulting briefly, to push on, at least to the woods, now only a quarter of a mile distant. As we started the old man said, "Go on to the bridge, boys, and you'll be safe; don't stop outside the pickets." We did not suspect the old man of intending to get us into trouble, and his last injunction fully established our faith in his Unionism. On reaching the woods we stepped aside from the road to consider further upon the propriety of going on. We dreaded to be retaken on the eve of entering the lines, and we determined to avoid such a calamity, if possible. We had twenty-eight miles to travel before our safety would be assured. Since we had already traveled twenty miles without rest or sleep, the question was, Can we reach the picket-post by dark? Our resolution to push on, and reach the goal for which we had been so long striving, was soon formed. We immediately started, and in little more than a half hour's time we came to a house on our right. As it was near the road we went to it and asked for breakfast, thinking we needed something in addition to what we had to strengthen us in view of the journey to be accomplished that day. We were denied breakfast at first, and had started away from the house. As we were passing out the gate one of our party observed, "That's a pretty way to treat prisoners that's been half starved." The old lady overheard the remark and called us back. She first assured herself we were escaping prisoners, and then set before us what she had cooked. She apologized for refusing at first to give us a breakfast, saying she thought we were some of the scouts from Gauley Bridge, who too frequently applied for meals. We were informed it was not uncommon to see "blue coats" passing, which caused us to feel less uneasiness, as we thought we should not be molested on our way. On finishing our breakfast we set out again, having only five miles to travel before reaching the Twenty Mile House. We arrived at the place by ten o'clock. We called at the principal house and left the letter we had brought from Greenbrier county. The lady to whom it was addressed happened to be in the house, and was exceedingly well pleased to receive it. Many questions were asked us concerning the affairs and people in Greenbrier county, but as our information was limited we could answer but few of them. After learning the time of day and receiving a biscuit apiece, we went on our way. We had eight hours or more in which to travel twenty miles, and we pressed on with exultant hopes. The soles of our shoes had worn considerably, and were too thin to afford adequate protection to our feet in walking over a stony road. As a consequence our feet became very sore. Smith once concluded he would be obliged to stop, and more than once fell far behind. On coming to a stream of water, Sutherland, Wood, and I, while waiting for Smith to catch up, removed our shoes and socks from our feet and waded it. We found the cold water improved our feet wonderfully. Smith soon came up in any thing but a pleasant mood, and was much disheartened besides. He thought we "must be in a hurry, keeping so far ahead all the time." We answered we were in no hurry, and Wood added, "We had forgot a cavalry-man couldn't stand marching." We told Smith to pull off his shoes and socks and wade the stream. He complied, but his feet were so very sore he occupied several minutes in crossing. [Illustration: "OUT OF THE WOODS."--PAGE 107.] On getting our shoes on we again pushed forward slowly. At the first house we came to after fording the stream, we inquired the distance to Gauley Bridge. "Five miles and a half," was the answer given us. The sun was more than two hours high, but now the journey seemed more doubtful and difficult of accomplishment than the journey of twenty-seven miles had seemed in the morning. We pressed on, however, and in the course of an hour we met a man of whom we asked, "How far is it to the pickets?" "Nearly three miles," was the reply. Our feet were sore, our limbs were weary, but our flagging spirits revived, and we persistently urged ourselves onward. The sun had almost run its daily course. The distance to be gone over, before our twenty-four-hour's march was accomplished, was gradually growing less. At length the picket-guard was reached, and our goal won; but the sun had gone down and the stars were appearing. As the twilight was passing into night we approached the sentinel in the road who came out to meet and welcome us. Giving each of us a hearty shake of the hand, he said, "I know where you are from; will you have some coffee?" We replied that we could not object, and were assured there was plenty of it at the Company quarters. Although we were nearly worn down, almost exhausted, in fact, from the effects of twenty-four hours of constant wakefulness and travel, we felt an indescribable but silent ecstasy of joy and thankfulness for our deliverance from the rigorous and pinching destitution of Confederate prisons. But in the height and fullness of our heart-felt rapture, we did not forget Taylor and Trippe, the early companions of our journey. We thought it possible they had perished, but hoped they had been more fortunate than ourselves. Very soon after passing the pickets we went, in company with two or three soldiers of Companies I and H, 5th Virginia Infantry, to their quarters in the old town of Gauley Bridge, where supper, consisting of bread, meat, and coffee, was provided us. After supper we visited Captain Dixon, of Company I, 5th Virginia, in his quarters, he having sent for us. Companies I and H, 5th Virginia, under command of Captain Dixon, were stationed at Gauley Bridge as an outpost from Camp Reynolds, which was below the falls of the Kanawha. We remained at the quarters of Captain Dixon during the night of March 21st. We did not retire for sleep until a late hour. From Dixon we first heard the particulars of the battle of Mission Ridge, in which our Companies had participated. We told Dixon of the number and condition of the prisoners about Danville, and of the strength and disposition of the Rebel garrison there. On March 22d we went to Camp Reynolds, where we remained two days, during which time we were furnished by the soldiers and their officers with entire suits of clean clothing. In the evening of March 23d each of us wrote a letter to our respective homes, to let the folks know we were alive, and once more within the Union lines. Our feet having recovered from their soreness, we went next day, in company with three or four soldiers who were going home on veteran furlough, to Charleston, Virginia. On the 25th we got aboard a steamer, the "Victress No. 2," and went down the Kanawha to Gallipolis, Ohio, arriving there on the day following. On the 28th, having stopped over Sabbath in Gallipolis, we boarded the steamer "C. T. Dumont," and went down the river to Cincinnati. At ten o'clock, A. M., March 29th, we landed at Cincinnati, and immediately reported at Post Head-Quarters, Colonel Swayne, 99th Ohio, commanding. After a brief talk with Colonel Swayne, and other officers at Head-Quarters, we were told to go to the Soldiers' Home and get our dinners, and then return. We started, and had got but a few steps from Head-Quarters when the sentinel at the door called out to us to come back, that the Colonel wished to speak to us. Sutherland, Smith, and I waited on the street, while Wood went to see what the Colonel wanted. Swayne asked Wood if he would like a furlough, and Wood answered he would. The remainder of our party were called in from the street, and asked the same question, to which we answered in the affirmative. Furloughs were immediately filled out, signed by the Post commander, and forwarded to Columbus, Ohio, to be approved by General Heintzleman, the department commander. We went to the Soldiers' Home, got our dinners, and by two o'clock reported again at Head-Quarters, where we received orders to report at Lytle Barracks. Each of us was furnished with a pass good for five days and nights, giving us the freedom of the city. On reaching Lytle Barracks we gave Colonel Swayne's order to the Captain commanding. The order required him to admit us to the barracks; to issue us the full allowance of rations; to issue us clothing, if we desired it; and allow us to pass in and out at all times of day and night until nine o'clock, P. M. On the afternoon of the 29th we made out partial descriptive lists, and drew new clothing, a full suit each, the next morning. On the 30th, after washing and dressing ourselves, we went out into the city. On the morning of the 31st our furloughs came from Columbus, approved. With our furloughs we received transportation papers. Early in the day, Wood took the train and was off for his home in Western Pennsylvania. Wood, although a resident of Pennsylvania, had enlisted in the 26th Ohio Volunteers. Later in the day, Smith and Sutherland left together for their homes in Michigan. On being left alone of our party, I went to H. H. Hills's drug store, and remained there over night with a friend, from whom I learned for the first time of the sad losses my Company had sustained in battle at Chickamauga. On April 1st I took breakfast at the Indiana House, and very soon after was aboard the cars and homeward bound. I arrived home in Georgetown, Illinois, Sunday evening, April 3, 1864, and found my letter written at Camp Reynolds, Virginia, had not been received. My visit was unexpected, and the first intimation my father and folks had received for many weeks that I was yet alive, was when I entered the old home. The letter came the next morning, April 4th. CHAPTER VIII. CONCLUSION--STRANGE CIRCUMSTANCE--WE BRING GLAD TIDINGS--ARE HOSPITABLY TREATED--THE END. As a conclusion to the foregoing imperfect sketches, we will briefly narrate an incident which happened after our arrival within the lines. On March 23d, at Camp Reynolds, while we were writing letters home, a soldier named Gasper came into the quarters where we were. As soon as we were at leisure he asked, "Are you the boys that came in from prison two days ago?" One of our party answered we were. Gasper then said he had just been writing a letter to an old friend in Cincinnati, whose son was supposed to have been killed at Chickamauga, and hearing we had been captured in that battle, he thought he would inquire if we knew any person among the prisoners named Jack Phillips. "Jack Phillips," repeated Smith, "certainly, I know him." "Is it possible!" said Gasper. "He was in the same prison with me, and in the same mess," said Smith. "He lived in Cincinnati, did he, and belonged to Company ---- ---- Regiment, Ohio Volunteers?" asked Gasper. (I have forgotten the Company and Regiment to which Phillips belonged.) "Yes, sir," said Smith, "we are talking of the same Jack Phillips." Smith went on, and described Phillips as to size, height, appearance, and general characteristics. "Same fellow," said Gasper, "but his captain reports seeing him fall in battle." "No doubt of that," said Smith, "I have heard Jack tell how he was stunned by a ball grazing his forehead, cutting the skin, and leaving a small scar after healing." "The captain said Jack's forehead was bleeding when he saw him fall," remarked Gasper. Gasper concluded Smith's former fellow-prisoner and messmate was the son of John Phillips, of Cincinnati, to whom he was just writing, and said he would finish his letter by giving the old man the information Smith had furnished concerning his son. Gasper then left us, but returned in the course of an hour, saying he had not yet mailed his letter. He wished us to promise to call on Mr. Phillips if we passed through Cincinnati. We told him we did not know that Cincinnati would lie in our route, but should we get there, in our travels, we would call on Mr. Phillips if he would give us some clew as to where we might find him. Gasper did not know the street on which Mr. Phillips did business, but thought it was somewhere near the Public Landing. He had also forgotten the street on which Mr. Phillips's residence was situated. We, however, promised Gasper to inquire for Mr. Phillips if we visited Cincinnati, and if we happened to learn either his residence or place of business, to call on him and corroborate the statements made in the letter to him. On leaving us Gasper said he would put in a postscript, telling Mr. Phillips of us, and of our promise to inquire for him if we visited Cincinnati. Gasper was seen no more by us, and we gave but little thought to the errand with which he had charged us, as we had no idea what route we should take in rejoining our commands. It was the 30th of March, after we had dressed ourselves anew, when Smith came to me in Lytle Barracks, saying, "Where's Wood and Sutherland?" "Gone to the city," I answered. Smith then said, "Suppose we go into the city, look around, and make a few inquiries for the old man Phillips." "Agreed," said I; "there is one chance in a thousand that we may find him." We then went into the city, passing up one street and down another. Wherever sight or curiosity led us we went. We had wandered over the city, or a great portion of it, going into many shops and stores, with scarcely a thought of Phillips; but at length we came to a corner from which the river and many steam-boats lying at the wharves could be seen. Smith stood still until I came up, when he said, "Here is the Public Landing." "It looks much like it," I replied. Smith then asked, "Didn't that man at Camp Reynolds say that Phillips did business near the Public Landing?" "I believe he did," said I, after reflecting. "Suppose we go in here and inquire for him." We stepped in at the first door. It was a confectioner's establishment, and there were several men in the room. We looked into the show-cases and at other objects of interest, when presently all left the room except one elderly looking man and ourselves. Just as the old man was filling the stove with coal I approached him and asked, "Is there a person doing business anywhere in this part of the city named John Phillips?" As the old man set his coal bucket down he said, "My name is John Phillips." It was the first inquiry we had made and would have been the last, as we were anxious to get back to the barracks for dinner. After our surprise had subsided somewhat the old gentleman wished to know what we wanted. We told him of our promise to a man at Camp Reynolds, Virginia, and asked if he had received a letter from a man by the name of Gasper. He answered that he had not. After telling him we had been prisoners of war, and had come into the lines at Gauley Bridge about a week before, Smith went on to tell him all he knew about "Jack Phillips" as a prisoner at Danville, Virginia. On hearing Smith's account of Jack, the old gentleman, bursting into tears, said he had long since given his son up as dead, and could hardly hope or believe he was yet alive; at least he should not tell the news to his family, for fear the man we spoke of might be another of the same name. Smith thought there could be no mistake, as it would not be likely to happen that two of the same name should enlist in the same regiment from the same city. "Strange things sometimes happen in this world," observed Mr. Phillips. The old gentleman wished us to eat some cakes and pies and drink some wine, of which there seemed to be an abundance in the room. We consented, as it was noon, and would save us a walk to the barracks for dinner. Just as we had finished eating, a man entered the room holding several letters in his hand, two of which he handed to Mr. Phillips. On opening the first letter Mr. Phillips found it to be the one Gasper had written at Camp Reynolds, Virginia. The coincidence caused Mr. Phillips to conclude his son must yet be alive, and he determined to acquaint his family with the news he had received. The letter coming to hand, telling about us, while we were present to answer for ourselves, and our addressing our first, last, and only inquiry for Mr. Phillips to Mr. Phillips himself, in a great city, where there were thousands of people, seemed strange, and forbade the suspicion that our report was untrue. Mr. Phillips invited us to call on him each day during our stay in the city. We called on him the next day, March 31st, which was our last day in Cincinnati. I have since learned--though indirectly--that "Jack" afterward died as a prisoner, either at Danville, Virginia, or Andersonville, Georgia. Historical Memoranda. COMPANY "C," 73D REGIMENT ILLINOIS INFANTRY VOLUNTEERS. BY W. H. NEWLIN. Enlistments in the company dated from July 12, 1862, to April 11, 1864. One hundred and four names appear on the company roll. All members who enlisted on or before July 23, 1862, were sworn in, the first time, by John Newlin, J. P., in West's pasture, village of Georgetown, Vermillion County, Ill. On the same day, July 23d, Patterson McNutt, Mark D. Hawes, and Richard N. Davies, were elected captain, first and second lieutenants respectively. July 24th, company transported in wagons from Georgetown to the "Y," a point on the T. W. & W. R. R., near the site of Tilton. Taking the cars at the "Y," company reached Camp Butler early next morning. By August 1st company organization was completed, by appointment of the following named as sergeants: Tilmon D. Kyger, first sergeant; Wm. R. Lawrence, second sergeant; David A. Smith, third sergeant; Wm. H. Newlin, fourth sergeant; Robert B. Drake, fifth sergeant; and by the following named as corporals, in their order: David McDonald, John W. Smith, Carey A. Savage, Wm. M. Sheets, Samuel W. Sigler, Wm. O. Underwood, John V. Don Carlos, William Henderson. Pleasant B. Huffman, fifer; William B. Cowan, drummer; and Amacy M. Hasty, teamster. Time, at Camp Butler, was spent in drilling, guarding prisoners, and other duty. Some pay and an installment of bounty was received by each member of the company. Twenty-five dollars bounty was paid by Vermillion County to each married man and ten dollars to each unmarried man. To hasten the muster in of regiment, Company C loaned to Company E--also enlisted in Vermillion County--fourteen men, all but three of whom were re-transferred to C. Regiment was mustered into United States service August 21, 1862. August 24th, left camp Butler, going by rail via Danville, Ill., Lafayette Junction, Indianapolis, and Seymour, Ind., to Louisville, Ky. Went into quarters at Camp Jaquess--named for our colonel--south-west of the city. At this camp some guard duty was done, without arms, other than clubs and revolvers; all the clubs and nearly all the revolvers being soon discarded. About August 30th regiment was supplied with muskets--Austrian or Belgium pattern--and ammunition for same. Muskets were of the _kicking_ kind. From July 24th company had been in receipt of government rations, and was becoming inured to service in this respect. September 1st or 2d moved to Camp Yates, three or four miles south-east of the city. Other regiments were at this camp, and a Division was formed, the Seventy-third and One Hundreth Illinois, and Seventy-ninth and Eighty-eighth Indiana Regiments making one brigade, commanded by Colonel Kirk. Lieutenant Hawes and Sergeant Lawrence were detailed for duty at Kirk's head-quarters, and a very _ludicrous_ mistake was made, in _supposing_ there were two vacancies created. Accordingly there was an advance along the line; Davies being promoted first lieutenant, as was thought; Orderly Kyger to second lieutenant; D. A. Smith to orderly, and Corporal John W. Smith to second sergeant, the latter being promoted over the writer. The joke fell heaviest on Kyger, as he incurred the expense of the purchase of sword, belt and straps. J. W. Smith resumed his place as corporal, much to the gratification of the writer, who did not like the idea of being "jumped." Before the middle of September an inspection was ordered, requiring the command to march to Louisville, taking all luggage, accompanied also by wagon-train. The number and variety of articles thrown out of knapsacks and train was _amazing_ to the _old_ soldiers. This inspection was for the purpose of reducing luggage and baggage to articles of necessity. Directly after this the defeat of Union forces at Richmond, Ky., occurred. A rapid advance of a day's march was made by the command to assist in covering the retreat of those forces. Following this defeat came the invasion by Kirby Smith's Confederate forces, menacing Cincinnati and Covington. To meet this emergency the command was ordered at once to the latter place, going via Jeffersonville and Seymour, Ind., and Cincinnati, Ohio. The marching of the Seventy-third in the streets of Cincinnati excited comment, and inquiry was made if it was an old regiment. There was a fine engraving produced about this time representing the regiment, marching in column, on to the pontoon bridge. Fears of invasion subsiding, the command was ordered back to Louisville, returning via Indianapolis. Buell's army having reached Louisville, a general reorganization of all forces--old and new--took place. The Forty-fourth and Seventy-third Illinois, and Second and Fifteenth Missouri Regiments formed the Thirty-fifth Brigade, Eleventh Division of reorganized army. Bragg's army, which had followed Buell's into Kentucky, was gathering much strength and material in its march in the interior, and on October 1st the Union army was put in motion and started in pursuit. A dozen or more members of the company were left sick at Louisville. Army caught up with the enemy October 8th. Regiment was placed in and withdrawn from an exposed position, just in the "nick of time," a position within easy range of Confederate battery. Being withdrawn, as above, and resuming position in main line, regiment was actively engaged in battle of Perryville, nearly two hours, the casualties to Company C being as follows: Josiah Cooper, wounded, Died Oct. 31, 1862. Samuel Boen, wounded, David W. Doop, wounded, Discharged Feb. 9, 1863. John S. Long, wounded, Discharged Jan. 13, 1863, died. Francis M. Stevens, wounded, Discharged Dec. 5, 1862. Zimri Thornton, wounded, Died Oct. 30, 1862. James E. Moore, wounded, Discharged March 17, 1863, lost foot. John Murdock, Co. E, wounded, Died, Oct. 9, 1862. The last named enlisted in C, but had been one of the fourteen men "loaned," as before mentioned. Several members of Company C, who had been left at Louisville, came up Oct. 9th and 10th. Followed to Crab Orchard, marching from there, via Danville, Lebanon, Bowling Green, and Mitchellsville, to Nashville, Tenn. At Bowling Green, Rosecrans relieved Buell. Arrived at Nashville Nov. 7, 1862, encamping first at Edgefield, then at Mill Creek. Nov. 20, 1862, Second Lieutenant Richard N. Davies, resigned. Nov. 28th, First Lieutenant Mark D. Hawes resigned. These resignations, the losses resulting from the action at Perryville, the loss by death of the following named members: Samuel W. Blackburn, John C. Sheets, Thomas Millholland, Israel H. Morgan, John and Alex. Gerrard, and William Henderson; and the following named discharged for disability: Thos. T. Ashmore, John Trimble, and Wm. O. Underwood, discharged, Oct. 9, 1862, made a total loss to company by Jan. 1, 1863, of eighteen men. Three of these, viz: David W. Doop, John S. Long, and James E. Moore, were discharged after Jan. 1st, on Feb. 9th, Jan. 13th, and March 17th, 1863, respectively. Nov. 25, 1862, Kyger was mustered in as first lieutenant, and Dec. 6, 1862, Lawrence was mustered in as second lieutenant. Dec. 26, 1862, started on movement to Stone River. Regiment not engaged until Dec. 31st, was then engaged fully one-third, and under fire two-thirds of the day. Seventy-third was in Second Brigade, of Sheridan's (Third) Division, Twentieth A. C., and associated with the same regiments as before. The change in number of Brigade and Division occurred when Rosecrans assumed command. At Stone River Company C suffered casualties as follows: John Dye and James Yoho, killed; John J. Halsted, wounded, discharged Feb. 23, 1863; three or four others very slightly wounded, and Lieutenant Lawrence and Daniel Suycott, captured. Lawrence and Suycott were exchanged in the following Spring, returning to the Company in May. About Jan. 7, 1863, a detail from company, Lieutenant Kyger in charge, sought the bodies of Dye and Yoho and buried them. The writer saw both these men expire; they were near together, and died at about the same time.[A] [A] NOTE.--The latter part of January, or early in February, the company, in pursuance of general orders from Rosecrans, chose a man whose name should be inscribed on a "roll of honor." Through some unaccountable circumstance, or accident, or perhaps through compromise, the choice fell on the writer hereof. Though conscious of having tried to do my duty at Stone River, I knew this honor was undeserved; that there were others more entitled to it. As the honor was bestowed by comrades who had passed with me through the smoke and fire of that eventful day I will cherish it to my dying hour as a precious legacy, one that I would proudly transmit to my children if possible. Having mentioned the foregoing, I must not fail to record another scrap of history equally important in its outcome, as placing me under a weight of obligation to the company. Some time in May, 1863, I was on picket duty as sergeant at outpost, from which guards were sent out every two hours to relieve those on the line. Guards at this outpost were expected to, and usually did, turn out and present arms to the officer of the day, or other officer, when he came around. On this particular day a cold, drizzling rain was falling, and the officer wore a gum coat, concealing insignia of office, or special duty. Four of the boys were pitching quoits (horse-shoes), as a means of diversion, when the officer on horseback was observed in the distance through woods. The quoit pitching ceased, and the boys made ready to "take arms" and "fall in." But the horseman either did not see, or pretended that he did not see the outpost, until he got well past a point in our front, then quickly turning, dashed upon us. As I was satisfied the officer was playing a "smart Aleck" game, I had said to the boys, "never mind; pay no attention to him," and only two or three turned out. Arriving at the outpost, reining his steed, and bowing up his neck with a self-satisfied air, as though he thought himself "autocrat of all the Russias," officer demanded, "Where's the corporal or sergeant in charge?" I responded "Here." Officer inquired my name, rank, and regiment. Noting the information I gave him, officer rode away, without giving his name, or business, as requested. The latter I learned next day on returning to camp. An order from Sheridan had been received by the company commander to "reduce Sergeant Wm. H. Newlin to the ranks; fill vacancy, etc." An investigation was had; those who had been on duty with me the past twenty-four hours and myself, were summoned, and all the facts were stated. The general's order was complied with--that had to be done--and an election was ordered to be held at nine o'clock next morning, to fill vacancy thus created. The hour for election arrived, and as there was no candidate against me I received a _unanimous_ vote, and was elected--not appointed--to "fill vacancy." Division head-quarters was notified, "Order complied with; Wm. H. Newlin reduced, and vacancy filled." And that was the end of it, except that Lieutenant Kyger cautioned all the boys not to say any thing about the matter in writing home, adding, "What if news of that should get back to Georgetown?" But I didn't care where the news went to, whether to Georgetown or Damascus, so all the facts were given. Were in two different camps at Murfreesboro, first Bradley, then Shafer--named for our brigade commander killed at Stone River. From Jan. 1st to June 30th, 1863, inclusive, the company lost members as follows, in addition to the three already noted, viz: John W. Smith, Discharged, Jan. 3, 1863, disability. Carey A. Savage, Discharged, Feb. 6, 1863, disability. John V. Don Carlos, Discharged, May 10, 1863, disability. Enoch Braselton, Discharged, March 12, 1863, disability. William Cook, Discharged, Jan. 28, 1863, disability. Robert W. Cowan, Discharged, Feb. 9, 1863, disability. Lawrence Dye, Discharged, Jan. 28, 1863, disability. Benj. F. Edmonds, Discharged, Feb. 10, 1863, disability. Wright Madden, Transferred to gun-boat service, April 16, 1863. Jacob Martin, Died at Murfreesboro, Feb. 21, 1863. William McEntyre, Died at Nashville, Jan. 15, 1863. Thomas Elwood Madden, Discharged, Feb. 20, 1863, disability. Joshua T. Nicholson, Died at Nashville, Jan. 18, 1863. Christopher C. Shires, Discharged, May 28, 1863, disability. John M. Thompson, Discharged, Feb. 20, 1863, disability. James F. Williams, Discharged, March 26, 1863, disability. George Miley, Died at Nashville, Feb. 3, 1863. Robert B. Drake, Discharged, June 30, 1863, disability. In all, twenty-one men, making a total loss to July 1, 1863, of thirty-nine men. Started June 23, 1863, on Chattanooga campaign. First injury to member of Company was the wounding of Alex. C. Nicholson, at Fairfield. Followed on, passing Manchester and Estill Springs, wading Elk River, and passing through Winchester to Cowan's Station. Halted at latter place, July 3, 1863, hearing next day the news of Gettysburg and Vicksburg. A few days later passed through Cumberland Tunnel, and on to Stevenson, Alabama. At Stevenson there was a delay until Sept. 2d, when the command pushed on to the Tennessee River, at Bridgeport, crossing on the 3d, and going over Sand Mountain, and on down to Alpine, Georgia. When company left Stevenson I remained, with others, in consequence of chills, having had medicine prescribed for breaking same about August 30th. Captain Patterson McNutt resigned July 29, 1863, and First Lieutenant Tilmon D. Kyger was mustered in as captain of company, Sept. 4th, following.[B] [B] NOTE.--On morning, Sept. 3d, we followed company to Bridgeport, arriving just as command was starting to cross the river. Being wearied by the tramp, James T. Maudlin, Henderson Goodwin, William Martin, and myself were again left in temporary hospital. Next morning, feeling much refreshed, concluded to apply for passes to go on to company. We were disappointed, myself in particular, as that date, Sept. 4, 1863, marked the end of my twenty-first year. About noon, a long wagon train began crossing the river, and while at dinner we conceived the idea of getting across, under the guise of train guards. So, striking the train at a little distance from the river, we distributed ourselves at intervals, among the wagons, loading our luggage, except gun and bayonet. The scheme worked; and on getting across, we repossessed ourselves of our luggage, and passed ahead of the train. We diligently pressed forward until sunset. We then located a camp, got roasting-ears from a field to our right, an iron pot, and water at a house to our left, and in due time feasted, chatted, and retired for the night, not knowing how near we might be to enemies, or how far from friends. After midnight a terrible racket, to our front, awakened and frightened us. Imagining the commotion was produced by a dash of the enemy's cavalry, we arose in great haste, scattered our fire, gathered our traps, and hied us away to the brush. The disturbance ceased, our excitement subsided, and we resumed our former position. After breakfast next morning we started, and on going one-fourth of a mile we came to a lot, of say three acres, in which were a dozen or more horses, colts, and cows. Up to nearly noon at least, we attributed the racket to the stock. Keeping steadily on, and not meeting or overtaking any troops or trains, and the road showing less indications of any having passed, we began to feel lonesome. Just before noon, after passing a house on our left, we stopped, and sent one of our squad back to inquire if any troops had passed that morning. Comrade soon returned with information that a small body of cavalry had passed, going south, about two hours before. Signs in the road, and on either side, seemed to confirm the report, but as our scout had failed to ascertain the character of the cavalry, he was sent for further information. In answer to question as to whose, or what cavalry had passed, our man was told it was "we'rn." Further inquiry established a probability that it was a detachment of Roddy's Confederate cavalry. For certain reasons we did not go back past the house, but kept straight ahead, as though it was our business to overtake that detachment. Fifteen minutes later we were following a road in an easterly direction. Going at a "quick" gait, and being about to pass a bunch of pigs, averaging about sixty pounds weight, we concluded we wouldn't pass all of them. It was very quickly done, as we dare not fire a gun, or allow a pig to squeal much. The choice parts of the pig were appropriated to our own special purposes. After dinner we pursued our way, and soon discovered intersecting roads, and evidences of the passage of troops and trains. Later our suspense was ended, and before dark, of Sept. 6th, we had reached the company. The movement to Alpine, by Thomas' and McCook's corps, having forced Bragg out of Chattanooga, next came the hard marching necessary to concentrate the Union forces, before the reinforced enemy should turn and crush Crittenden's corps. Arrived in vicinity of Chickamauga battlefield, late September 18th. Got nearer next day; was under fire, but not engaged. Saturday night, September 19th, company furnished a corporal, R. J. Hasty, and two or three guards for duty at Sheridan's head-quarters. McCook, Crittenden, and other generals, were at head-quarters in course of the night. Sheridan was restless and dissatisfied, and altogether indications, as interpreted by our corporal and guards, were unfavorable as to our prospects for to-morrow. Bradley's brigade (Sheridan's third), had been very roughly used in the afternoon, and his first and second brigades would probably "catch it" to-morrow. We were in the second (Laibold's brigade.) The night was dark, the weather was cool, and fire was forbidden. Our position was in heavy woods; the noise and racket in our front, whether made by the enemy or by our own troops, sounded and resounded terribly ominous in our ears. Daybreak came, and with it orders to move; we were out of rations, or nearly so, and not allowed time to draw a supply. Lytle persisted in drawing rations for his (the first) brigade, notwithstanding orders to move immediately. Moved two miles or more to the left; took position, and awaited further orders. Before noon orders came, and we "went in." Of this memorable battle history tells; it has been "fought over," and "wrote up," many times. As within an hour from "going in," we had, with others, surrendered, and passed to the rear of five lines, two ranks each, of Confederate troops, we will not attempt a description of the small part of the battle we witnessed. For the first time we viewed the situation amid and to rear of the enemy. Doubt and uncertainty seemed to have place among the Confederates, although they were advancing. Officers were busy gathering up stragglers and hurrying them forward. Too many wanted to guard prisoners. Swords were drawn, and wildly flourished, and much ado made, probably because of the presence of so many "Yankees." Rope lines and traces, and other rope rigging to artillery, and sorghum stalks, sticking in haversacks of Bragg's men, attracted our attention. We saw Gen. Longstreet with an immense escort following him. We saw Gen. Hood lying under the fly of a tent, wounded; later he had his leg taken off. After one o'clock enemy's right fell back, and our left advanced. We saw several solid shot, skipping over the ground, which had been sent by Crittenden's batteries. We had many companions in our new and strange experience, and formed many new acquaintances, most of them of short duration. Some fourteen hundred of Gen. Sheridan's division, and many from other commands, had been collected in one place. Hesser and North, of Company A, and Brown and myself, of Company C, were one little squad of the Seventy-third that did not scatter much. We encountered no other members of our regiment until reaching Richmond. Up to this point we have given facts, in the history of the company, of which we had personal knowledge. What few incidents or accidents in its history, from Chickamauga up to opening of Atlanta campaign here given are vouched for, my information touching the same being derived from reliable sources. The losses sustained by company in battle of Chickamauga were as follows: David A. Smith, Enoch Smith, and Artemas Terrell, killed; Wm. R. Lawrence, John R. Burk, Henderson Goodwin, Nathaniel Henderson, Henry C. Henderson, Austin Henderson, Jehu Lewis (color bearer), and John Bostwick (discharged May 27, 1864), wounded; and all the following named were captured, viz: Enoch P. Brown, Wm. H. Newlin, John R. Burk, Wm. F. Ellis, Austin Henderson, and John Thornton. Of those that were captured, Burk and Lewis were soon exchanged, being seriously wounded; Burk, however, went to Richmond; losing an arm, he was discharged June 9, 1864. Lewis was exchanged on battlefield. Austin Henderson was exchanged late in 1864. John Thornton, Enoch P. Brown, and William F. Ellis, died in Andersonville prison, in order named: September 16th, 20th, and 23d, 1864, respectively. Number of Brown's grave, 9,350; Ellis', 9,703. Number of Thornton's grave not given. Wm. H. Newlin was never either paroled or exchanged. Nearly every member of company was struck by balls, or fragments of shell, or trees, in some part of the body, accoutrements, or clothing. At nightfall only three of the company were present at call of the captain. During the night a dozen or more others rallied upon this feeble remnant. Chickamauga was a dreadful strain upon the strength and powers of endurance of the soldier, and September 20, 1863, is, and will ever be, a memorable day in our country's history. By September 22d, some twenty or more of the company had reached Chattanooga, and were beginning to assume at least a defensive attitude. Early in September commissions for Lawrence and Smith, as first and second lieutenants, respectively, were sent for, but neither were ever mustered in on them; Lawrence resigning, November 24, 1863, as second lieutenant, and Smith having met his fate as already noted. Following Chickamauga came the siege of Chattanooga, and with it very scant supplies, and hard picket and forage duty. The "cracker line" being often disturbed, and foraging not yielding, or "panning out" very heavily, the supply of rations, provender, for man and beast, was far short of ordinary demands. November 25th the battle of Missionary Ridge occurred, in which Company C fortunately suffered very few casualties, the most serious one being the wounding of Stephen Newlin. After Missionary Ridge company and command went to the relief of Burnside at Knoxville. On this winter campaign much hard marching and great fatigue were endured. Some one or two, or more, of the company, not starting with the command, followed up later with squads and detachments. In one or more instances the enemy's cavalry attempted to "gobble up" these squads. During its stay in East Tennessee, regiment encamped for a time at Haworth's Mill, near New Market, and also at Lenoir's Station. From latter place, it is said, some members of company made frequent visits in the country east of river, and it is further alleged, one or more of them got married. Dandridge, I believe, was the farthest point eastward to which command penetrated in the Knoxville campaign. Capt. Kyger was very sick at Knoxville, in course of winter, and on recovering sufficiently was granted leave of absence. Winter breaking, and time for opening of the Atlanta campaign approaching, the regiment returned to vicinity of Chattanooga, encamping at Cleveland, at which point we rejoined it, on our return from prison. April 11, 1864, Wm. R. Cook was mustered in, as a recruit to company, being last name entered on company roll.[C] [C] NOTE.--Soon after capture were placed under a strong guard, our partners, being Brown, Hesser, and North. Jos. C. Squires, an attachee, before capture, of Gen. Rosecrans' staff, "stood in" with us a day or so, until catching sight of Col. Von Strader. We dropped our extra ammunition in Chickamauga Creek. Passed Ringgold, Sunday evening, about eight o'clock. Four miles farther on, halted until morning. Arrived at Tunnell Hill about noon, September 21st. A morsel of bacon issued to each man, a piece four inches long, could have been drawn through a half-inch augur hole, without squeezing out much grease. Boarded railroad train about three o'clock, P. M., and started on tour of Confederacy. Rode on top of car part of time; came near rolling off. Reached Atlanta night of September 22d. Put up at Barracks. Next day were marched past a clerk at a table; gave clerk our name, company and regiment. Drew rations, September 24th. Started early; arrived at Augusta before night. Bought a huge watermelon; all we could do to carry it; cost fifty cents. Were guarded closely in court-house enclosure. Got away with melon by calling neighbors. September 25th, took an early train for Columbia. Cars crowded as usual; excitement subsiding; novelty of trip wearing off. Reached Columbia morning of 26th. Were delayed three hours. Finally got started northward, the direction we wanted to go, if we didn't stop too soon. Rode all day up to three o'clock. Stopped at a little station near line between the Carolinas. Lots of sweet potatoes on the platform; we let them alone. Many people were there, mostly women, young and old. An old lady delivered an off-hand address, giving advice to the "Yankees." She wanted to know why we "couldn't let the South alone. We're not meddlin' with your affairs. You all go back North and stay on your farms, and in your factories, and work-shops. Yes, go back to your homes and make shoes for us." Reached Charlotte late in the day. A few of the boys got away, and trouble and delay were occasioned in getting them to train again. Next day, Sunday, September 27th, arrived at Raleigh. Were viewed by many people, mostly colored, while waiting. Got under way again, traveled all night, arriving at Weldon next day. Dismounted from cars; were guarded near railroad; drew rations. Invested one dollar and a half in extras. Boarded train early on September 29th, and dismounted no more until arriving at Richmond. Put up at Libby about eleven o'clock the night of 29th. Paid Dick Turner twelve dollars next day under protest. He said he would pay it back when we were paroled or exchanged. Was never paroled or exchanged, so the twelve dollars ain't due yet. Went to the Rosser (tobacco) house late on the 30th. We were guided around to it. Stayed one night with Rosser, then went to Smith and Pemberton houses, October 1st. On the way fell in with Ellis and Thornton, of Company C. Stationary for quite a while; had a diversity of pastime, read Testament, played checkers, fought vermin, but never carried any rations over from one day to next. Kilpatrick--Jesse D., not James, as we have it on page 10--joined our Seventy-third delegation; his credentials were from Company B. Got our share of the sugar. Stopped one night at Scott House; next day, November 14th, took train for Danville, Va., arriving November 15th. Our delegation generally agreed, worked and voted as a unit on all questions. Consisting of seven members, we settled things among ourselves in committee, before going to the full house. Attention was occupied a few days considering a plan for a general break; plan never fully matured, i. e. in the full house; killed in committee, no doubt. December 15th we seceded, withdrew from prison No. 2, on account of small-pox, and went to hospital. In time recovered, and was variously employed up to February 19, 1864. Formed new acquaintances; organized a new alliance; seceded again, the night of date last mentioned. In issue of _National Tribune_ of November 16, 1882, my comrade L. B. Smith, criticises my narrative, in a manner complimentary to it, however. He says, "Many important points are left out; all he has written is true, and much more." Have supplied one of those "important points" on page 4, the very _important_ one to comrade Smith. I refer to his rescue, by Sutherland, from drowning in Craig's Creek. Another interesting, if not "important point," left out, is that which includes the proposal, from a mulatto girl of some fifteen Summers, that we should leave Smith with herself and parents as a "hostage," security that we, after getting through, would send a squad of cavalry after the whole family. Other interesting points were some of our discussions as to feasibility of things proposed, such as the taking of the horses, the third night out; which road to take--this, that, or the other; and the project of unearthing money said to be hid in a certain portion of a river bank. Another important and interesting point in Mr. Smith's life did not come within the compass of my narrative, viz.: his standing guard for a few minutes over Mr. Jefferson Davis, immediately after, or within a day or two of his capture. Mr. Smith became twenty-one years old in February, 1864, while on our trip. The cut--upper left corner--represents Smith as he appeared at about the age of thirty years. Another interesting point was the management, making a friend, by Sutherland, of Huffman's dog. So skillfully did Sutherland get on the "good side" of the dog that he never barked once, or gave his owner the slightest intimation or warning of our approach. Comrade Sutherland, I believe, was connected, in or about, the despatching of Maj. Ross' dog in Richmond. Mr. Sutherland is, and has always been a farmer; is now fifty years old; cut--lower right corner--represents him as he appeared probably ten years ago. Other interesting points left out are those in the experience of comrade Tripp, after his separation from our party, March 4, 1864. Did not know until November, 1881, that Tripp had survived these experiences. Visiting him last November I learned the particulars of his singular and somewhat protracted wanderings after we left him. Want of space forbids any thing like a record of them here. His loneliness, immediately following his misfortune in being left, must have been oppressive; hungry and foodless, the shades of night closing around him amid those rugged mountains, his feelings can scarcely be imagined. With reluctance and fear he called, hoping his recent companions, or some belated pursuer, might hear him; but there was no answering voice, nothing but distressing silence, and his disappointment was very great. Mr. Tripp is now fifty-seven years old; cut--lower left corner--shows him as he appeared for some months after his discharge in December, 1864. Wood and Taylor are accounted for on page 4. In Wood's case the information is direct and official; he was about twenty-six years old at time of his death. In Taylor's case the information is indirect and circumstantial, but his fate is probably correctly indicated on page 4. He was about twenty-seven years old at time we left him. The engravings herewith, "The Ferry Scene," and "Left Alone," are reasonably accurate and true to the reality. "Out of the Woods" is intended to represent the general idea of escape, our troubles behind, our persevering, unremitting efforts ended, and our safety assured. Though as uniting, bringing together, two or three separate scenes, "Out of the Woods" is also a faithful picture. Conceding that Taylor's fate, as the principal figure in "Left Alone," was that, which all the information suggests, indescribably sad, and gloomy must have been his last hour. Nothing of hope or comfort in his anticipations of the future, his busy thoughts must have drifted away from his surroundings and recent events, and sped across the sea, and dwelt upon his father and mother there, who were ignorant of his fate. This brings us to the events mentioned on page 109. At Georgetown, while on furlough, we met Capt. Kyger and P. B. Huffman, of Company C. Furlough soon run out. The rocks and hills about Georgetown seemed very small. Separated from home and friends once more, and started in company with Huffman for the front. This was in the latter part of April. Encountered my escaping comrade Sutherland in Indianapolis, and accompanied him the greater part of the way to Chattanooga. Arrived in camp at Cleveland, May 2, 1864, just at sunset. Had to talk nearly all night, and then get up next morning and start on the Atlanta campaign. From June 30, 1863, to July 1, 1864, the total loss to company, from all causes, was fourteen men, including Amos Bogue. Transferred to Invalid corps, August 1, 1863; Clark B. Brant, discharged November 12, 1863; Merida Thornton and Aaron Willison, transferred to Invalid corps, January 15th and February 1, 1864; James T. Slaughter, transferred to V. R. C., May 1, 1864; Charles W. Cook, permanently detached as blacksmith to Bat. G., First Mo. Art., August 26, 1863; and James W. Trimble, transferred to V. R. C., April 10, 1864, the other seven already noted; making a total loss to date of fifty-three men. Moved from Cleveland, May 3, 1864, with command, first brigade, second division, fourth army corps. Under fire first time, on Atlanta campaign, in the vicinity of Catoosa Springs, May 5. At Rocky Faced Ridge, May 9th, was again under fire, but not engaged. Sharpshooters from the regiment did good work here; Company C being represented by John P. Jones, Alex. C. Nicholson, and James T. Maudlin. Was engaged at Resaca, May 14th. Wm. D. Bales struck by piece of shell. Was engaged at Adairsville, May 17th. Up to, and including Adairsville, Company C was in my charge, there being no commissioned officer present. On this date Capt. Kyger arrived at the front and took command of company. At Kingston there was a delay of three or four days. Pursuant to orders, all vacancies in line, and non-commissioned officers were filled, or selections made with that object in view. May 22d, Company C attended to this duty. The company was entitled to a lieutenant, and an election was held. Candidates were voted for, for orderly sergeant, with the understanding that the successful candidate should be commissioned first lieutenant. Election resulted in my favor by a small majority--four votes, I believe--which, considering all the circumstances, my long absence, and the fact that my competitor had been present all the time, was a No. 1 soldier, none better, I regarded as extremely flattering, and was therefore very thankful for the advancement. My commission was sent for; it bears date June 9, 1864. The list of non-commissioned officers being filled, stood as follows: WM. M. SHEETS, orderly sergeant. JAMES T. MAUDLIN, second sergeant. JEHU LEWIS, third sergeant. ROBERT J. HASTY, fourth sergeant. ALEX. C. NICHOLSON, fifth sergeant. WESLEY BISHOP, first corporal. JONATHAN ELLIS, second corporal. AUSTIN HENDERSON, third corporal. SAMUEL HEWITT, fourth corporal. ALFRED E. LEWIS, fifth corporal. GEORGE W. MARTIN, sixth corporal. STEPHEN NEWLIN, seventh corporal. GEO. HOLLINGSWORTH, eighth corporal. It was at this time and place that A. E. Lewis notified Ellis of his appointment as corporal; adding, "and your commission has gone on to Washington for approval." All of the above were mustered out June 12, 1865. The list does not contain one of the original sergeants or corporals; except that Orderly Sheets was one of the first corporals. Recommenced active operations about May 25th. June 18th John Braselton was wounded. By June 25th the actions at Pine and Lost Mountains, Dallas, New Hope Church, and preliminary battles before Kenesaw Mountain had taken place, without inflicting serious damage to company. Capt. Kyger was sick, a week or more, up to and including June 27th, the day of the assault on Kenesaw. This assault was the first heavy battle occurring after my muster in as lieutenant, and owing to the formation of each regiment preparatory to the assault, and the absence of my seniors, I was placed in command of two companies, C and H, forming the third or middle division of regiment. Two lines, of two ranks each, were in front of, and two lines, of two ranks each, were in rear of companies C and H. Owing to nature of ground these companies came off well, suffered less than any of the others. From point of starting in, the ground sloped considerably to line immediately without, or in front of the very elaborate, systematic obstructions in front of enemy's works, and from this same line the ground covered by these obstructions was gradually ascending to line of fortifications. Pending the heaviest fire of enemy, companies C and H were on the lowest ground, all the other companies, whether in front or rear, being on higher ground, so that fire of enemy was comparatively harmless to C and H, there being only four or five slight wounds received in the two companies, and these inflicted while getting back to position from which they started. Of the regiment, three were killed, and some twelve or fifteen wounded. There were several cases of overheating, the weather being extremely hot, and the assault, from some cause, not being made as early as intended. The casualties to regiment, seeming so few, in an assault of such magnitude, it is proper to state that number of men in regiment that day, present for duty, did not exceed three hundred. In our front, too, were very heavy earth-works, feebly manned; but for the arrival of reinforcements we could have effected, at least, a _temporary_ breach in the enemy's line. Early July 3d it was found that the enemy had fallen back. Followed up immediately; regiment lost one man, killed, July 4th. There was a delay of a week at the Chattahoochie River. Command took position, near river, above Vining's Station. July 9th division marched to Roswell; destroyed some mills or factories, and crossed and recrossed the Chattahoochie while gone, returning on the 12th. Writer was not with company on Roswell trip; but owing to depletion of strength was favored; left behind in charge of regimental camp, and those who had been excused from duty. July 13th, crossed Chattahoochie River on pontoon bridge. While crossing, writer was taken sick, and was obliged to drop behind soon after getting across the river. In attempting to reach the upland and overtake company, was prostrated, the result of over-heating or partial sun-stroke, and have no recollection whatever of events occurring after the crossing of the Chattahoochie, up to the crossing of Nance's Creek, July 18. There had, however, been a delay at Buck's Head, and also a general inspection. Late on the 19th there were two or three severe skirmishes along the line of Peach Tree Creek, one of which approached the dignity of a battle, and several prisoners, including a general officer, were captured by our forces. Crossed Peach Tree Creek at ten o'clock, P. M., of the 19th. About noon, on the 20th, brigade was assigned position in line, and hastily built slight breast-works of logs, limbs, and rails. This done, was ordered to make reconnoisance to front. In execution of this order, the enemy was found in force, and we came back at a double-quick, to find our temporary works occupied by other troops. Took another position, further to right, the Seventy-third holding the extreme right of fourth corps. There was a gap of two hundred yards or more, between right of fourth and left of twentieth corps; so the right of Seventy-third was retired, swung back a little in order to cover this gap. The battle immediately opened, giving no time for construction of works, however slight, and continued about an hour, with two casualties to Company C--William Martin and the writer, wounded. Sampson McCool, of Company E, was also wounded. Sampson and William McCool, and John Murdock, the latter killed at Perryville, being the three loaned by Company C to Company E, that were never retransferred to C. Of regiment, one man was killed, and several others wounded. My wound, being slight, healed entirely by August 1st, but I was detained at division field hospital until August 16th, on account of general physical debility, resulting from the sunstroke of 13th. Command was not in the battles of July 22d and 28th, so my hospital and prison experience, covering in all eight months, deprived me of participation in only one battle--Missionary Ridge--and one campaign--the East Tennessee--in which the company engaged. The latter part of August, started on the flanking movement to Jonesboro and Lovejoy station. September 1st, engaged in tearing up railroad, burning the ties, and twisting the heated rails around trees. Arrived at Jonesboro too late to accomplish more than the capture of a hospital and a few hundred prisoners, as the battle there was closing. Night of September 1st, Company C stood picket out north-east of Jonesboro, and toward morning the rumble of Hood's artillery and trains could be heard, as they were passing hurriedly on a road still further eastward, retreating from Atlanta. Later, the explosions at Atlanta were distinctly heard. Followed on to Lovejoy's. Were under fire, but had no good opportunity of returning it. Withdrew from enemy's front at Lovejoy's the night of September 5th or 6th, returning to Atlanta, arriving on the 8th. Went into quarters with some expectation of remaining inactive for a longer time than we did. Writer, however, saw the exterior of the barracks, the interior of which he had seen, as a prisoner, just a year before. About September 26th to 28th, were ordered to Chattanooga, going by railway; and from thence marched down into Alpine valley again, about October 18th, returning the latter part of October, via Chickamauga battle-ground, to Chattanooga. On this return march from Alpine, quite a number of recruits of Fifty-first Illinois fell behind, "straggled," and no wonder, as most of them wore overcoats, and carried knapsacks packed full; one of them carried his bayonet fixed, instead of in scabbard, whereupon Corporal Lewis (who had just awakened from a short sleep at roadside, where company was resting) cried out, "Halt, halt, you Fifty-firster; I want to know WHERE YOU GOT YOUR GUN SHARPENED." About November 1, 1864, went by rail to Huntsville, Alabama, and from there marched to Athens, and from thence, via Lynnville and Pulaski, to Columbia, Tenn. Here a part of twenty-third corps met, and reinforced the fourth corps. Hood's rebel army was becoming very troublesome and apparently impatient for large results, and was pressing ours very _closely_. Considerable skirmishing took place about Columbia, in which Company C bore its full share. Under pressure of enemy our forces crossed Duck River the night of November 28th, the Seventy-third standing picket the balance of that night on north bank of river. Next morning, the pressure being great, there was no time to relieve us, and being already deployed, we fell back, first as flankers, then as skirmishers, in the direction of Spring Hill, arriving there about four o'clock in afternoon of 29th. We were to the right, or south-east of Pike and of Spring Hill. The part of the Seventy-third in the action at Spring Hill was to assist in resisting a cavalry dash by enemy, just before sunset. To do this we were only compelled to shorten our line a little, and deliver a brisk fire for the space of about ten minutes. Heavy fighting was going on near us, in which enemy's infantry was engaged, pending which, night fall ended the contest, luckily for our forces. There was great confusion, one result of which was, our being compelled to stand picket all night, as on the preceding night. We must have been VERY CLOSE indeed to enemy's pickets, though we did not see or hear them; but could distinctly see the enemy at a little distance around his camp-fires. Our trains were hustling the whole night through, and got well on the way before morning toward Franklin. Daylight of November 30th came, and we were still on the picket line. By sunrise we began falling back, deployed as skirmishers, and skirmishing began, and was kept up with more or less severity to within one mile of Franklin, when our brigade was relieved. Very soon after skirmishing began in the morning we crossed to the left of the road, and when but little more than half way to Franklin, Capt. Kyger being sick, was unable to remain longer with company, and was taken in charge by Surgeon Pond, and we saw him no more until arriving at Nashville. Being relieved, as before mentioned, by passing within, and to rear, of skirmish line, which had been thrown out, the brigade, Opedycke's first brigade, second division, fourth army corps, formed and marched in column, with little delay, to Franklin, passing on the way a brigade which must have been the third brigade of our division, posted some distance in front of a temporary line of breastworks, which had been hastily built, extending from a point above to another point on the river below the town. These works, scarcely a mile in length, semi-circular in form, and covering, not only Franklin, but also the bridge across the Harpeth, were filled with troops; so our brigade passed on to the rear, and took position behind Carter's Hill. This was at about 3:30 o'clock, P. M. The men at once set about preparing coffee and something to eat, being greatly fatigued from loss of sleep, and almost constant duty since evening of 28th, on crossing Duck River. All the trains, and the first division of the fourth corps, were north of the Harpeth. Dinner over once, we should probably have followed and taken the advance, having assisted two days in covering the retreat. But no; not all of us were permitted to finish dinner before Hood had martialed his forces, swept up suddenly, driving in the brigade, posted in front, as before stated, in its wake, and under cover of same crushing in, making a fearful breach in our main line. Heavy firing began, clouds of dust and smoke arose, hundreds of rebel troops were thrust into the breach which they had made, and beyond; singly, and in squads, small and great, our men began flying from the front, throwing away their guns; pieces of artillery and cassions, with horses attached, came thundering down; confusion and consternation indescribable had been wrought in five minutes or less time. The Thirty-sixth, Forty-fourth, and Seventy-third Illinois, and Twenty-fourth Wisconsin, and One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Ohio, five regiments, composing Opedycke's brigade, were instantly on their feet, anticipating orders, seizing their guns, which had been stacked on one line, made a simultaneous, irresistible rush to the front, carrying every thing before them at the point of the bayonet, capturing thirteen battle-flags, nearly one thousand prisoners, and restoring and strengthening our line, so that it was broken no more. Stung to desperation at this sudden turning of the scales in this important battle, the infuriated enemy _charged_, and CHARGED _again_ and AGAIN, carrying his reckless resistance right up to, yes on to, our slight works, to the very muzzles of our guns. But we were there to stay, at least until getting ready to leave of our own accord; but it took _work_, HARD WORK, PERSISTENT, UNFLAGGING and UNFLINCHING WORK, to maintain our position. How it was done I can scarcely hope to describe. On arriving at the point from whence our forces had been driven, there were too many troops to operate to advantage, and afford all a semblance of protection. Fortunately, the ground, beginning at the works, was gradually declining to the rear. Company C, with a few soldiers of other companies, was posted between, and to the front of, two pieces of artillery. All were either lying on the ground or in a low, stooping posture. Immediately at the works was a strong line of men, with barely elbow room, who did nothing but fire; in rear of this line were two or three tiers of men, who were busy loading pieces and passing them forward; to rear of these were still others, who were cleaning guns, breaking open boxes of ammunition, and distributing cartridges to the loaders; others still further back, carried up the boxes of ammunition from a point where left by ammunition wagons. There was _work_ for all, and all WORKED. There was a full half hour of desperate fighting, perhaps equalled at some time and place, but scarcely ever, if ever, surpassed. For several fearful minutes, as a result of combined, sturdy, heroic effort on the part of all, from end to end of our line, the small arms volleyed; there was no determining of intervals between volleys; it was as one. The cannon thundered; the shell shrieked; the smoke rolled; the earth trembled; the heroic, reckless, desperate, enemy surged, and _surged_ again and AGAIN, right up to our line, and recoiled as often, _recoiling last_, before the merciless tempest of death. Darkness came on, and shrouded the scene; there was a lull in the fight; a great calm after a great storm. Many of our soldiers had been slain, but for each one, from three to five of the rebels had bitten the dust. Very many on both sides were wounded, the few mortally, the many slightly. Did those who had not finished dinner, now finish it? No. Was supper prepared? No. Was there time for coffee? Not much. The foe, threatening and defiant, was right there, within sixty feet, waiting to pounce upon us. Guns were put in order, ammunition in abundance was got ready at hand, and all precautions taken. Nor had we long to wait until the first night assault was made; right up to our works they charged, coming within space measured by the flashes from our rifles. But before our galling fire the enemy quailed and fell back. Our fire slackened some; but within an hour two or more assaults were made, with like result. After the last assault we kept up a heavy fire for some minutes, until some person, some officer perhaps, between the lines, but nearest ours, yelled out: "Cease firing, cease firing;" repeating the command several times. Amid the smoke and darkness it could not be told who or what he was, whether Union or rebel. In a few minutes the firing did, in a great measure, cease; later it ceased almost entirely. At same time a burning building in the suburbs of Franklin fell in, making a great light, by which we saw several, as many as a dozen, standards raise along enemy's line. He was preparing, no doubt, for a last desperate effort to break our front. Brisk firing immediately opened from our side, increasing in volume and ceasing not until every battle-flag on enemy's front was laid low. This ended the contest; quiet succeeded; and by midnight our weary forces had withdrawn from the field; crossed the Harpeth, and were slowly wending their way to Nashville. The loss to Seventy-third, in this battle, was nine killed and two wounded that died soon afterward; one of the former being Adjt. Wilmer, and one of the latter being Major Motherspaw; the loss to Company C being one killed, Zenas Fulton, and one wounded, Joseph A. Allison, who died in enemy's hands. There were three or four others of company wounded, including the writer; and there were several others of the regiment wounded; but nearly all of these were slight wounds, excepting that of Captain Jonas Jones, and one or two others. Some two or three years ago writer saw a statement from Gen. D. S. Stanley, who commanded the fourth corps, until wounded, in this battle; which statement, published in a Philadelphia paper, asserted that the fourth corps used ninety wagon loads of ammunition the afternoon and night of November 30, 1864. It is reasonable to suppose that much of this ammunition was destroyed; wasted in other ways than in "wild firing," the enemy's losses, all told, being about five thousand five hundred, or three times our own. Col. Opedycke was breveted brigadier-general, and merited praise was bestowed in congratulatory orders, for the part borne by his brigade in the battle of Franklin. Any other brigade that was there would probably have done as well, under the same circumstances; but as three-fifths of the brigade were Illinoisians we take a pardonable pride in making this imperfect record of its most conspicuous achievement. Arrived at Nashville at one o'clock, P. M., December 1, 1864. We were a very tired, sorely-taxed, and dirty lot of soldiers. Sleep was imperatively demanded; and most of us, as soon as halted, or assigned camping space, dropped on the ground and slept until sunset; by which time Capt. Kyger had found us, and was anxiously ascertaining how we had fared. Hood followed up immediately, taking position in our front; and on December 3d, James Ashmore, of Company C, a faithful soldier, was shot dead while standing picket. His body was buried in the cemetery at Nashville. This was the last loss which befell Company C, except in case of two or three members who were mustered out a few days in advance of the regiment at hospitals, and one recruit--Wm. R. Cook--transferred to the Forty-fourth Illinois. About this time we received notification of the death of three members of the company in Andersonville prison, as before noted, viz.: Brown, Ellis, and Thornton, with whom the writer had spent three months as a prisoner. How fortunate had we been, not only in escaping prison, but in passing comparatively unharmed through twelve battles, since separating from prison comrades, and standing now upon the threshold of the thirteenth, destined to pass safely through that. Fortunate indeed we were, and thankful, very thankful we are, and ought to be. On December 15th and 16th, 1864, occurred the battles of Nashville, in which command performed the part assigned it both days; in the afternoon of the 16th joining in the grand, majestic charge, which was the finishing stroke to the rebellion in the west. Casualties to Company C, none to speak of, and to regiment very few, only one man killed, and probably a dozen wounded. Enemy hugged his works so closely that his fire passed above our heads. On our reaching the works, those of the enemy who did not surrender fled with precipitated haste. With utmost enthusiasm our troops pursued the flying enemy, until darkness closed the race. Started early on the 17th, but our cavalry took the job off our hands, pursuing Hood so closely that he crossed the Tennessee River, with only a few shattered and broken fragments of his late offensive army. We followed to Pulaski, Tenn., at which point, a day or two before Christmas, we heard, for the last time, the whiz of an enemy's bullet. Leaving Pulaski we took up our line of march for Huntsville, Ala., arriving January 5, 1865. Here we remained until March 28th; then going by rail to Blue Springs, East Tennessee. While at Blue Springs the war closed; Lee and Johnston surrendered, and Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. News of the latter produced the wildest frenzy among our troops. The latter part of April were ordered to Nashville. Going by rail, we arrived in due course. Hostilities having ceased, the excitement incident thereto having subsided, we led a quiet camp life up to middle of June. The regiment was mustered out June 12, 1865, starting a day or two later for Springfield, Ill., to receive final payment and to disband. We give name of each member of Company C that was present for muster out June 12th, except where already noted; see list of sergeants and corporals and remarks below on page 126, which with the fifty-three men dropped from the roll by July 1, 1864, and the following dropped since, or mustered out in advance of the regiment, make the one hundred and four men, with which company entered the service: N. Brady and I. W. Ward, transferred to United States engineer corps, July 20th and August 21st, 1864; E. P. Brown, Wm. F. Ellis, and John Thornton, died at Andersonville; James A. Allison and Zenas Fulton, killed at Franklin; James Ashmore, killed at Nashville; Nathaniel Henderson, mustered out May 4th; William B. Cowan, May 17th, John Braselton, June 2d, and Daniel Suycott, June 8, 1865; Samuel W. Sigler, transferred to Veteran Reserve Corps, January 10, 1865, and William R. Cook, transferred to Forty-fourth Illinois, June 12, 1865, fourteen in all. TILMON D. KYGER, deceased. WILLIAM H. NEWLIN. DAVID MCDONALD. PLEASANT B. HUFFMAN. SAMUEL J. BOEN. DAVID BRANSON,[D] deceased. WILLIAM D. BALES. JOHN DOOP. HENDERSON GOODWIN. AMACY M. HASTY. HENRY C. HENDERSON. GEORGE J. HARRIER. JOHN P. JONES. THOMAS JUDD. ABRAHAM JONES. CLAIBORNE MADDEN. WILLIAM MARTIN. JAMES S. PECK, deceased. HARLAND H. REAGON. JOSEPH W. REAGON. WALTER SCOTT. ISAAC H. THOMPSON.[D] BENJAMIN PURDUM. ISAAC R. THORNTON. In all, 24 Add five sergeants and eight corporals, 13 Previously dropped from all causes as indicated, 67 --- Total, 104 DANVILLE, ILL., September 4, 1886. [D] On detached service in rear, full term. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings, inconsistent hyphenation, and other inconsistencies. Obvious punctuation errors and minor printer errors repaired. Frequent use of 'eat' in place of 'ate' kept as printed. 
27229	----	"BROTHER BOSCH" AN AIRMAN'S ESCAPE FROM GERMANY BY CAPTAIN KNIGHT, R.A.F. 1919 LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN _London: William Heinemann, 1919_ To the Memory of CAPTAIN MORRITT, LIEUT. MEDLICOTT, LIEUT. WALTERS, AND ALL OTHER OFFICERS, N.C.O.'S AND MEN, WHO, BEING LESS FORTUNATE, GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE ENDEAVOUR. Belovèd Country! banished from thy shore, A stranger in this prison house of clay, The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee! Heavenward the bright perfections I adore Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. _Longfellow._ NOTE "The spelling of the word 'Bosch' was the customary one in the German prisoners' camps from which the author made his escape, and is retained for the sake of local colour." ERRATA P. 25, line 6 from bottom, _for_ "_weis_" _read_ "_weiss_." P. 43, line 14, _for_ "balolaika" _read_ "balalaika." P. 47, line 10 and p. 55, line 16, _for_ "_Weiswein_" _read_ "_Weisswein_." P. 51, line 7, _for_ "Hammelin" _read_ "Hameln." P. 126, line 20, _for_ "Pupchen" _read_ "Püppchen." P. 159, line 16, _for_ "Briefeasten" _read_ "Briefkasten." "BROTHER BOSCH" (An Airman's Capture and subsequent Escape from Germany) CHAPTER I CAPTURED It was November 9th, 1916. I lay in a state of luxurious semi-consciousness pondering contentedly over things in general, transforming utter impossibilities into plausible possibilities, wondering lazily the while if I were asleep. Presently, to my disgust an indefinable, yet persistent "something" came into being, almost threatening to dispel the drowsy mist then pervading my brain. The slow thought waves gradually ceased their surging, and after a slight pause began to collect round the offending mystery, as if seeking to unravel it in a half-hearted sort of way. They gave me to understand that the "something" recurred at intervals, and even suggested that it might be a voice, though from which side of the elastic dividing line it emanated they were quite unable to say. With the consoling thought that voices often come from dreamland I allowed the whole subject to glide gently into the void and the tide of thought to continue its drugged revolutions. The next instant a noisy whirlwind swept the cobwebs away. I knew that the voice was indeed a reality, for it delivered the following message: "A very fine morning, sir!" Obviously my dutiful servant desired me to rise and enjoy the full benefit of the beautiful day. Agreeing with Harry Lauder, that "It's nice to get up in the morning, but it's nicer to stay in bed!" I am sorry to say I cunningly dismissed the orderly with a few false assurances, turned over on my side and promptly forgot all about such trivial matters. Conscience was kicking very feebly, and just as sleep was about to return, the air commenced to vibrate and something swept overhead with a whirling roar--an "early bird" testing the air. Galvanised into action by this knowledge, I sprang out of bed, and seizing whatever garments happened to be the nearest, was half dressed before I had even time to yawn! Then snatching up my map, coat, hat, and goggles, I burst from the hut and began slithering along the duck-boards towards the hangars, at the same time endeavouring to fasten the unwilling hooks of my Flying Corps tunic and devoutly hoping that I should not be late for the bomb raid. For weeks we had been standing by for this raid in particular, the object of which was to bomb Douai aerodrome. This was a particularly warm spot to fly over, for in these days it was regarded as the home of "Archies" and the latest hostile aircraft. It is, therefore, not surprising that the general feeling of the squadron was that the sooner it was over the better for all concerned. Arrived at the sheds I was relieved to find that I was in good time, at all events. The machines (two-seater artillery machines, then commonly known as "Quirks") were lined up on the aerodrome with bomb racks loaded, their noses to the wind, awaiting the signal to ascend. I saluted the C.O., waved to a friend or two and climbed into the pilot's seat of my waiting machine. Then, adjusting the levers, I signified to the waiting mechanics that I was ready for them to "suck in" (an operation necessary prior to the starting of the engine). Having made sure that everything was O.K. and waited for the others to ascend, I took off and, after climbing steadily for some time, took up my specified position in the formation. For some time we circled about over a pre-arranged rendezvous, until joined by an escort of fighting machines and another squadron of bombers, and then settled down to business. Flying straight into the sun we soon arrived at and passed over the irregular spidery lines of trenches (those on Vimy Ridge showing up particularly clearly), and continued forging ahead, past many familiar landmarks, always in the direction of Douai. I for one never dreamt of being taken prisoner and had every intention of making a record breakfast on my return. My engine was going rather badly, but the odds were that it would see me through. Only too soon the anti-aircraft started their harassing fire, throwing up a startling number of nerve-racking, high explosive shells, each one a curling black sausage of hate and steel splinters. When we were some way over my machine lagged behind the rest. The engine spluttered intermittently and could not be induced to go at all well. As my machine became more isolated I cast anxious glances about and was soon rewarded by seeing two wicked little enemy scouts waiting for an easy prey (at that time they did not usually attack a formation, but waited behind for the likes o' me). While one scout attracted my attention on the left and I was engaged in keeping him off by firing occasional bursts, a machine gun opened fire with a deafening clatter at point-blank range from behind. In an instant the surrounding air became full of innumerable tiny, brilliant flames, passing me at an incredible speed like minute streaks of lightning, each one giving forth a curious staccato whistling crack as it plunged through or beside the tormented machine, leaving in its wake a thin curling line of blue smoke. I was in the middle of a relentless storm of burning tracer bullets, vying one with the other for the honour of passing through the petrol tank, thereby converting my machine into a seething furnace. Having no observer to defend my tail I turned steeply to meet my new adversary. However, before completing the manoeuvre I received another deadly burst of fire, which, though it somehow missed me, shot away several of my control wires. What happened next I cannot be sure, but the machine seemed to turn over, and my machine gun fell off with a crash. This took place at an altitude of six thousand feet. My next impression was that I seemed to be in the centre of a whirling vortex, around which all creation revolved at an extraordinary speed, and realised that my trusty steed was indulging in a particularly violent "spinning nose dive." A "spin" at the best of times rather takes one's breath away, so, shutting the throttle, I endeavoured to come out of it in the usual way. To my surprise, the engine refused to slow down, or any of the controls to respond, except one, which only tended to make matters worse. The one thing left to be done was to "switch off" and trust to luck. This, however, was more easily decided on than accomplished, for by this time the machine was plunging to earth so rapidly, with the engine full on, that I felt as if I were tied to a peg-top, which was being hurled downwards with irresistible force. Fighting blindly against the tremendous air-pressure, which rendered me hardly able to move, I forced my left arm, inch by inch, along the edge of the "cockpit" until I succeeded in turning the switch lever downwards. A glance at the speedometer did not reassure me, the poor thing seemed very much overworked. Descending very rapidly I kept getting a glimpse of a pretty red-roofed village, which became ominously more distinct at every plunging revolution. I vaguely thought there would be rather a splash when we arrived at our destination, but at eight hundred feet Providence came to the rescue. I heard the welcome cessation of the wild screaming hum of the strained wires. After switching on, the engine informed me with much spluttering that it was sorry that I should have to land on the wrong side, but it really had done its best. I had just managed to turn towards our trenches, when the scout pilot, seeing I did not land, at once followed me down and with its machine gun impressed on me that the sooner I landed the better. As I was then a long way over the lines, sinking fast towards the tree-tops, I had no alternative, so endeavoured to reach the village green. By this time the machine was literally riddled with bullets, though, luckily, I had not been touched. Before landing I overtook a German horseman, so thinking to introduce myself I dived on him from a low altitude, just passing over his head. Well, scare him I certainly did, poor man; he was much too frightened to get off, and seemed to be doing his best to get inside his would-be Trojan animal. The machine landed on a heap of picks and shovels, ran among a number of Huns who were having a morning wash at some troughs (or rather I should say, a lick and a promise!). They scattered and then closed in on the machine. I ran one wing into a post, and tried the lighter, which did not work. I was a prisoner. Undoubtedly, the next German communique announced that the gallant Lieutenant X. had brought down his thirtieth machine; it is probable that this gallant officer had heard strange rumours of what lay behind the British lines, but preferred cruising on the safer side. I could hardly believe that these grey-clad, rather unshaven men who jabbered excitedly were genuine "Huns." I was furious and very "fed-up," but that did not help, so turning in my seat and raising my hand I said, "_Gutten Morgen_." This surprised them so much that they forgot to be rude and mostly returned the compliment. CHAPTER II CAMBRAI The immediate treatment I received was rather better than I had expected. Several officers came forward, and one, who held a revolver, told me in broken English to get out. So leaving my poor old machine, we proceeded to the village headquarters. Photographers appeared from nowhere and I was twice "snapped" on the way, though I'm afraid I did not act up to the usual request, "look pleasant." On arriving at a small house I was received by a German general, who looked rather like an Xmas tree, the Iron Crosses were so numerous. As I stood to attention he politely inquired if I spoke German, even condescending to smile faintly when I replied, "Ja, un peu!" At first when I answered a few preliminary questions he was politeness itself. He then asked for my squadron number, to which I could only reply that I was sorry but could not answer him, whereupon he pointed out that it was of no military value whatever, and that it was only to assist in my identification in the report of my capture which would go to England. So thoughtful of him; such a plausible excuse! Of course I remained silent, whereupon "_la politesse_" vanished and an angry Hun took its place. He screamed, threatened, and waved his arms about, but as I did not seem very impressed at the display, he rushed out of the room, slamming the door and not returning. Oh, for a "movie" camera! A Flying Corps officer then took me in a car to an aerodrome, and told me I should have lunch with the officers at the chateau, where they were quartered. Here I met about nine German airmen, who greeted me in a typically foreign manner. They seemed quite a nice lot on the whole, though I did not know them long enough to really form an opinion. Soon a good German gramophone was playing and lunch began. The food was rather poor, but champagne plentiful. During the meal the gramophone, which was nearest to me, finished a record, so getting up I changed the needle and started the other side. But it wasn't the "Bing Boys" this time! Strange to say, they were quite astonished at this performance, thinking, perhaps, that I could not change the needle. Afterwards, at coffee, a lieutenant asked me what we thought of their flying corps, to which I replied that I thought it was all right. He seemed quite prepared for this, and hastily said that I must remember that they had fewer machines. I think it must have occurred to every captured airman how splendid it would be to steal an enemy aeroplane and fly back, then after a graceful landing report to the C.O. that you had returned. These flights are not infrequently pleasurably accomplished in imagination, but such opportunities do not often, if ever, present themselves. Just before leaving the chateau, I excused myself and got as far as the back door, where I had to explain to some German orderlies that I was only trying to find my coat. I was taken by car to corps headquarters at another chateau, where I saw some young officers, elegantly dressed, lounging about. After much useless bowing and scraping I was again interrogated by an objectionable colonel, but they seemed used to failure, and soon ceased their efforts. A major who assisted spoke English well, and made himself quite pleasant till I left. On hearing that I was in the Devons he told me that on leaving the university his father had sent him to live at a small village near Barnstaple, where he had remained for several years. Doubtless, a hard-working man of leisure! He seemed a very able officer, but decidedly young for a German major. On being told that all leather goods were confiscated, I was forced to give up my Sam Brown belt much against my will. They seemed very familiar with the movements of our troops, and I noticed that though their telephones were rather large and clumsy they carried slight sounds very distinctly, so much so, that when at the other end of the room I could hear practically the whole conversation. Towards evening the major told me to get ready to go to Cambrai, and at the same time said, that as my leather flying coat was also confiscated they had cut off the fur collar, which he then handed back. This rather annoyed me, so I told him to keep it, which incident I regretted afterwards. However, he lent me a German coat, which was some comfort. On the way to Cambrai we again passed near the lines, some British star shells being plainly visible. What a difference a few kilometres make! The Germans depend on their railway transport more than we do. Certainly their road transport cannot be compared with ours. We passed a few cars and motor lorries, the majority giving one the impression that they were falling to bits, so noisy and shabby were they. I only saw two or three motor cyclists the whole time, and those I did see rode machines of an antiquated pattern. We passed a lot of horse transport, nearly all the ambulances in the district being horse drawn. Most cars, including our own, were only capable of emitting useless squeaks on emergencies. Soon we entered Cambrai, an old, picturesque French town, and drew up at the entrance to the citadel, where a guard allowed us to enter. I was then left with a Lieutenant Schram, the intelligence officer, who gave me coffee and cigars and plied me with questions. He was very anxious to discover all he could about our tanks, and possessed many supposed models, mostly not in the least like them. He emphasised the opinion that, of course we should not get Bapaume, at the same time allowing he thought there might be a moving battle in the spring. From his conversation I gathered that they were very familiar with formation and movements of most of our Colonial units. The _tête-à-tête_ at an end, I was taken to my quarters, a bare whitewashed room, containing one French flying officer, two British lieutenants, if I remember rightly, both in the D.L.I., having been taken near Bapaume, and also a Canadian sergeant-major. It is unnecessary to say how pleased I was to see them. Some one had acquired a portion of an old magazine, which was much sought after, it being the only means of passing the time. Our sleeping accommodation consisted of two old straw mattresses, one on the floor and the other on a shelf above. Being tired we slept soundly, but in the morning we were horrified to find we had not been alone, but that quite a varied menagerie had shared our couches with us. Why the blankets did not run away in the night I cannot think. The Huns promised to have lots of things done but never did anything, in fact, they lie as easily as they breathe, even when there is nothing to be gained by it. A comparatively nice N.C.O. was in charge of us, called Nelson! We afterwards learnt that his father had been English, and that his own knowledge of England appeared to be confined to an Oxford restaurant. One day when our lunch, consisting of black and watery soup, was brought up he sympathetically remarked that it was a pity we could not have chicken and ham. I wonder what he would have done had some one enticingly rattled a shilling on a plate? During the day we were allowed to walk round the barrack square for about three hours with eighty British and a hundred and fifty French soldiers, some of whom were daily detailed to work in the town. I noticed that the Germans were inclined to treat our soldiers the worst, frequently shouting threats at them in their guttural language. In the evenings I sometimes managed to get downstairs with the men, and in this way was able to join in some impromptu sing-songs. Sanitary arrangements were very bad and disinfectants unknown. We were allowed to buy a little extra bread and some turnip jam at exorbitant prices, which helped us considerably, as breakfast consisted only of luke-warm acorn coffee, lunch of a weird soup containing sauerkraut or barley, supper of soup or tea alternate days. We amused ourselves by carving our names on the table, or by drawing regimental crests or pictures of Hun aeroplanes descending in flames, in out of the way corners. On being told that toothbrushes were out of stock (I do not think they ever were in), I manufactured a home-made one on boy scout lines. It consisted of a small bundle of twigs and splinters tied together (like a young besom), and though it did its work well, the morning sweep was decidedly painful. CHAPTER III ADVENTURE NO. 1 After remaining there a week we were told that we should leave the next morning for Germany, which we should grow to like very much! During our stay, except for a few exciting intervals when British machines passed over the town, we had plenty of time for meditation, and usually when darkness fell could see by the gun flashes that the evening strafe was in progress. This always reminded me of an argument which had once taken place in our squadron mess, late one evening before turning in, during which I had expressed the opinion that should any one with infantry experience be forced to land the wrong side just before dark, provided he could avoid Huns, it might be just possible for him to return the next night through the trenches. Now I felt it was up to me to prove it should such an opportunity present itself. Cambrai citadel is both solid and imposing, and must have proved itself a formidable fortress. Crowning a slight eminence, it overlooks most of the town. On the three sides are ramparts, varying from about twenty to sixty feet in height, while on a fourth it is now bounded by barbed wire and high railings, with only a slight drop on the other side. At the main entrance the road crosses the old moat and passes under a massive archway which adjoins the guardroom. All the approaches to the outer walls are guarded by quantities of barbed wire and numerous sentries. After a thorough search I at last discovered a small round hole in the wall of an outbuilding near the roof, through which I decided it would be possible to squeeze, in the dusk, unobserved by the sentry. The new German coat I had received on the way had been again in its turn exchanged for an old French one. This I took to the men's quarters and, finally, after hunting the whole place, found an old German coat hanging up. After bargaining for some time I made my fourth exchange, and returned successful. Later in the afternoon an English N.C.O. told me that he had heard of my search and presented me with an old German fatigue cap which had been unearthed somewhere by his pals. Now having everything ready I determined to try my luck about six o'clock that evening before being shut up for the night. After learning some new German words likely to be of use, such as "wire entanglements," "dug-outs," etc., I returned to my room and waited. My plan was to follow the gun flashes, which in all probability would lead me to the Bapaume area, where I expected to find some wire or wooden posts, which I should carry with me as I approached the lines, and endeavour to avoid suspicion by mingling with working parties as an engineer. If thus far successful I hoped to repair the German wire entanglements, which in this district were much damaged by our shell fire, and eventually slip away and get into touch with our patrols. At a quarter to six a German flying officer entered our room and invited me to dinner at their Cambrai headquarters, assuring me that there would be plenty to eat and drink. (I expect after skilfully mixed drinks they hoped to loosen my tongue. When a Hun lays himself out to be pleasant it is almost certain that in some way he expects to benefit by it.) If you wish to realise how tempting this offer was, live on a watery starvation diet for eight days and then be given the opportunity of a good meal. However, when I excused myself on the plea of being a little unwell, "Mein freund" was quite non-plussed. While he was still trying to extract information, unsuccessfully, from the others, I left the room after pocketing a slice of bread. Once in the outhouse I chose my time and, climbing up to the hole in the wall, squeezed myself through with difficulty, for it was only just large enough. When the sentry's back was turned I dropped to the ground on the other side, about ten feet below, making considerable noise. I was now past the line of barbed wire, but there still remained the ramparts to negotiate. Never having been able to see over this point from our quarters we had no means of ascertaining the drop to the ground below. The corner of the ramparts I was making for was under forty yards away, but it took me about three-quarters of an hour to get there, crawling on crackling dry leaves under the shadow of the wall. The slightest noise would probably have attracted the sentry's attention and caused him to switch on the electric light, which they all carry slung round their necks. Oh! what a noise those leaves made! Just before I got to the wall I heard rather a commotion outside the guardroom, and although expecting to get at least a night's start before my absence was discovered, concluded that I had already been missed. (Afterwards I found that this was indeed the case, as the German flying officer on leaving had told the commandant that I was unwell; a doctor was then sent up, but I could not be found.) Getting up, I ran to the wall and looked over. In the dusk I faintly distinguished some bushes below. The glance was not reassuring, but "the die was cast," and over I went. I shall always remember that horrible sensation of falling. It took longer than I expected to reach the ground. Instantaneously there flashed through my brain a formula I had learnt at school, _i.e._, that an object falling increases its velocity thirty-two feet per second. I now realised for the first time how true it was. The drop was somewhere between twenty and thirty feet. Just near the ground my fall was broken by my being suspended for the fraction of a second on some field telephone wires, which broke and deposited me in the centre of a laurel bush, which split in half with a crash. It is not so much the fall but the sudden stop which does the damage. My breath being knocked out of me and seeing several floating stars of great brilliance, I vaguely wondered if I were dead, but I was considerably relieved to find that this was not the case. No bones broken, only some bruises. As I was getting to my feet I heard some one coming down a gravel path which passed beside me. Crouching down, I saw it was a civilian, who proceeded to light a cigar and passed on. I followed suit by lighting my one and only cigarette, and after cutting a stick, entered a darkened street, externally a perfectly good Hun. But even German soldiers are subject to restrictions and I might be asked questions. Consequently, my one idea was to get out of the town as quickly as possible. I met two French women, to whom I explained my position, and asked the nearest way into the country. They were frightened and unwilling to talk at first, but when I opened my coat and showed them the British uniform underneath, they pointed to a road which I followed. Soon the town was left behind and I was making for the gun-flashes and crossing a turnip field. Swinging along at a good pace the turnip-tops whipped my boots and made quite a noise. Suddenly a challenge rang out from a small railway bridge. "_Halt! Wer da!_" (On these occasions it seems as if one's heart has been put to the wrong use, it being really fashioned to be a pendulum for a grandfather clock.) The next second an electric light was switched on, but I had already fallen among the turnips, endeavouring to make a noise like one (a turnip). Then ensued an interesting silence fraught with many possibilities. Did the turnip's voice deceive the Hun? At any rate the light was soon turned off, much to my relief; then quietly I slipped away. After about an hour's walking across country I came to what I supposed to be a stream, showing up in the moonlight, with a few bushes growing along the side. Walking parallel to it for a few yards and not seeing a bridge, I thought it might be quite shallow, so tested it with a stick. Imagine my pleasant surprise when I found that it was not water at all, but a narrow white concrete path, evidently newly made. I noticed that nearly all roads running parallel to the front had a very deep trench dug on the east (German) side. Presumably, these were later used considerably when we were engaged in shelling the roads. Soon I came to the Cambrai Canal, which had to be crossed, and as it was the middle of November it gave me the shivers even to look at the dark water. After walking some distance down the tow-path, I encountered a Hun. Though not feeling at all bold I said, "_G'nacht_," which I felt sounded feeble, though I knew it to be the correct thing in some parts of Germany. To this he replied, "_Abend_" (evening). (Quite a valuable lesson in the usual custom among soldiers.) Skirting a few houses and a timber yard I approached a large well-built iron railway bridge spanning the canal. Climbing over some barbed wire I cautiously mounted the embankment. Looking along the bridge I saw there were two lines separated by some arched iron girders. From recent experience I knew that this must be strongly guarded, but reasoned that if I closely followed a train I should in all probability find the line free for a few seconds. Presently a freight train came rumbling along, and I rushed after it in a whirl of air, in my haste almost being knocked down by the end carriages. As the bridge was rather long and the train going fast, in a very short time I was being left stranded. When I was nearing the other side I stopped an instant to listen. It was just as well I did. Not more than three yards away, on the other side of the ironwork, a man spoke in German and was immediately answered by another, who turned on his light and commenced walking towards the end of the bridge I was making for, to return to his old beat on my line. There was no time to lose, so rushing back on tip-toe and down the embankment I fell over the barbed wire at the bottom, which painfully impressed on me its disapproval of my conduct. After following the canal for a few hundred yards there seemed no alternative but to swim across, so in I went, greatcoat and all. It was awfully cold. At first my clothes and fleeced-lined flying boots held the air and supported me, so that I lay on the surface of the water as if bathing in the Dead Sea, feeling very ridiculous. But only too soon everything filled up and I felt like a stone. Swimming as silently as possible, I had almost reached the opposite bank, feeling very tired, when I saw something glisten just in front which looked very like a bayonet, and a man's voice shouted "_Hier_." Picture the situation: a dark but starry November night, Hun sentry guarding barges, and a poor wretch floundering about in the water, then you will not be surprised that my heart after jumping into my mouth, worked overtime again! The Hun thought I was a dog; I must be one without delay if I wished to preserve a whole skin, so after a spluttering growl I turned back with new energy, swimming like a dog and whining softly. After again calling to me several times he threw a few things in my direction, which fortunately went wide. I then swam round a barge and with a great effort pulled myself out of the water, rewarding the Hun, who was now calling a friend, with a final bark. I ran across a field with the water pouring from me. I did not think one could be so cold, an icicle was warm in comparison! With numb fingers I wrung some of the water out of my clothes, and with chattering teeth considered the situation. Here I was, still on the wrong side--the only thing left to try was a village bridge. Again following the tow-path I neared some lights, which proved to be a hospital, and found myself in an apparently unoccupied station-yard, among a number of large heaps. On raising a corner of a tarpaulin which covered the nearest I recognised the familiar wicker crates, which contained something heavy. It was an ammunition dump! I soon found the name of the station on the deserted platform--Mannièrs. As I was leaving the dump, thinking of a possible future, and what a lovely explosion one well-directed bomb would make, I heard some one coming towards me. At once hopping off the road I crouched against one of the shell heaps where the darkness was more dense, my weight causing the wicker to creak. But the seemingly deaf individual passed by and I breathed again. Entering the main village street at a good pace, whistling a German tune, I was accosted by two Huns carrying a heavy basket on a stick. One inquired of me the way to some headquarters. I dared not stop, so turning my head, growled out a sullen "_Ich weiss nicht_" (I don't know). They seemed grieved at my bad manners, but were soon left behind. Although it was very late a number of troops were still singing uproariously in the various estaminets which I passed. On turning a corner I saw the village bridge and on it a sentry box. While I stood in the dark shadow of a house a small party of Germans, carrying saddlery, overtook me. Tacking myself on casually behind some of them we all passed over the bridge quite happily, and feeling in a cheeky mood I wished the sentry "good evening." Once more I was passing swiftly over the country, devoutly hoping there would not be any more canals. Several hours passed uneventfully. Some of the concrete paths leading in the right direction afforded excellent walking. They were mostly new and appeared to be only laid on the mud without any foundation. On a small rise I came upon a trench system under construction (probably the now famous Hindenburg line), which I examined. The few dug-outs I saw were incomplete, the trenches rather wet and shallow and not yet sandbagged. After crossing two lines of more or less continuous trenches I inspected the wire entanglements, wooden posts (charred, so as not to show up in aerial photographs) and iron corkscrews which were already in position, but only a little fine and barbed wire as yet, which was quite easy to get through. Although the firing had died down it continued sufficiently to enable me to keep my direction. Just as I was leaving these trenches behind my progress was arrested by a sudden jerk, and I found myself lying face downwards full length in the mud. A carefully laid wire had tripped its first "Engländer"! I was now plastered with mud from head to foot, and getting up in a very bad temper determined that at least that portion of wire should not interfere with another Britisher. After a short struggle I succeeded in tearing it up and went on my way somewhat appeased. The front was now quite quiet, and after many falls, footsore and tired, I came to a large wood (the Bois de Logeost) a little before dawn. In this I hoped to find cover for the day, but it was full of transport, and many dim lights proclaimed the presence of huts. I had been walking parallel to it for some distance when a British aeroplane dropped some bombs too close to be pleasant, causing quite a stir in the wood, shortly followed by an anti-aircraft gun opening fire not far away. I have never felt so small in my life, and while tramping on in a dejected manner, in imagination I was flying once again over the lines, the occupied territory lying below me like a map: but in spite of the tranquillity of the scene (for in this pleasant dream not a gun was in action) I became conscious of a disturbing element somewhere, something was out of place. To what was it due? Then all at once I realised that it was all connected with an infinitesimal object which wandered aimlessly about among the German batteries, and yet attracted every one's attention. Vaguely I wondered what it could be? Then the dream slowly faded, and as reality took its place I knew that I was that atom! When things were quiet again I distinctly heard plonk, plonk, plonk, the sound made by hand grenades, rising from the lower ground in front, this was soon followed by the fainter cracking of a machine gun and a brilliant Verey light, which I concluded was from three to four miles away. All at once, just beside me, there was a blinding flash, immediately followed by a deafening roar and the screaming hiss of a shell, the latter lasting several seconds, then slowly dying away into the night with a sigh. One of the German heavies had fired from a neighbouring clump of trees. Had my skin been any looser I should certainly have jumped out of it. Very soon I heard the distant explosion of the bursting shell--Cr--ump, and then dashed off in the opposite direction. CHAPTER IV RETAKEN The country was very bare and the lines so close that there were no hay or straw stacks about. The stars were beginning to fade from the sky, so hastily retracing my steps for about a mile, in search of cover, I almost fell over a tiny straw heap in the middle of a field. It was close to a village, but as no tracks passed anywhere near it I decided that this should be my hiding place for the day. After eating the remains of the black bread, now a sloppy mass in my pocket, I emptied the water which still remained in my flying boots and placed them in a side of the heap to dry, just below the surface. Wrapping my slightly drier overcoat round my feet for warmth, I wormed my way into the centre, and pulled the straw after me. The bottom of the heap was wet and contained mice, which squeaked when my teeth stopped chattering for a few seconds. I tried meowing, but they were not taken in for long! Sleep was out of the question, and there was nothing else to do but watch the cold grey fingers of light creeping through the wet straw. From my knowledge of the front, I gathered that I had arrived north of my objective, where the Huns were expecting our next attack, and the trenches were strongly held. Had I a sporting chance or were the odds against me too great? If the latter was the case and it was impossible, I prayed that I might be recaptured before making the attempt the next night. The minutes passed like hours, but at last the sun rose, evidently very much against its will. About ten o'clock next morning I faintly heard the thud of horse's hoofs approaching at a canter from the direction of the village. At first I thought nothing of it, but as these grew rapidly louder and louder, my uneasiness increased and I lay perfectly still under the straw. The horse came straight to my heap, and stopped dead at the German word of command, "R-r-r-r-r" (whoa!). Soon the rider uttered an exclamation and, leaning over, drew out a flying boot, to my dismay, but as this was wet, muddy and old looking he soon threw it down again. In the meantime the horse kept sniffing and nibbling at the straw which thinly covered my face, and I felt inclined to repeat to myself an old nursery rhyme: "Fe, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!" As the brute continued blowing the straw from my face, I tried to make him desist by returning the compliment by blowing back at him. He jumped and threw up his head, but now his curiosity being thoroughly aroused returned to his explorations with renewed vigour, partly uncovering me. I did not move, but knew that the game was up when the rider drew his breath in sharply. Looking up I saw surprise written on every feature of the bearded Hun N.C.O. He was a thick-set man with a revolver holster at his belt. I had no chance of resistance, as the country was quite open and my boots were off, so sitting up I greeted him with a "_Gutten Morgen_." He saw that I was an English "_Flieger_" (airman), but firmly refused to believe that I was an officer. He told me I was near Achiet-le-Petit, and then motioned me to go with him to the village, which I did. (An account of the foregoing episode appeared in the German papers later.) We went straight to the village headquarters, where there were several officers spotlessly dressed in blue or field-grey, against which my tramp-like appearance formed a strange contrast. They were quite decent, with one exception, a sour-looking captain, and were rather amused than otherwise, even allowing a Frenchwoman to make me some coffee. When I remarked on the wonderful way in which the Germans had traced me from Cambrai, they laughed and said my discovery was purely accidental, the N.C.O. having been detailed to find some straw for the transport. I was sent back to Cambrai in a wagon with an armed guard of three, exclusive of the driver and the mounted N.C.O. I was very annoyed on being told that the latter would receive the Iron Cross, and tried to impress on them that my discovery was entirely due to the horse, who deserved a bran mash. It was bitterly cold and, on passing through every village, I was made to remove my coat to show the inhabitants that I was a prisoner. I was quite pleased when we arrived at our destination. The commandant received me with a growl, and I was taken to the guardroom, where the same Hun N.C.O. casually informed me that I was to be shot. In an unconvincing way I told myself this was nonsense. The next move was not at all reassuring. I was marched through the back door into a tiny courtyard, accompanied by the sergeant of the guard and several privates armed with rifles! I am glad to say that the bluff was soon over, and I was put into a half dark stone cell. In a short time I was fished out to see Lieutenant Schram, who told me that I was the first to escape from there, but that I should never get another opportunity. He went on to say that when my disappearance had been discovered the previous evening, it was thought that I had closely followed the flying officer who had asked me to dinner when he left through the main gate, until the broken wires were found. Men and trained dogs had then endeavoured to trace me, but that, unfortunately, they had all gone the wrong way! When I was taken back at the end of the interview, a sergeant-major and a corporal thought they would have some fun at my expense. They opened my cell door and then led me to a comparatively comfortable room close by, and asked me which I preferred. However, I upset their calculations by entering my original cell and sitting down. As the result of an argument which ensued I was put into the better room, where I fell asleep. This comfort was only short-lived, and soon, by order of the commandant, I was put into the original cell again. It snowed all the next evening, and when the sergeant brought me my watery supper, I asked if he would stand my boots by the guardroom fire that night as the fleece held such a quantity of water. He seemed surprised at my request, but said that he would ask. He soon returned and said that it could not be done. It was four days before I felt at all warm, my clothes drying on me all the time. I have since been told that Lieutenant Schram, while speaking of me later to other captured officers, asserted that he dried all my clothes for me. Yet this same gentleman during his first interrogation asked me why we English called them uncultured! On the afternoon of the fourth day I was ordered to get ready to proceed to Germany, as enough prisoners had been captured at the Beaumont Hamel show to make up a large draft. At the main entrance I found a group of about twenty officers, composed of eight or ten Zouaves and the remainder British. Then off we went to the station in high spirits, for it is not often that one gets a chance of a tour in Germany, _via_ France and Belgium, free of charge! CHAPTER V OSNABRÜCK Our guards had mostly been selected from different regiments, on account of their being due for leave in Germany. The officer in charge travelled separately. He had recently been wounded, and had seen rather more of the British than he cared; in consequence he was almost human! Not yet being dry and now having no overcoat, I felt decidedly cold. We arrived late at St. Quentin and settled down for a long wait, but our good spirits were infectious and, besides, some of our number had with them a surplus of turnip jam, and we were allowed to sing. This we did with a vengeance, and it was indeed curious to hear the desolate waiting-room echoing the popular strains of: "Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile." This impromptu concert delighted the French, who joined in as best they could. Soon we had quite a little audience of solitary Huns, who peeped through the open door and listened to the "Mad English," open-mouthed. At last the express steamed in from the south-east and in quite an exhausted condition we were graciously shown in to second-class compartments in a way which clearly said "Second class is much too good for you." After a tedious journey, during which we received something to eat, we arrived at Cologne about eleven o'clock the next morning. The station contained almost every variety of Hun. These people represented the cowards who in 1914 had flung stones at and otherwise insulted those brave men of our old regular army, who stopped at this station, packed in cattle trucks like animals, mostly wounded and dying. Nearly two years of war have passed since then, bringing with them suffering and a certain refining influence which had not altogether been without its effect. Now, though most of them stared rudely, few showed signs of open hostility. Following our officer down some steps and winding subways, we were approaching a large restaurant, when a rather senior Hun officer ran after us, cursing us in German for not saluting him when we had passed him on the platform! One of the British replied, "_Nix verstand_" (_No compris_). Whereupon he went away thoroughly disgusted. One of our party, a major of the 9th Zouaves, who spoke German very well, asked if we might have some refreshments, to which the officer acquiesced. We entered a large and almost unoccupied room separated from the main dining-hall by a glass screen, and took up our positions at a table by the window. Immediately outside towered the famous cathedral, shutting out most of the sky, the spires and countless pinnacles showing up to great advantage in the sunshine. Soon a waiter appeared with a menu containing a list of weird dishes, the most popular of which was a very thin slice of sausage reposing on a very large slice of black bread. This cost one mark (but perhaps they saw us coming!). Great excitement was caused when some one found it was possible to obtain goose, but as our very limited supply of money was almost exhausted this had to be ruled out. The fish salad when it arrived was _peculiarly_ nasty. It was almost raw and had an overpowering flavour of mud! Beer did not seem to be allowed, but a tip soon settled that, and we all received large glasses of light lager. The people in the hall were a funny-looking crowd but quite amusing to watch, mostly drinking quantities of beer and regarding us with sullen curiosity through the glass screen. The majority of the men were ugly and square-headed, with closely-cropped hair, reminding one of a group of convicts. Some of the girls, however, gave us encouraging smiles. When the bills were being settled up, there strode in an angry German major, complete with helmet and sword, who entered into a violent conversation with our unfortunate officer, who stood at the salute most of the time. After making a noise like a dog fight he departed with a final gesticulation in our direction. We did not know what the row was about, but suppose that the officer in charge had been thus strafed in public, either for bringing us there or allowing us to have beer. At any rate, we were hurried out to await our train on the platform. A small circle soon formed round us, largely made up of sailors, whom we concluded must be on indefinite leave. As our train was steaming up a civilian gave vent to his feelings by fixing his evil eyes upon us and at the same time moving his lips with a deadly purpose, cursing us inaudibly. I should never have thought a face could express such condensed hatred. He must have been conversing with his Satanic Master. However, as we only smiled sweetly in return, he cannot have felt much satisfaction. Before getting into our train we spent our last few _pfennigs_ buying sweets at an automatic slot machine. The acquired sweets were wrapped in a paper covering, on which different notices were printed, the majority were to this effect: "Remember the shameful _Baralong_ outrage, in punishment for which our airships shall devastate the Eastern Counties of England and destroy London." We showed this to our guards, who firmly believed that it would shortly come to pass, and could not understand our amusement. A few minutes out from Cologne, as we went rushing over a long iron bridge, we celebrated our crossing the Rhine by winding up our watches and singing the popular song: "When we've wound up the watch on the Rhine." In the late afternoon the train passed through Essen, the blast furnaces casting a lurid light on the surrounding country. Travelling northwards we ran into snow, which, when we alighted was quite deep. This was our destination, Osnabrück. At first it looked as if we should have to walk to the camp, but the German officer was, luckily, able to hire two brakes, and away we went. Osnabrück is an old town with a population of about 60,000. We drove past numbers of children and dogs revelling in the first winter sports, utterly regardless of their country's serious condition. On our arrival an officer and several N.C.O.'s took all particulars and descriptions. It was only then that I discovered, to my astonishment, that my eyes were blue. Next we found a hot shower-bath in store for us, during which procedure all our clothes were taken away on the excuse that they were to be disinfected. We enjoyed the bath very much and were longing for a clean change, but were disgusted to find that this was not forthcoming, and that we had to put on the same torn and muddy clothes once more, which the Huns had only removed to search. We were then locked in a room for ten days and told that we were in quarantine, no account being taken of the three weeks or a month that some of us had already spent in the German lines. The whole thing was a farce. We could then buy a change of underclothing, and daily consumed prodigious quantities of Dutch chocolate, also procurable from the canteen (which I afterwards bought in Holland for one-tenth of the price). Some of the British who had been in the camp for some time managed to get books and a little food in to us. A great deal of our time was occupied in making out orders for things we wanted from home, edibles taking by far the most important part. Every evening after supper we always drank the King's health in tea. Though the quality of the beverage was weak, our loyalty had never been stronger. When extra dull our home-made band played some rousing selection; my special instrument required much skill, and consisted of the dustbin lid and a poker. The climax was reached one day when the sentry entered with a paper from the canteen, announcing that the British claimed to have shot down two Zeppelins in flames over London. Eventually the tenth day passed and we were free to go in with the others, who at once made us welcome. Owing to the monotony of camp life it is very difficult to write a consecutive account of the daily routine, which would be of any interest to the reader. I shall therefore only outline certain points under various headings, which I venture to hope may not prove a source of boredom, judging from the numerous questions contained in letters of enquiry directed to me. ACCOMMODATION.--The main three-storey building was a converted German artillery barracks, with the gravelled courtyards used for exercising divided by a disused riding-school. The prisoners consisted of about seventy-five French, living on the ground floor, and eighty-five British, mostly R.F.C., taken at the Somme, living on the second floor, and from one hundred and fifty to two hundred Russians on the third. The rooms each contained from four to ten beds, according to the size, which we usually stacked two deep so that they should take up as little space as possible. With the aid of wall paper, deck chairs, tablecloths and the like, obtainable at the canteen, together with pictures from home, some of the rooms looked very cosy indeed. Each one contained a stove, which at first we were able to keep well supplied, as it was possible to buy coal in addition to the ration, though latterly there was a considerable shortage. Mattresses were either spring or made of old straw, and sometimes contained little creepy-crawlies. My record evening catch numbered twenty-five, and this little collection afforded some exciting races. By the way, I might add that if one puts a match to them they go off "pop." The Germans rendered slight assistance, but the Keating's contained in our parcels soon got them under way. The sanitary conditions were not good, but I must admit to having seen a little disinfectant. Part of the time we were allowed a common room of our own, but latterly had to share one with the Russians. Washing was sent to the town weekly. A medical orderly was on the premises during the day, and a doctor came two or three times a week. Before leaving we were inoculated against smallpox, typhoid and cholera. This was a most obnoxious proceeding which took place every six or seven days, until the doctor had jabbed us all six times in the chest with his confounded needle. French and Russian orderlies were provided, each detailed to look after one or two rooms. RECREATION.--At first it was possible to play football, but that was soon stopped. Rackets, boxing and a sort of cricket were played in the riding-school; once or twice a week we organised a concert or a dance, theatrical costumes being hired from the town on parole. The Russians had a really first-class mandoline and balalaika band, with which they played many of their waltzes and curiously attractive folk-songs. During these concerts a certain Englishman solemnly sang some new Russian songs, learnt by heart, of which he did not understand a word. A young Russian used to make up into a delightful girl, who, with a partner, danced a cake-walk, accompanied by the blare of their new brass band. Mandolines were soon in vogue and most rooms could boast of several. As we were mostly beginners the resulting noise is best left to the imagination. Whist drives, bridge tournaments, etc., helped to pass the time, and a good many of us improved the shining hour by learning French, Russian or German in exchange for lessons in our own language. The winter brought with it many snow fights, and a successful slide which I started, though popular, resulted in many bumps and bruises. The bottom of the slide led into some barbed wire--which was decidedly dangerous. One fatal day I finished the course with three Russians and a fat Australian on the top of me, unintentionally making a first-class broom; first I passed over a sharp stone, and then came to a stop on the barbed wire fence. (Some of the marks caused by this episode remain with me to this day.) We had one or two nice walks weekly, on parole, escorted by a German officer. One day, during a long walk through some pine woods, we had reached the top of a hill when we came upon a large slab of rock, about four feet thick, resting on two smaller ones, with a broad crack right through it near the centre. The German officer told us a legend about this, which affirms that at this spot somewhere about the eighth century Emperor Charlemagne met some heathen chieftain, who having already heard of his feats of strength promised to become a Christian should he be able to split this rock. The emperor took up a sledge hammer and with one tremendous blow broke the rock in two. (He must have been _some_ man!) TREATMENT.--When I first arrived the commandant, who was a major, was quite popular, granting all reasonable requests and not bothering us the whole time, consequently we did our best to avoid trouble; but we were in Hunland, therefore this state of affairs could not last long. The commandant was soon replaced by a colonel with a white beard and a benevolent aspect, though in reality he was inclined to be vicious and most unreasonable. He was soon followed by two junior officers, Lieutenants Briggs and Rosenthal. The former was an officer of the Reserve, one of the nicest Germans I have ever met, and I can almost safely say a gentleman. He did all that he could to avoid friction and make things run smoothly. Rosenthal was a Regular officer and a typical Hun, who was sent round the various camps to make things generally uncomfortable for the inmates, in which capacity he was a great success. He made promises but very rarely fulfilled any, smiling to your face and at the same time arranging to have you punished. He crept along the passages in thick carpet shoes after lights out, spying on our movements, and was twice discovered listening at a keyhole to the conversation. After having been there a month I spent a fortnight in solitary confinement for my Cambrai escape, at which I cannot complain, and came out on Christmas Day. Later on, while at this camp, I carried out two sentences, each of three days, for slight offences. PARCELS AND MONEY.--We received parcels of food and clothing from six to eight weeks after first writing for them. For the most part these came regularly, only a few being lost. This was a good thing for us, the camp authorities often providing for a meal only some raw fish and garlic or uneatable gherkins and dry black bread! Trunks, suit cases, and other heavy articles came by the American Express and were longer on their way. Parcels of food were opened, and the tins taken intact to one's individual locker, where it could be obtained most mornings at a given hour. As required the tins were then opened by the Huns and the contents placed in jars or dishes, which one must provide before it can be taken away. Sometimes whole rooms decided to mess together, sharing all their parcels, but more often two or three friends arranged their own little mess. Letters at first came quickly, but were often delayed by the German censors at this camp, who, I believe, dealt with almost all British communications to prisoners in Germany. Money is obtained by signing a cheque, which is cashed in a week or two by the American Express. Even after America's entry into the war money could still be obtained through this company (which is, I believe, German owned). German daily papers are procurable at most camps, and usually contain a more or less intact British official communique, which is translated by some German scholar and posted up. A map of the front is usually kept by the prisoners and corrected from time to time. Christmas was celebrated by every one and the canteen _Weisswein_ soon bought up. The Germans put an illuminated Christmas tree in the dining-hall, but unfortunately counteracted their display of good feeling by decorating the large portraits of the Kaiser and Hindenburg, who stared down at us from the walls and quite spoilt our already nasty food. On New Year's Night we collected on the stairs, and joining hands with a few French and Russians, sang "Auld Lang Syne," and scampered back to bed before the wily Huns appeared on the scene. One day when drawing our parcels we received some little cardboard packets of compressed dates as usual, but this time a small white strip of paper was pasted on the outside of each bearing the words, "Produce of Mesopotamia under British occupation." This must have been pleasant reading for the Huns. At last, one morning we were informed that in three days' time we were to proceed to an "All British" camp at Clausthal. Before our departure our Allies gave two farewell concerts in our honour, which were a great success, for when we left they knew that they were losing most of the "life" of the camp. Living on our floor with a room to himself was a French captain of extremely doubtful character; he was a heavily built, bearded man of middle age whom nobody liked. I was told that in civil life he was a professional agitator! Now he confined his energies to making trouble between the different nationalities. He was always hanging about where he wasn't wanted, poking his nose into other people's business, and what was even more suspicious, he appeared to be on the best of terms with the Germans. He wore a long row of medals, which were inclined to change from day to day. Some senior French officers inquired if he had the right to wear them, but he refused to recognise their authority. Some Britishers had also been caught in a mysterious way just before attempting to escape. The last night before our departure we thought we would at least show him that he was not popular. Over a dozen of us burst into his room, armed to the teeth, and holding him on to his bed covered him from head to foot with treacle, jam, coffee grounds, ashes and water, at the same time doing him no bodily injury. I expect he thought his plight more serious than it really was, for the whole place echoed with his shouts for help. Unfortunately for him the French on the floor above, being greatly pleased at the proceedings, only turned over and went to sleep again. When, after a few seconds, we bolted to our rooms he rushed down to the orderly's quarters, exclaiming, "I am dying--I am covered with blood!" This sounded terrible, but when a match was struck revealing nothing but treacle and jam they could scarcely conceal their merriment. Later on the Huns arrived and succeeded in obtaining most of our names, but even they thought the affair quite a good joke. The next morning most of the French collected quietly near the gate to give us a "send off," but the commandant, after screaming and being very rude to every one had them locked in their rooms. He turned his back on us when we left, only Lieutenant Briggs having the decency to salute. CHAPTER VI CLAUSTHAL It was just like house moving. The heavy luggage was sent in advance, but we preferred to carry our dearest belongings. Many of us must have resembled fully-equipped pedlars or super-caddis-worms carrying their houses on their backs, but in our case these were not composed of sticks or dead leaves, but provisions, gramophones, mandolines, pots, kettles, etc., tied together with string, the rattle of which appeared to amuse some of the civil population. Some time after leaving Osnabrück the train stopped at an out-of-the-way station near Hildesheim, close to a group of men working on the line. At once a solitary khaki-clad figure detached itself from the rest and came towards us at the run. It turned out to be a British Tommy bubbling over with pleasure at seeing some of his own race to speak to at last, after having Russians and Huns for his companions for many months. We gave him a summary of the latest news and all kinds of tinned foods. The other Russian prisoners soon followed him, looking half starved, and clamoured for bread, which we had just time to give them when a bad tempered Hun drove them back to their work. Towards evening we passed through Hameln? (better known to us as "Hamelin"), but saw no signs of the Pied Piper. Now there was a man who was not brought into the world for nothing, but used his genius to the destruction of small Huns! The higher the train climbed into the Hartz Mountains the deeper became the snow. From the dimly-lighted carriages we could sometimes see the dark outline of high wooded hills between the snow flurries. A little before midnight we stopped with a jerk and were told to "_Aus_." As I followed the others into a restaurant winter garden affair, five minutes after our arrival, I was delighted to hear several small gramophones already playing "Bric-a-brac" and other selections from musical comedies, each insisting that its was the only tune worth listening to. Owing to the conditions escape was out of the question; the Germans did not therefore worry much--in fact, coming up in the train a rather nice N.C.O. at last yielded to my entreaties and sang a verse of the Hymn of Hate, accompanying himself on my mandoline. After standing two hours in a queue at the bar I managed to procure some quite good wine which made us feel almost at home. For the rest of that night it was almost possible to imagine oneself free, but snowed up. The next morning, on hearing that the camp was about two miles away, we inquired if some of the larger suit cases might be left behind as the walking was so heavy, to be brought up later, at an extra charge, by the station sleigh, which came up to the camp every day. But we might have known that it would only be a waste of breath asking the Huns to help us in any way. (Later, when some very senior British officers arrived, bound for this camp, they received identically the same treatment.) After an uphill struggle we reached the camp, and were kept standing quite unnecessarily for three-quarters of an hour in a snowstorm before being admitted to the dining-hall. On entering I was lucky enough to run straight into an Australian flight commander, who had often taken me up in my observing days at my first squadron, then at a village behind Ypres. The camp is well situated, being almost surrounded by pine forests, which cover most of the Hartz Mountains. If the day is at all clear a high and rather rounded hill is visible to the eastward, conspicuous for its bleakness, standing well above the dark intervening fir-clad hills. This is the Brocken, the highest mountain in Northern Germany, on the summit of which Goethe's Faust was evolved. It is difficult to realise that it is, roughly, 5,000 feet above sea level, or the camp 2,000. The ascent in this part from the foot hills being gradual, the surrounding country is not so imposing as one would expect. Outside the camp is a small picturesque lake, which was frozen over most of the time. On a clear evening it was fascinating to watch the superb soaring of the buzzards. It seemed as if their telescopic eyes could make out the wings on some of our tunics, for with a jeering cry they would commence gliding in a vast sweeping circle with scarcely a movement of their wings, every feather under perfect control, until at length they disappeared into the endless blue. We still have a lot to learn, but talk of the "homing instinct," if only a few aeroplanes had been handy I know which would have made the quickest non-stop flight to "Blighty." The next day a number of Belgian officers left to take up their abode in the quarters vacated by us in Osnabrück, many of them resplendent in their tasselled caps, and a few wearing clanking swords which they had been allowed to retain in recognition of the gallant way they had defended some of the Liège and Antwerp forts. With them went two Belgian officers, who, curiously enough, could not speak their lingo. This was not surprising, however, as their real names were Captain Nicholl, R.F.C., and Lieutenant Reid, R.N. It appeared they intended to jump the train before reaching their destination and have a try for the Dutch border. German trains often go slowly and stop, but as luck would have it this one, as we afterwards heard, refused to do anything of the sort. Whether Captain Nicholl succeeded in getting off I do not know, but Lieutenant Reid, seeing discovery imminent, jumped through the carriage window and broke his ankles. They were both taken to Osnabrück and Nicholl was sent back under arrest. After three weeks Lieutenant Reid returned, lame, but quite cheery. As he was under arrest, however, we could not learn much of their treatment, though it was common knowledge that he had left hospital _very_ soon, and was made to walk up from the station as best he could. His sentence was lengthened by some days on the charge of answering his wrong name at a roll call on arrival at Osnabrück, but as he was quite unable to stand this was obviously a fabrication. When we had been there about ten days a lot more British officers arrived from Friedburg, where they had received quite good treatment. Many of the prisoners at this camp had been taken at Mons, La Cateau and Ypres, and were consequently a little out of date. They could hardly realise what a "Somme barrage" was like, and were therefore known as the "Bow and Arrow" men! On the journey to Clausthal two of them managed to jump from the train and got clear away. About this time five Italian officers were warned to leave the next day. The preceding night, after supper, Colonel Bond (K.O.Y.L.I.), after a short speech, proposed the toast "_Viva Italia_," which we drank in canteen _Weisswein_, or imitation port, to which a senior Italian officer enthusiastically replied with a "_Viva Inghilterra_." After their departure the camp contained British only, the remaining number of officers being a little over three hundred. ACCOMMODATION.--The principal building, in which about half of us lived, was a _Kurhaus_, or small hydro, in peace time, with a large dining-hall at one end. The smallest bedrooms were occupied by one or two senior officers, while the remainder held about half a dozen. A shower-bath was on the premises. The rest of us were quartered in three temporary wooden barracks, where most of the rooms were rather over-crowded, holding from six to eight fellows. RECREATION.--At a portion of the grounds was a fairly steep incline and on this we made a short toboggan run, banking the snow up steeply at the turn to avoid going through the barbed wire. In many instances it must have been amusing to watch a small sleigh being steered by a novice, with fat individuals sitting on the top of him, trying to avoid the young trees, usually without any success. Unfortunately for me I had a nasty knack of always being in the worst crashes. It is impossible to find a more effective way of destroying boots than continually steering with one's feet. Other people displayed their extensive knowledge of winter sports by ski-ing, or rather lying on their backs, unintentionally waving their skis in the air. This soon had to be abandoned, however, as the weather soon became uncertain, often changing from a hard frost to a violent thaw every two or three days. A naval officer in my barrack received a miniature billiard-table, which became immensely popular. Cards, roulette, ping-pong and chess greatly assisted in passing the time. We also had quite a good camp library, the books mostly having been received from home. I often heard it remarked that life there was one long queue, and it was not far wrong. Often one passed the morning waiting one's turn for the "tin room," or newly arrived parcels, while soon after lunch it was customary to see the more patient individuals already lining up chairs and settling down to their books, to wait for hot water which was sold at tea time. All this may sound most enjoyable, but I will now endeavour to explain a little of the wonderful system then in vogue at this camp, the only object of which seemed to be to remind you in an objectionable manner that you were a prisoner on every possible occasion. TREATMENT.--When we first arrived the commandant was not so bad, but after several visits from corps headquarters at Hanover, he resigned his post, it is said, on the grounds that he could not treat British officers like common criminals, as he was supposed to. I think this is highly probable, though I cannot vouch for the truth of the assertion, it being only hearsay. He was replaced by a fat and rather harmless dug-out captain, who proved to be only a pompous figurehead. The camp was entirely run by the second in command, Lieutenant Wolfe. In England persons of this type are so rarely met with that our language does not contain the necessary words to describe them adequately. In Germany they are comparatively common, therefore, collectively they may be put down as belonging to the "super-swine class"! Wolfe was arrogance personified. He possessed a closely-cropped bullet head, and a round, somewhat bloated pale face, near the centre of which gleamed two small, cold, calculating blue eyes; the whole effect so strongly resembled a white pig that among ourselves he was usually known as "pig face." He belonged to a reserve Hanoverian regiment, and was a schoolmaster by profession. It is small wonder that children under such authority never learn to know the true meaning of the word "kultur." Somehow he knew about the treacling affair at our last camp, for after getting our names from Osnabrück, he strained every nerve to get us court-martialled and punished. Two or three times a week we criminals had to assemble outside his room at an appointed hour. After a long wait "My Lord" strolled in, usually an hour late, walking very slowly, chewing a cigar. At first he only produced a small packet of papers, on most of which our individual statements were written, and asked absurd questions through an interpreter. But as time went on the case assumed larger proportions, and the bundle of nonsense increased to an enormous size. At almost every visit we had to sign some new document certifying that we understood the latest communication on the subject from headquarters. After much hard work "pig face" achieved his object, and we were warned to attend a court-martial at Hanover. However, this is worthy of a separate chapter. One day an impossible staff captain arrived from Hanover to inspect the camp. He was a large, arrogant bully, who brought with him two detectives for the purpose of searching our rooms and kit for forbidden articles. We will not waste time discussing his manners; he had none. The detectives seemed quite decent, and therefore cannot have been properly dehumanised by the powers that be. In German camps it is forbidden to sit or lie on one's bed during the day, unless one has reported sick at roll call. This captain suddenly entered a room in our barrack and surprised a Scotsman lying on his bed reading a book. Seeing that the culprit had his clothes on, he screamed out such a stream of unintelligible curses and threats, that had a similar noise taken place at the Zoo, I am sure the keepers would have rushed out to stop the monkey fight. The Scotsman waited until this torrent had somewhat abated, then slowly getting to his feet, he drawled out in a bewildered way, "And how's your faither!" It is doubtful whether the startled captain understood this kind inquiry or not, but he rushed out of the room and, grabbing a sentry's bayonet, returned and stuck it in the boards at his feet. Ours was the next room he favoured. Without the semblance of a knock he burst in, and as nothing of importance had been found during the search, swaggered up and down in a most offensive manner with his nose in the air. In a few seconds he came to a stop beside me and shouted that he wished me to stand to attention, half dressed as I was (having just been searched). This was just about the limit, so pretending not to understand what he meant I turned round and busied myself with my clothing, at the same time humming softly to myself the air of "Pack up your troubles," to relieve my feelings and stifle a desire to give him one under the jaw. On a word of command two scared sentries appeared, having been ordered to take me to the guardroom immediately. The usually harmless commandant was so frightened that he rolled his eyes and screamed after me, when exhaustion put an end to the captain's song. It was pitiable to see two such men possessing not an atom of self-control between them, but it was not so amusing as one might think. It certainly looked as if I should be murdered without delay. I was put into a room adjoining that occupied by the main guard, where I remained for three hours. During this period I got into conversation with some of the soldiers and was surprised at the bitter way they spoke of Lieutenant Wolfe, so much so that if he returned to the front I should be inclined to think that the quarter where his greatest danger lay was not in front but behind. When I had the room to myself I spent the time exploring for useful articles. My oft-interrupted search resulted in the discovery of a heap of things in the far corner. At length an officer arrived and informed me that I should only receive three days' "_stuben_"--arrest (solitary confinement). After which I was released. On re-entering the camp I did my best to look innocent, though, as luck would have it, I was really the richer by a couple of maps, a compass and some candles! One of the orderlies in the camp was a cobbler, but though the Huns frequently assured us they would provide him with the necessary tools, it took two months for their promise to materialise. During this period my already patched boots threatened to give out altogether. I wrote a note to the commandant, explaining that I was daily expecting boots from England, but as these appeared to have been delayed, asked that I might be allowed to order some canvas shoes at the canteen in the meantime. The next day the interpreter handed me the answer: "Order leather from England, and have the boots resoled." I could not help smiling, and casually remarked that it was worse than useless. Whereupon he snapped, "What, you say that the commandant's note is useless? All right, I will you report." In due course the usual notice was posted up to the effect "That the English Ober-Lieutenant Gerald Knight would for gross insolence the next three days in arrest spend." Usually, roll call took place outside the main building, and as it generally meant standing in water or melting snow, was not particularly pleasant. Wolfe very often managed to take these parades, and did not miss this excellent opportunity for showing his authority. After arriving late he would stroll up and down the line, hands in pockets, looking as dignified as possible, always wasting time. "_Appel_," when properly conducted, never lasted more than ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. On one occasion, Wolfe, who was well protected against the cold, kept us standing in a blizzard for an hour and a half, during which time he counted us five or six times, obviously for his own amusement. It was bad enough to have to stand there oneself, but it was much more annoying to watch our senior officers, majors, colonels, and a major-general, awaiting the pleasure of a conceited German lieutenant. Almost every day some new order was issued, for the most part affecting little things, for example--stating that in future no food would be allowed in the rooms. A few days later it was not allowed in the cupboards standing in the passages. Soon it was only allowed in the dining-hall, where the accommodation was quite inadequate. One day two fellows were quietly walking down a path near the wire, when a sentry raised his rifle and threatened to shoot them if they did not at once go further from the wire! They refused to move, and told the sentry that they had a perfect right there. Whereupon the man at last lowered his rifle. On a complaint being made, Lieutenant Wolfe, knowing that few people were about, ingeniously squashed the case by refusing to take the matter up unless six witnesses were produced. There was a second lieutenant, junior to Wolfe (commonly known as the Worm!), who arrived after receiving promotion from the ranks. He was rather a miserable sort of person, inclined to follow Wolfe's example in most things. He was for ever on the prowl and it never occurred to him to knock before entering a room. Once he came into our room and, assisted by two guards, removed the mirror, shaving tackle, hair brushes, etc., from the window, placing them on the wash-hand stand in the darkest corner of the room. After this performance he drew himself up sedately and exclaimed, "That is the way we do things in Germany!" These little incidents are most annoying at any time, but especially so when one is wearing boots possessing good kicking qualities. It was not until May that the snow finally disappeared and we were treated to a spell of warm weather, during which every one did their best to get sunburnt, and set to work on the new tennis court we had permission to make. Lizards and frogs appeared from nowhere and endeavoured to inform us that spring was approaching. It is curious the way camp life again makes one childish and easily amused. For instance, it was quite a common occurrence to see a small crowd of fellows looking excitedly at something. On closer investigation it in most cases turned out to be a toad or a worm. As it became dry underfoot we were able to go out for walks on parole with a German officer. The stout commandant usually took us, and not only did he make himself quite agreeable, but also chose some very pretty paths among the various pine woods. One afternoon two fellows succeeded in cutting the outside wire in broad daylight and getting into the woods unobserved. Seeing his opportunity a tall Canadian, named Colquhoun, hastily gathered up his valuables and dived through the inviting gap in the wire (which had been cleverly cut behind some young fir trees and up beside a post). He was just disappearing into the woods at record speed (the sentry's back being still turned) when he was seen by some children playing on a hillock a little way off. They at once made a noise, and several of them rushed down to tell the sentry. That man, however, was much too grand to listen to "kids" talking nonsense, so drove them off with many threats and violent gestures. When the escape was discovered, green-uniformed soldiers of Jaeger regiments and mounted foresters scoured the woods for nearly two days without any success. Shortly after a notice was posted up stating that when the escaped officers were recaptured, they would in all probability be tried by court-martial for breaking their parole in looking for hiding places when out for walks; this, needless to say, was all nonsense, the officers in question being miles away by that time. This notice could not be regarded in any other light than that of an insult to British officers in general, causing much resentment. All future walks were voluntarily given up, and at evening "_appel_" all parole cards, without exception, were returned to the Huns by mutual consent, to avoid any insinuations of this sort in the future. After being out for about a fortnight the outlaws were all recaptured and taken to Ströhen, where I afterwards met them. The first two put up a very good show, being recaptured in an exhausted condition by a road guard, twenty odd kilometres from the frontier, much to their disgust. My friend, the Canadian, fought a good fight against an unkind fate. While washing in a stream one night he was taken by a man with a revolver looking for an escaped Russian prisoner. He was then put into prison at a men's camp, where he succeeded in obtaining some wire-cutters from other Britishers. Forcing his way through the skylight into a dark and rainy night, he dropped to earth, cut the wire and was again free. The drop previous to cutting the wire had, however, damaged his compass, which stuck and led him south instead of west. Three days later he was taken near a bridge over a river by men and trained dogs, and transferred to a town prison. There I believe he received quite decent food, for which he was very thankful. During the late afternoon some children came to annoy him by shouting rude remarks from the passage. Even these little wretches were of some use, for at their departure they touched something on the outside of his door which jingled, and turned out to be a bunch of keys, which he was able to get possession of by pulling them through the sliding panel used by the guard for spying on the prisoner. When it was dark the adventurer produced the keys and by dint of much labour succeeded in opening his own cell and walking out. At the back of one of the nearer buildings he discovered a bicycle, which he appropriated without a second thought. Having discovered his whereabouts he struck north to get into his original line, and was unfortunately discovered by some N.C.O.'s the next day in almost a starving condition repairing his bicycle in a shed. After such an attempt as this it is indeed hard to return to serve one's sentence at a camp prison or fortress, knowing full well that, although having done one's utmost, even the slightest official recognition is out of the question. After the second escape the Hun in charge of the men's camp 'phoned to Clausthal, stating that the officer had been recaptured. Wolfe hearing the joyous news started out to bring back the truant as a lesson to others. "But when he got there the cupboard was bare," so he returned to the "Hartz-Gebirge" empty-handed and disconsolate. The only really decent German at the camp appeared to be an "_aspirant_," or first class warrant officer, who treated us quite fairly when opportunity offered; however, his superiors saw to it that this was not often. PARCELS.--These arrived fairly well, but were periodically hoarded up by the Huns for a week or ten days, where we could not get them without any previous warning. When drawing food all the tins had to be left behind until wanted for immediate consumption. It was therefore very difficult to lay in a supply against such emergencies. During these periods most messes determined, if possible, to have a meal of sorts at tea-time. Gradually, as the provisions got lower and lower, the menu read somewhat as follows: Tea (no milk or sugar); very limited black bread, thinly spread with soup essence, or _café au lait_ (when the dripping, lard or potted meat had finally vanished). The meal itself was rather nauseating, but afterwards it was most gratifying to be able to say that you had had tea! When this playful little "strafe" was removed by an order from Hanover the accumulated parcels nearly caused the death of the Germans working in the distributing room. Letters were very slow in arriving. Once a general, while inspecting the camp, entered the parcel room, where he saw an English captain assisting with the sorting of the parcels. On finding that he spoke German well the general advised him to devote his spare time to the further study of that language, which he said would be very useful to him later. The captain was notorious for saying exactly what he thought, and be hanged to the consequences. His reply must have been more than the German bargained for: "Sir, I do not intend to waste my time learning a dead language!" It is probable that the general had had previous dealings with the British, and therefore possessed a sense of humour so rare to the Teuton, for he passed on without awarding the expected punishment. CHAPTER VII COURT-MARTIALLED! AND PROUD OF IT, TOO! It is not usual to boast of the fact that one has been court-martialled, but I would not have missed this experience for anything. Early in the morning of May 15th, 1917, we twelve gaol-birds, after being carefully searched, left for the station escorted by eight guards. During the march I began softly humming a tune, but was at once silenced by an angry sentry, who told me that no noise of any sort was allowed. Turning to the N.C.O. I remarked that although he appeared to be in charge of the party he had not objected to my behaviour, and added that this seemed almost as if the private was exceeding his duty. This appealed to the dignity of his position, and although he evidently did not like me, he told the sentry off. On reaching the station we had an unpleasant surprise, for there, awaiting us on the platform, was our old friend, Wolfe. In the early afternoon we got out of the train at a small station and were told that we should have to wait some hours for the connection. The senior member of our party inquired whether it was possible to get anything to eat, as it was already very late for the midday meal. Wolfe said he would try and led us into the restaurant, where a waiter inquired if we would have white or green beans. These dishes sounded so tempting that we ordered mixed. When the result was served (beans stewed with gravy and a little potato), it certainly greatly exceeded our expectations, being really appetising. When this was finished a resourceful member of the party produced some cards, and poker became the order of the day. The game was still in progress when one of the others called our attention to the Red Cross collecting box on the table. In trying to decipher the appeal for subscriptions for the wounded, he had made a great discovery. Actually beside the red cross in a small circle made by a rubber stamp were the words, "_Gott strafe England_!" Naturally, this display of childishness amused us greatly, creating a general laugh. This frivolity in the face of a court-martial was more than Wolfe could stand, so after one withering glance in our direction he turned his back on us and stalked majestically from the room. Luckily I had in my possession a good supply of tin canteen money (which was valueless outside the camp); this was at once transferred to the box as quickly as possible. It isn't often that an Englishman has the pleasure of subscribing to his own special hate box! I am simply longing to know if the money was eventually returned to the camp for its equivalent value. Should this book in the near future be read in Germany, as I expect it will, would some kind Hun take the trouble to satisfy my curiosity? "Royal Air Force, England," will always find me. About six o'clock that evening we reached Hanover and were marched off through some of the main streets to an unknown destination. The town is all right; it is the people that spoil it. Proceeding down some broad streets we passed some very fine buildings, statues and fountains. Once a well-dressed woman unintentionally crossed our path, with the result that a sentry roughly threw her aside without a word of apology. Passing through a small park we halted before a low, dirty-looking stone building, with every window strongly barred. Presently Lieutenant Wolfe emerged with a smile of welcome and bade us enter. In a small courtyard a German N.C.O., with a loud rasping voice, ordered the prison guard to take us to our quarters. After much jangling of keys we were separated, to our amazement, and each one of the party locked in a cell by himself. Near the ceiling was one small window about two feet square. On examination this exit proved to be guarded with fine wire netting and thick iron bars firmly embedded in cement. As usual, there was a special spy-hole in the door which had to be covered on the inside. Attached to each end of the bed were two strong shackles, evidently intended to fasten the occupant down if necessary. We afterwards learnt that this was the garrison prison, it being considerably worse than the civil one. It does not seem surprising that they are able to maintain their iron discipline, if they resort to these methods. I think the reader will agree that this is hardly a fit place to lodge officers who, as yet, were only awaiting their trial. Several times I faintly heard the whirring of aeroplanes outside, but only managed to see one by pulling myself up to the window. We relieved the monotony a little by whistling to each other in the Morse code what we thought of the Huns for putting us there. The thickness of the walls, however, soon put a stop to this. During the night I was awakened by several thuds, followed by a crash, which came from somewhere overhead. This puzzled me at the time, but the next day I found the noise had been caused by one of our party rat-hunting with the aid of a boot which had landed on a tin basin instead of the rat. The next morning the man with a voice like a nutmeg grater released us from our cells, and after a few preliminaries we were marched off across the square to a large building, which we entered about ten o'clock. Then ensued a long but interesting wait, during which we watched all sorts and conditions of Huns passing up and down the main staircase. Amongst them we saw several colonels, a general and a very smart monocled major, whose helmet was rather the shape of a fireman's, showing that he was in some crack cavalry regiment--dragoons, I think. They mostly wore pale blue-grey overcoats, and their buttons, sword-hilts and golden eagles on their helmets glittered exquisitely. The general appearance was smart enough, but everything seemed a trifle overdone, giving one the impression that they had just stepped out of a bandbox. Had a British officer been standing beside these Germans, wearing his sword, the contrast would have been a strange one, for while looking just as smart the uniform would have had the appearance of being infinitely more serviceable. There passed quite a number of Hun privates with downcast eyes, having just received their long sentences. An interpreter having nothing to do, tried hard to prove to us that the U-boats would very soon bring England to her knees, but gave up the attempt on receiving an invitation to the camp to watch the daily arrival of the over-laden parcel cart. Eventually we were ushered into the court, bareheaded, trying very hard to look meek. The opening questions and formalities took up a lot of time, and it really was a terrible strain trying not to laugh when the interpreter solemnly explained to a German captain that one of our party belonged to the _Middlesex_ Regiment. Before getting to business our individual conduct sheets were read out, mine being about as black as it could be. At our request two French majors from Osnabrück were present. Both spoke well on our behalf, explaining that this could only be a quarrel between the French and British in any case, but that they were delighted at what had occurred, and most certainly did not wish to prosecute. Everything went in our favour, and, when the treacling was described, even the presiding Hun general laughed. The public prosecutor, as usual, asked for the maximum punishment, 600 marks fine or 100 days fortress. Whereupon the court rose and left the room, looking justice itself. On their return it was announced that the junior three of our party, who had not actually entered the Frenchman's room, were let off with a caution, and that all the rest were each fined five hundred marks, or fifty days in a fortress. This showed how they wanted our money; of course the whole thing had been arranged beforehand. On inquiring what the money would go to support we were told that it would probably be the war loan. A few minutes later, after leaving in a rebellious mood, we were lucky enough to meet the two Frenchmen, from whom we learnt that they too had spent the night in cells in the same prison. Later on I was given to understand that before a subsequent court-martial two British officers spent the night on a sort of mattress in a corner of the guardroom. The return journey was accomplished without incident, except for an attempt on our part to speak to a captured guardsman, who was loading trucks, which was promptly squashed by Wolfe snapping out "_Das geht nicht_." Nevertheless, a tin or two of food found its way out of the window. The weather at Clausthal, after a brief interval of snowstorms, became beautifully warm, and the prospect of spending the summer in the Hartz Mountains was almost alluring. About this time General Friedrichs (in charge of prisoners of war) made a speech in the Reichstag, in the course of which he stated that the English treated their prisoners better than any other nation (or so the translation read), and went on to say that in return English prisoners must receive good treatment, so that at the conclusion of hostilities they would take back good remembrances of Germany to their own country. In my case things certainly did change (I expect as a result of the speech)--for the worse. A week later thirty-five officers, including myself, were sent to Ströhen, a camp which will certainly be remembered long after peace is declared, but I doubt if the memory will be a pleasant one. CHAPTER VIII STRÖHEN Previous to our departure Wolfe personally searched our belongings. Although a long journey lay in front of us, he only allowed each individual to carry two small tins of food. In reply to our protests he said that, as things were always well arranged in Germany, our luggage would therefore arrive at the same time as ourselves. This was, of course, absolutely untrue, but we had to submit. During the great search Wolfe, seeing that I was wearing a belt made of plaited string (Yes, Mr. Wolfe, the belt in question was made of blind cord cut from the _kurhaus_ windows!), and noting that it was something unusual, ordered me to leave it behind. Taking it off, I politely handed it to him, and expressed my hope that he would keep it as a souvenir! With a charming smile he replied, "Three days _stuben_ arrest," which I acknowledged with a bow. Outside the camp, on our way to the station we looked back and saw the roll call was in progress. Thereupon we gave three cheers for the many friends we were leaving behind us, in spite of the fact that Wolfe and the commandant were on parade. We travelled second class and at one station were even allowed to buy beer; our guards were quite reasonable, and things in general went off pleasantly. We stayed some time at an out-of-the-way station east of Osnabrück, where quite a crowd of children collected. They scrambled excitedly for the sweets and cigarettes which we threw them. Arriving at a little station called Ströhen, which seemed to be on a large moor, we got out and started for the camp, the German officer bringing up the rear in a victoria. After ten minutes' walking down a lonely road we made out a group of low wooden huts surrounded by high arc lamps and wire, on a desolate moorland. Surely this could not be our destination, the good camp we had been led to expect. But after inquiring our guards told us it was, although they were nearly as much surprised at its appearance as we were. At all events we were determined to hide our feelings and look cheery. Quickening our pace we approached the camp singing the almost forgotten song, "Tipperary," were marched through the gates, and halted in front of a small group of German officers, in the centre of the camp. We at once distinguished the commandant, a major, with a first class iron cross hanging from his collar. He was rather short and stout with a square face; his grey whiskers terminated in a small double-pointed beard; this completed his "Hunnish" appearance! With his hands behind his back he welcomed us with a sullen stare, all the while puffing stolidly at his cigar. Had the Huns rehearsed this scene for a week they could not have given us a more heathen reception. No one even made a show at politeness by a nod or a salute. A stout and ugly sergeant-major (named Muller), wearing a gaudy blue and red uniform and sword, bawled at us to dress by the right, as if he were addressing a squad of recruits. He very nearly exploded when we ignored his insolent words of command. A rather common little interpreter commenced calling the roll, beginning with a captain, but only shouting his surname, to which there was no response. When his voice gradually rose to a shriek the Englishman stepped out and said, "I suppose you mean Captain so-and-so." The interpreter explained matters to the commandant, who must have realised that they were in the wrong, for in future we were addressed by our proper rank. (Victory No. 1.) We were each given a disc, on which was stamped our camp number (mine is now residing at home), and shown into our rooms. Late that night about two hundred fellows arrived from Crefeld, and Muller, finding he could not intimidate them, made such a noise that he was "choked off" by the commandant. We learnt that this place had been built as a Russian reprisal camp, but that lately Roumanian officers had been confined there. We were the first British these people had ever had to deal with. Hence their very bad manners! Now in a camp of this sort it is very necessary to stand up for one's rights when treated unfairly, otherwise the Germans soon forget that you have any rights; at the same time, if the treatment is fair, one does one's best to avoid friction. The best instance of a result of the former treatment occurred the next afternoon. When some of the Crefeld party, who had been allowed to bring provisions with them, found that it was not possible to obtain hot water for making tea, some inventive person at once started a little fire of sticks outside my room. Almost immediately a N.C.O. leading half a dozen armed men appeared on the scene and told the offender in a dreadful voice to put the fire out at once. Instead of complying the culprit dodged into a barrack and out of a window on the opposite side and disappeared. When the Huns were able to comprehend the audacity of this move they had to put the fire out themselves. Half an hour later a sentry, seeing three fires burning in the same place, strolled over and quietly informed those concerned that fires were not allowed, and that unless they were put out he would have to make a report to the commandant. The result was that they were at once extinguished with the aid of sand. Our baggage did not arrive for nearly a week; then, instead of being given out, it was locked up for another five days before we received it all. During this time we had to live on the German food as best we could. ACCOMMODATION.--Our quarters consisted of three long and two smaller badly made huts, divided into rooms containing, mostly, two or six officers. The mattresses were mostly dirty and hard, being stuffed with paper and cardboard, which formed sharp edges and lumps. The first week about ten of us found "creepy crawlies," and shortly before our departure I succeeded in attracting some while in the camp hospital! The Huns provided us with the German equivalent for "Keating's" after much agitation, after making us pay for it. The doctor said that the newly captured prisoners must have brought the creatures into the camp. That may have been true in a few cases, but even so they are to blame for not making adequate arrangements to prevent it. We each received a tin basin, but the washing was all done at three pumps outside. All the drinking water was derived from this source, and had a strong and disagreeable taste. A few feet away from each pump was a stagnant pool into which the waste water flowed. I think it is reasonable to suppose that a good proportion of it, after filtering through the sand, was pumped up again. In spite of these trifles we were told that the water had been analysed and passed by the medical authorities. I suppose both the colour and flavour were only due to the presence of iron, in which case I have no doubt it was an excellent tonic. I should have liked to have seen the doctor's face had he been made to swallow a glassful. I am thinking of forming a company for the purpose of building a hydro on the site of the old camp, so that every one may have an opportunity of enjoying perfect health by taking the Ströhen waters. I hope the reader will assist me by buying shares in this excellent concern. (A large cemetery will, of course, be necessary, but grave-digging should not prove to be expensive, the soil being very light!) The safest and most comfortable place in the camp was the small hospital, which was under the care of a very decent corporal in a Brandenburg regiment. The dining and common rooms were in one long barrack, divided into two sections. At one end of the latter was a canteen of sorts, which ultimately improved considerably. The sanitary arrangements were most primitive, the breezes constantly reminding one of their inefficiency. For the first month the weather was glorious, and during the evening stroll round it was maddening to watch the red sun slowly sinking behind the distant woods to the westward, showing us the way to Holland and freedom. The journey by train would have been accomplished in a few hours under ordinary circumstances. It was almost incredible to think, though it was only too true, that a few strands of wire and some grey-clad sentries could keep us confined in this desert-like camp, containing neither grass nor trees, isolated from all the pleasures of summer. Whenever there was a wind we enjoyed a whirling sandstorm. Often I have seen it so thick as to temporarily obscure the further camp buildings. If we had only been allowed camels and facilities for exercising, we should soon have looked upon a journey across the Sahara as mere child's play. After a victory (real or imaginary), or an anniversary, it was with very rebellious feelings that we watched the German flag fluttering in the breezes. I did not mind the coloured one quite so much, but it was almost more than I could stand to see the pale yellow flag, framing the treacherous scraggy black eagle, flying over my head. In one part of the camp there was just room for a game of tennis. Several classes were formed for learning languages, and indulging in "physical jerks" (culture), though I'm sorry to say I much preferred watching and jeering with the ever increasing majority. Occasionally sports days were organised, which went off in style, the chief items being short races, jumping, cock-fighting, also a competition which necessitated each individual eating a sticky bun dangling from a tightly stretched string without using his hands. This may not sound much of a feat, but when one realises that the bun consists of a chunk of stale black bread exuding coarse treacle, the difficulty will be better understood. Several canaries had been brought along from the former camp. In one instance a man in the Flying Corps, possessing a sitting bird, carried her so carefully that she never left the eggs and eventually reared her young at Ströhen. Latterly chip carving became the fashion, as it was then possible to obtain the necessary articles from a German firm through the canteen. Concerts were frequently held, and as the camp contained very considerable talent, we had some really first class performances, after being allowed to hire a piano from the nearest town. One day a new lot of orderlies arrived and took up their quarters in a barrack separated from our part of the camp by some wire. Among their number was a private called Cheeseman, a born comedian, who used to get up sing-songs and sketches; the star turn, however, was a selection from his orchestra, which he used to conduct with a broomstick from an inverted bucket. The instruments were two mandolines, one banjo, one mandola, a tin whistle, an accordion, a rattle, a comb, and a lump of iron. Somehow the performers played in tune, but they always sent us into fits of laughter, and even amused the watching Huns. Although Cheeseman often disappeared into cells for several days, he was never really squashed and always reappeared with a new joke. I was lucky enough to receive a good assortment of flower seeds from home, including sunflowers, sweet peas, nasturtiums, etc.; these I immediately planted in a tiny museum-like garden, and tended carefully, in the hope that some day the plants would assume large enough proportions to enable me to believe temporarily on special occasions that I was actually amid the flowers of good old England. In my case the deception was fortunately not necessary, as I was destined to enjoy the real thing, though unfortunately in hospital. TREATMENT.--The first roll calls, though unnecessarily long, were quite entertaining. They were conducted by a guards lieutenant with a pronounced limp, who went by the name of "Cork-leg." Even when speaking of a matter of no importance his voice would become louder and louder until it threatened to reach a shrill scream. On one occasion when the interpreter was not present, some unoffending person asked the Hun a question in English. Cork-leg replied, with a dreadful roar, that we must understand that the language of the camp was German, and German only. Things were going a little too far, so every time the gentleman gave expression to his thoughts in too vehement a manner most of us whispered a long-drawn "Hush." The parade being in square formation, when he turned suddenly to arrest the offender, he found those facing him wearing an air of injured innocence, while those in his rear continued the good work. This had the desired effect, and although it meant "_stuben_ arrest" for several fellows, the officer soon realised what an ass he was making of himself and became almost normal, with the result that things went smoothly for a while. Soon after our arrival, a fortnight, to be correct, the newly captured infantry officers, numbering about fifty, were ordered to give up their steel helmets at a given roll call. This naturally went against the grain. The owners mostly destroyed the rubber padding and hid the helmets, resolving that at least they should not benefit the Hun. At the appointed time eight instead of fifty were surrendered to the officer on duty. On the morning of the twelfth of June a number of German soldiers set to work with poles and hooks to drag the pools for submerged helmets. By and by they succeeded in picking out quite a number of those steel fish, every additional one landed calling forth a subdued cheer from the onlookers. In the afternoon, having nothing to do but kill time, I strolled out of a barrack, my hands in my pockets, with no immediate objective in view. Outside a few Germans were still fishing for helmets, while half a dozen Britishers were lazily watching operations. After joining them for a minute or two I turned to walk over to another building. True, there were some sentries with fixed bayonets lounging about, but that was nothing unusual, for they might well be in charge of the orderlies who were working near by. I had not gone ten yards when a tall, unshaven _Landsturmer_ swung round and barred my way. He told me with a snarl that I was not allowed there and motioned me back with his hand. I told him that I was not aware of any new order and only wished to go to the neighbouring building. Whereupon he repeated his words in a still more offensive tone, and brought his rifle to the ready. (Even a German sentry is supposed to be reasonably polite when addressing an officer prisoner for the first time, but this man was purposely rude.) I replied that if he addressed me as a British officer and not as a dog I should obey him at once, otherwise I should remain where I was. After a few more unintelligible threats he advanced, brandishing his weapon, at which I turned sideways to call to a German N.C.O. and protest against such treatment. The kindly sentry aimed a smashing blow at my left foot, which I was luckily able to partially deflect by a slight movement of my knee. Things were certainly quite disturbing, for the next instant he stuck the bayonet almost through my right thigh. The proceeding was not particularly pleasant, feeling very like a sharp burn, but I was almost too surprised to realise fully what had happened, so consequently remained standing where I was. Vaguely I realised that the sentry had withdrawn his bayonet for another thrust, this time evidently intended to enter my body. Glancing down I saw that my trouser leg was saturated and streaming with blood, which was even welling out of my shoe on to the ground, showing that an artery had been severed. Not being particularly partial to bayonet thrusts, I decided that I could now abandon my argument without loss of prestige. I succeeded in hobbling a few yards to the rear, at the same time holding the artery above the wound in an endeavour to check the flow of blood. This, however, did not prove very successful, the sand continuing to turn red behind me. Just as I was in the act of falling, a number of our fellows, seeing what had happened, rushed up and carried me hastily into the camp hospital, where a tourniquet was applied and the doctor sent for. The time was then a quarter-past three, and the doctor did not arrive till after seven o'clock. I rather fancy if an accident of that sort had occurred in an English prison camp containing over four hundred German officers, it would not be necessary to wait almost four hours before the arrival of a qualified doctor. At the best of times a very tight tourniquet is distinctly uncomfortable. The medical orderly thinking that I should lose consciousness and seeing the commandant enter the room, explained the circumstances and asked if he might give me a little brandy. After due consideration and much chewing at the ragged end of his eternal cigar, he replied that as water would be given to a wounded German soldier, it was good enough for me. Though I pretended not to hear, these remarks impressed me considerably. The N.C.O. looked after me very well, and early next morning took me to the station in an ambulance on my way to Hanover Hospital. Two private soldiers acted as stretcher-bearers, with the N.C.O. in charge. When the train arrived it was found that the stretcher was too broad to go into a carriage, so I travelled in the luggage van, among trunks, bicycles and baskets of fish. The Germans were quite jolly and sang a few songs, while I, in a half dead condition, endeavoured to accompany them on my beloved mandoline. At Hanover I was dumped down at a Red Cross centre below the station to await the ambulance. Soon quite a pretty nurse (for a wonder) came up and inquired if I was English. I could not resist replying in German: "Yes, sister, I am one of those _Schweinhund Englanders_!" To my surprise she seemed quite embarrassed, and hastily answered me that they did not say that _now_. (Emphasis on the _now_.) In the conveyance I lay beside a wounded German private, also bound for hospital. When my curiosity had broken the ice, he told me that he had just returned from the Messines Ridge, where he had acquired a great respect for British artillery and mines (though he himself was a sapper). The Hanover hospitals which usually take in prisoners are Nos. 1 and 7; to my relief I was taken to No. 1, which is recognised as the best. I received practically the same treatment as the German patients, and occupied a room with three other British officers. Some of the food we received was quite good, a little fresh milk and butter, and one or two whitish rolls of bread, and, of course, the usual doubtful soups. Immediately outside the window was a large flowering acacia tree, looking delightfully shady and cool after Ströhen desert. Another luxury we sometimes enjoyed was strawberries, which the German orderly bought in large quantities, afterwards selling them to some of the doctors and nurses as well as ourselves. At frequent intervals a band outside played a very ordinary uninteresting dead march, announcing each time a German (usually a patient) had gone "West." Soon after my arrival I saw a Zeppelin flying very low over the town. I was delighted and remarked to a Bosch that it was the first Zeppelin I had ever seen. He was quite indignant and told me that I ought to know that it was a Schutte-Lanz, a new type of airship. My education must have been sadly neglected! Bayonet wounds are, for several reasons, liable to become septic; mine, however, healed up remarkably quickly, saving me endless bother. In a fortnight I started back to the camp, accompanied by a N.C.O. and a private, who helped me slowly along. We went by train, without causing much interest. This was a good thing, for it is very hard to look dignified when feeling like nothing on earth, and looking as white as a sheet. Many of the small boys were dressed up as soldiers in one way or another, and I twice saw a small ragamuffin band with tins for kettle-drums. Just wouldn't there be a fine scrap if a similar band of London children had suddenly rounded the corner! Personally, I would back the cockney spirit against any other. This was my second visit to Hanover, and on no occasion had I seen a motor other than the one ambulance car, though I heard two in the distance. Owing to the scarcity of rubber I was surprised at the number of bicycles present in the streets, but closer inspection proved that that difficulty had been overcome by a clever invention, by which the shock is lessened by an outer wooden rim held in position by strong springs, which are compressed as they take the weight. During the train journey my escort, as usual, drew my attention to the splendid way in which the Germans treated their prisoners by allowing them to travel second class. They simply would not believe that German officers in England always travelled first. The private, who owned a cigar factory in Hanover, became quite chatty and seemed very anxious to know if I thought the trade relationships between England and Germany would be the same as ever after the war. He was very surprised and, indeed, quite distressed when I told him that I thought there would be a considerable change--it seemed that the idea had never occurred to him before. I was not sorry when the camp was reached and I entered the little camp hospital to remain there for another two weeks. Several fellows having escaped from the camp temporarily, the commandant got the sack. Many speculations concerning his probable successor were indulged in, and I think the general opinion of the camp was that the newcomer might be better, though he could not be worse. We soon discovered our mistake. His first appearance was not exactly promising. Two fellows while walking round the camp suddenly heard a stream of abuse violently directed at them, and looking up, they saw the commandant coming towards them through a gate in the wire, fairly bursting with rage. His unreasonable complaint was that he had not been saluted while entering his office outside the wire! The offenders were at once packed off to cells for two or three days. The next day a few Britishers arrived from another camp, and while they were waiting outside to be admitted, a small and orderly crowd collected on the inside to see if they could recognise any one, or exchange a few remarks. Being unable to walk much I watched the proceedings from the window of my room and was able to see everything that took place. Without any warning the mad commandant rushed out of a building and up to the wire, where he screamed at the little gathering like a madman, making violent motions to show that they were to go back. It is perfectly legitimate to stand in a group as long as every one behaves and no one touches the neutral zone wire. One must stand somewhere. In this case he had absolutely no right to order a move. The interpreter, who happened to be near, walked up and said that the commandant desired us to go away, whereupon the officers began to disperse, wishing to humour him. I was startled to see two soldiers come through the gate with fixed bayonets in a quick business-like way, to drive the fellows back faster, evidently by the commandant's express orders. The younger of the two guards went straight up to an unoffending medical student, a Lieutenant Downes (S. Staffs.), who was then turning round, and pricked him in the stomach with his bayonet. To prevent the steady pressure making the slight wound worse, Downes seized the end of the rifle and, jerking the point out, swung it to the right, and then turning round walked quickly back. The sentry, after running past several other officers, overtook him and, to my horror, stuck the bayonet into his back. After continuing his walk for a few steps Downes collapsed and was at once carried into hospital, the next day being taken to Hanover. The wound was very serious, however; we received a message from the hospital a few days later stating that the bayonet had penetrated into one lung, but that he was getting on well and would probably soon recover. The same sentry, in his eagerness to obey orders, tried to bayonet a Captain Woodhouse, but as his prey jumped back just in time, only succeeded in cutting the skin. By this time a large crowd had collected, which the sentries continued slowly forcing back, although they were then fifty yards from the wire. As the news spread the crowd became larger, but remained ominously quiet, the two Germans not seeming to realise the danger of their position. It is the worst feeling I know to watch a cowardly display of this sort and yet be able to do absolutely nothing. It only needed a spark to set everything in a blaze, which must have ended in the guard being turned out for machine-gun practice. Meanwhile, the news reached some Britishers who were half-way through a concert. By mutual consent it was at once broken up by the singing of the National Anthem. Every one outside at once stood to attention and heartily joined in the last few bars. It was the most impressive scene one could possibly imagine. I am sure that no one who had witnessed it would in after years, without feeling murder in his heart, watch a man belonging to the mongrel breed, which is not infrequently seen sitting down while everybody else is standing for the National Anthem, only being forced grudgingly to his feet by public opinion, even then not removing his hat unless it is knocked off. I am convinced that if Ramsay Macdonald and a few of his colleagues could have spent a week in a bad German prison camp they would be only too willing to instruct their misguided followers in singing "God Save the King," in the spirit and way in which it should be and was sung at Ströhen on July 15th, 1917. The situation was saved. Our senior officer took advantage of the pause at the end while we were still under control, standing at attention, and told us to separate at once, as he would do everything that was possible. At this Israel departed every man to his own tent. The major asked for an immediate interview with the commandant, but the German captain who had entered replied that that was unfortunately impossible as that officer had gone out at lunch time and would not return till late. It was a most "kolossal" lie, but I do not think that the captain should be saddled with it, as he was, doubtless, acting under instructions. Most of those present, including myself, would have sworn on oath that we had seen the commandant a few minutes before and that he had caused all the trouble. But then what is one to do? Of course the usual complaints went (or rather were supposed to go) to higher authority (ambassadors and the like), but no satisfaction was obtained. It seems not unlikely that they all found their way into the office waste-paper basket by the most direct route. Again, a few days later about a dozen fellows were watching a party of Germans, under a _Feldwebel_ Pohlman, digging up an old tunnel which had fallen in near the wire. Everything was quiet and Pohlman was even talking naturally with one of our number, when I noticed him turn and speak a few words to the sergeant of the guard, who turned and entered the guardroom, evidently in a hurry. Knowing that this Pohlman, in spite of his oily manner and smug appearance, was a Hun in every sense of the word, I kept my weather eye open, warned the others and strolled off. A few seconds later four of the worst sentries in the place, having entered the camp unobserved, came running round the corner of a shed, their bayonets drawn back for thrusting, obviously having received orders that the next victim had to be finished off, the object, I suppose, being either to teach us a lesson or cause a mutiny. Some one shouted a warning to three fellows who were standing talking to each other unconscious of their danger, but before they had time to realise their predicament the sentries were on them. The Huns singled out a Captain Wilson (R.F.C.), and before he could get away, surrounded him, while one villainous-looking little Hun lunged straight at him. By a quick movement Wilson avoided the thrust and succeeded in breaking away, the bayonet passing through his clothes. The guard continued to press every one back into the centre of the camp, very serious trouble again only just being avoided. Another incident of this sort happened a few days later, when to our surprise some strong sherry arrived at the canteen, and was soon bought up by the thirsty prisoners. I think there was another object in view, as well as a desire to make money. Towards evening some Englishmen were sitting near the wire, close to where the sentry who had assaulted Downes was stationed. One of the fellows, feeling a little cheerful, amused himself by alluding to the bravery of the act. At the worst this was only a case calling for a little solitary confinement. I suppose the sentry passed the word along to the guardroom, for soon three sentries passed through the camp, metaphorically whetting their bayonets, going towards the scene of the disturbance. Before reaching it they unslung their rifles and fixed their bayonets, doubled round the corner of the building, expecting to surprise the unfortunate Englander. But to their disgust they only found empty chairs and returned very dejected. After this episode we had a dance in the dining-room, several fellows making up into the most charming girls, and did our best to forget our unpleasant surroundings. At ten o'clock, when we had gone to our barracks, according to the rules, Pohlman conducted an armed party of half a dozen Huns with fixed bayonets round the huts and every part of the camp, but failed to find the excuse he was longing for. Now what about the Cambrai officer's question, "Why do you call us Huns?" _Why, indeed?_ The German captain nearly always took roll call. Though fairly harmless, he was quite mad. He seldom brought an interpreter on parade and made long speeches and read orders to us, all in German, the great majority, of course, not understanding a single word! One day we heard the new commandant was coming on parade for the first time that evening, so therefore looked forward to some fun. When the time for the roll call arrived we were inspected as usual, and were standing waiting, when the little captain suddenly drew himself up to his full height, and screamed out: "_Augen Rechts--Augen Links--Gerade Aus_." As we were standing in three sides of a square it was an order to make every one face the commandant with a martial air. The net result of this "Double Dutch" was that everyone broke into an amused smile, which increased almost to hysterics when we caught sight of the recipient of this honour. The commandant was a tall, doddery, antediluvian Prussian colonel, with long grey moustaches, the very image of the Monkey Brand advertisement, only perhaps not quite so good looking. Why he did not fall over his trailing scabbard in every step remains a mystery to this day. There was another curious little trick the captain sometimes indulged in. In the middle of delivering a tirade he would suddenly point to heaven with a dramatic gesture, as if to prove the truth of a recent statement by invoking the Kaiser's God. Perhaps some day he will learn that the popular spirit of Germany lives not above but very far below. Soon after our arrival the prison was enlarged, as it always has to be when the camp becomes British. Fellows were often sent there for an offence about which they had never heard, without being able to say one word in self defence. In about two months I believe nearly half the camp had been in "clink." Until latterly it was forbidden to open windows at night, but being English we took the law into our own hands and continued opening the windows, refusing to be deprived of fresh air in the stifling heat. This naturally resulted in more prison, which at first relieved and then increased the monotony. Though it is hardly credible, our colonel had to carry out a sentence of three days "_stuben_ arrest" for losing his poker! About this time an Australian was put into prison for a trivial offence which had been committed by some one else, and did not even receive his sentence for three whole weeks! While in "jug" in this camp we were not allowed parcels, writing materials, books or smokes. We complained about this to a general who inspected the camp later; he expressed surprise at this state of affairs and had things partially rectified. For about two months all cigars and cigarettes received in parcels were stopped, the only reason given being that in some cases they had contained poison for destroying cattle. Not only were chances of destroying cattle exceedingly small, but we offered to smoke any cigarette they chose to give us from our parcels to prove the falsity of the charge. By an agreement between the Governments those serving terms of imprisonment for offences committed before the 4th of August, 1917, were released, a great number of the gaol-birds being sent to Ströhen. Residing in prison was a captain who made a hobby of being court-martialled. Under this new ruling he was taken out of cells for a few days, only to be put back to await trial for the trumped-up charge of having poison tablets on his person when recaptured after his last escape. I believe the only tablets he carried were either for purifying water, or Horlick's malted milk. Every one recaptured when trying to escape in the late winter of 1916 or the following spring received a sentence of five months' imprisonment, a fortnight the original punishment, and the remainder as a supposed reprisal for the sentence given to escaping Germans in England. The food given us was very bad indeed, though the list must have looked quite nice on paper. Apart from the eternal and loathsome gherkins, of which no mention was made, it asserted that we received fish twice a week! The Tuesday fish was of a dried variety, and had such a delicious smell when cooked that it was impossible to enter the dining-room when it was on the prowl! While that on Friday consisted of heaps of old mussels containing quantities of sand and young pebbles, known amongst ourselves as those ---- barnacles, scraped from the ships at Kiel. The whole time I was there I never once had an opportunity of buying any fresh fruit, though it was summer time and we could have paid good prices. The only result of my bayoneting episode was that the sentry was congratulated, and I was warned for a court-martial! When a staff captain arrived from Hanover to collect the evidence for the approaching trials, quite a cheery little crowd of accused officers were awaiting him. Several of them were to appear on two or three charges, and three R.F.C. officers were to be tried for dropping leaflets in the German lines. I believe it came to nothing in the end, as there was not enough evidence to convict them. Captain Scholtz and Lieutenant Wookey do not seem to have been so lucky. When my turn came, several German witnesses were produced who swore that after being struck on the foot with the butt, I had jumped forward to seize the rifle, asserting that the sentry had only acted in self-defence. (Such a truthful race!) When the captain was taking down my statement, we frequently got off the subject altogether. All of a sudden he would assert that the English had started the war and ask me the reason for their doing so. Thoroughly roused, I would reply that it was nonsense and he must know it. Then ensued an amusing but fiery argument about the neutrality of Belgium, the use of native troops, and frightfulness in general. His plea was that poor little unoffending Germany was only standing up for herself against a set of blood-thirsty enemies who wished to crush her. Needless to say, I did not feel much like sympathising. When we finally got back to business, all particulars were taken as a matter of form, my slaughterer's name and address being taken down. Before my departure I managed to get a glimpse of it when the captain was out of the room. I do not suffer from loss of memory! The all-absorbing problem of camp life is escaping. Up to this time half a dozen fellows had succeeded in getting away from the camp, but were afterwards recaptured. I will endeavour to give an outline of the several attempts and the difficulties to be overcome, which must of necessity be very curtailed, this book not being originally written for the benefit of the "Bosch." The most usual way is to cut the wire, but where sentries are numerous the undertaking is both difficult and dangerous. It is most natural to try stunts of the sort under cover of darkness. At this camp, however, the paraffin arc lamps were particularly brilliant, and when star-gazing on several occasions I have seen rats and mice scuttle across the white sand some distance away. Though storms often raged during the day, the wind almost invariably blew itself out towards night, leaving a dead calm, broken only by the tramp of sentries or the distant rattling hum of a nightjar. It is a brave man who, having determined this mode of exit, leaves his hut when others are sleeping, and vanishes. Presently, if he gets safely across the intervening ground, the faint yet feverish snipping of wire-cutters is heard, each time being followed perhaps by a slight "ping" as the strained wire separates. The ensuing silence is almost heart-breaking, for in contrast something else may at any instant be increasing its tension, a sentry's trigger-finger. One stormy night, when in hospital, I had reason to believe that an officer would make an attempt in that part of the camp at a given hour, so had an excellent chance of watching operations, which was not wasted. I went to the window and settled down for a long wait. Outside it was still raining, the sentries being in their boxes. A little before the time I caught sight of a dark figure which clambered out of the orderlies' hut and crawled into the neutral zone up to the outside wire, which he lay parallel to and commenced to cut. To my surprise, another figure joined him from the hut and lay there waiting; this was an orderly who had decided to join at the last instant. In about one and a half minutes a large enough gap had been cut, and the adventurers crawled through it, and were preparing to make a dash into the darkness when a sentry spotted them and stepped out of his box. Having burned their boats, off they went. The sentry ran a few steps, then, stopping abruptly, raised his rifle and fired. It was an anxious moment for the onlookers; the fugitives already knew the result, while, as yet, we did not. However, to our relief, the ghost-like figures continued their flight until they were swallowed up in the darkness, and the reflection of the artificial light on their wet rain-coats became too weak to give away their position. In their anxiety to leave the camp behind they tended to separate, but both fell headlong into a deep ditch, where they met again. In their first dash one of them dropped most of the provisions, which the Germans discovered and brought back to the camp in triumph. Six days afterwards they were recaptured, thirty kilometres from the border. Two officers cut the wire in broad daylight, when the nearest sentry was busy opening a gate admitting some orderlies. They left the camp by way of a ditch without being seen, crawling as they had never crawled before, their heads showing above the level of the fields, like two wobbling cabbages going for a hurried evening stroll. Their success was short-lived, for, only an hour afterwards, they were spotted and chased by some farmers, being finally brought to a stop by a man with a shot-gun. Another couple left the camp by the following ingenious method. A captain, who spoke German like a native, dressed up in the clothes of a Hun private (somehow acquired). Some of the essential things were missing, and had been manufactured in secret, such as a cap and a painted wooden bayonet, with a lovely coloured tassel. When everything was ready, about ten o'clock one morning, a perfectly good German private marched an R.F.C. lieutenant, disguised as an orderly, who carried two buckets (containing their kit), up to a gate in the wire, which he rattled to signify that it must be unlocked immediately. The sentry came along, unlocked the gate, and let him out. They proceeded to the road, which they followed for a short distance. That afternoon, while crossing a wild bit of country, they had the misfortune to be recaptured by a shooting party, being first completely surrounded by the beaters. Two other officers got out separately in an ingenious way, the first being recaptured crossing a bridge over the Ems, quite near Holland; the second lost direction, and was retaken four days after, having got thoroughly lost. One unlucky person was collared just outside the wire, dressed as an orderly, and was taken straight to prison to enjoy a period of perfect rest! I worked in several tunnels at different times, fitted with air pumps and perhaps even electric light--who knows? Digging oneself out is, at the best of times, a slow and difficult proposition, which is almost invariably discovered sooner or later. The humorous side of tunnelling is so pronounced that, could "Bairnsfather" view one such episode, our bookstalls would shortly be surrounded by eager crowds, clamouring for the first edition of "Fragments from Germany," depicting mud-bespattered "Old Bills" crawling for their very lives down narrow tunnels, closely pursued by the wily Hun! About this time I made my second attempt to escape, and succeeded in getting outside the wire for the time being, early one afternoon during bathing hours, only to discover that my proposed hiding-place was occupied by Germans. After sitting solemnly beside my kit for an hour, expecting discovery every second, I was lucky enough to return, unmolested, with a party of bathers. During this period of anxious waiting I was surprised to find that the thought of losing my carefully prepared outfit was considerably more distressing than the actual prospect of imprisonment. CHAPTER IX "AN OUTLAW ONCE AGAIN" When a sufficient number of officers had collected for baths at a little gate, a sentry allowed them to pass through it and along a short, wired path, or bird-cage (as we called it), and thence into the bath-room. This room was situated about ten yards outside the wire, in the middle of a wooden barrack, running parallel to, and about fifteen yards away from, the wire. It is subdivided to form a dressing-room and a place for the shower baths, every exit being strongly barred, and a sentry stationed at the door. After a minute inspection of every nook and cranny, I found that it was just possible, by standing upright, to squeeze into an alcove, about eleven inches deep and a foot wide, in an angle formed by a wall and the brickwork of a chimney which projected into the room. Though in full view of the door, it was partially hidden behind an empty stove. I reasoned that, should a well-made dummy wall obscure the aperture, it would take a very observant sentry to detect anything amiss. As a last resource, even should it be noticed, it might pass as something to do with the heating of the adjacent room. After weighing up the chances of success for several days, I decided that it was worth trying. When the measurements had been taken, behind the Bosch's back, I set to work to manufacture the false wall. Most of my friends ridiculed the idea, calling my pet wall a doll's house and other insulting names, and bestowing on me much superfluous sympathy and pity. They argued that it had not been done before, and was, therefore, impossible, doing their level best to stop me embarking on such a mad enterprise. At first they almost succeeded in their object, but, knowing that most ordinary people remain in a camp indefinitely, working on more orthodox lines, I determined that I would put it to the test, if only to prove them wrong, or land myself in prison. One infantry officer, who had previously been through a course of camouflage, gave me his moral support, which counted for a good deal. The wall was made of cardboard sewn tightly on to a light wooden frame, the whole being made in three sections, which, when fitted together, reached the height of about eight feet six inches. The top section was fitted with a leather hinge, which allowed the upper half of it to slope back at an angle of forty-five degrees, so that the hiding-place should not appear to be hollow. When at last the doll's house was finished, it defied all efforts to whiten it, and seemed to have a rooted objection to being made to resemble the dirty whitewash of the bath-room. I tried melting old whitewash (scraped off the walls) with gum and hot water, but it either fell off when dry or showed the wet cardboard plainly through. Chloride of lime proved equally useless. Only a little white paint was procurable, but this was altogether too smooth and shiny. One day, when the three sections were drying outside on the sand, a German _feldwebel_ (sergeant-major--commonly known as a "fieldwobble") came along, and inquired if I was making a model aeroplane. When I replied that his surmise was correct, he asked me, with a slow smile, if I intended flying away when the machine was completed. The wicked old creature departed, highly amused at my answer, "Yes, I hope so." Certainly many a true word is spoken in jest! After a week's experimenting with useless colouring mixtures, I was almost in despair, when the desired effect was produced by coating the cardboard with a thick cornflour paste, finally toning it down with a mixture of cobwebs and mud. Though on three separate occasions I had everything ready for the final test, it was not before August 16th that conditions were at last favourable enough to risk my welfare for the next few weeks. A little before five o'clock I entered the bath-room, accompanied by several assistants. Our journey thither was rather amusing, though the slightest accident would have meant much "_stuben_ arrest." It is not easy to walk naturally when carrying a young wall out of sight under one's coat, which is doing its best to give the show away by shedding bits of plaster which fall to the ground and leave a trail, reminding one strongly of a paper chase. However, the sentries noticed nothing unusual. As soon as the Hun's back was turned I slipped the sections together and squeezed into the alcove, into which I was securely fastened by a friend, who whispered that everything looked O.K., and asked me to be sure and write to him when I got to England. Whether this was meant or not I do not know, but at any rate it was just the encouragement I needed. It was an anxious moment when everybody left the room with a final "Good luck," and I heard the sentry approaching to make sure that nobody had been left behind. Previously I had determined not to watch the Hun, as my gaze might render him more liable to look in my direction. Now, under the stress of circumstances, this seemed a physical impossibility, and all good resolutions went to the winds. I glued one eye to the spy-hole and saw a German standing only a few feet away, with his back to me, puffing solemnly at a long pipe, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Almost immediately, as if in answer to my concentrated gaze, he turned and looked straight in my direction. I promptly shrivelled up to nothing, and developed acute suspended animation. I simply dared not breath, and felt as if my thoughts were becoming audible. My relief was indescribable when he turned away, and left in an ordinary manner. Though one crisis was over, the strain had been such that it took me several minutes to "defossilise" and grasp the fact that, somewhere in the dim distance, the chances of success were increasing. A few minutes later a N.C.O. came in, and searched about for soap. As he was pocketing some small bits left behind, my wall threatened to fall outwards, but I managed to hold it steady until he went away. A five-and-a-half hour wait lay in front of me, and, my prison being dark, stifling and hot, the time passed intolerably slowly. After waiting patiently for what I judged to be anything from half to three-quarters of an hour, I would glance at my watch, only to discover that, in reality, four or five minutes had passed. My primary success was evidently well known inside the camp, for most of the fellows taking their evening stroll cast anxious veiled glances in my direction, from the wrong side of the wire. It was with both pleasure and anxiety that I watched the darkness slowly closing in, though I felt inclined to disbelieve that "Time and tide wait for no man." Half-past ten did eventually arrive, and with it the now unwelcome time for action. Slowly, and with infinite caution, I stepped out into the room, and replaced the wall to give some one else a chance later on. Most of my kit was in the stove, and, as there were no fire-irons about, considerable noise was made lifting the iron top and extracting the contents with my fingers. Everything was now squashed into a sort of pack, and I approached the window on tip-toe. Within the camp all was quiet, but there, just outside, passing and repassing on his beat, often not ten yards away, was a particularly young and active German sentry, stepping quietly, with an elastic tread. He held his rifle in his hands, and gazed intently into the camp, as if expecting some shooting practice. When he reached the end of his short beat, I opened the door with many misgivings, and crept along a passage to the back of the hut. Entering the empty wash-room, I saw that my information had been correct, the windows were not barred. In an adjoining room several Huns were settling down for the night, their light showing under the door. I had almost reached the nearest window when, with a most appalling crash, I overturned an empty bucket in the dark. Listening an instant, I heard surprised voices and waited for no further developments, but, coat, pack and all, jumped through the half-open window and fell into a ditch below. Struggling up and tripping over another wire, I landed in another ditch. After leaving this my way lay beyond the shadow of the hut across a cultivated patch of moor, planted with potatoes, which was illuminated by the arc lamps. I covered this in record time, everything rattling and seeming to make a most deafening noise, as though all the devils in Hell were after me with red-hot pitchforks, expecting to hear a bullet whistle by every moment. However, nothing happened, and when several hundred yards away, I halted for about ten minutes to listen for the bugle sounding the alarm. It would have been some satisfaction to know that the camp was buzzing like a bee-hive, and all on my account! But, owing to the clever way in which my room mates worked it, my absence was not noticed, and so this pleasure was denied me. I shouldered my heavy pack and started out over the heather in the direction indicated by the stars. The greatest obstacles were the peat bogs, into which I often sank knee-deep, and had to crawl out. After about two hours rough walking, I was lying among the heather resting, when I was startled by a slight noise like the rattle of a chain. Looking up quickly as the moon came out from behind a cloud, I saw a dark shape, which seemed to move considerably closer and a little to the left, as I watched. A general survey of my position was not reassuring, for, in the light, I could distinctly see half-a-dozen more dark forms situated on my front and sides at regular intervals, mostly in a crouching position. Instantly I thought that somehow I had been traced by dogs, and that these were sentries. Knowing the gentle way in which the inmates of this camp were treated, I must confess that I was very scared. I had not even a stick; besides, one could wish for a more congenial meeting-place to accost gentlemen of this sort than a lonely moor at midnight. Behind me was a long cutting, filled with dark water, from which peat had been taken; into this I cautiously slid up to my shoulders, and waited developments. Nothing happened, and, as I became colder and colder, I began to think that, after all, I had been mistaken. Was it possible that they were only heaps of peat? At last I summoned up enough courage to crawl out and approach one of the mysterious forms. Still nothing happened, and my confidence increased considerably. I had only gone a few yards when I saw that it was actually only a heap of peat with a large piece lying near the top which protruded sideways, this having formed the supposed sentry's head. Even then I did not feel quite convinced until I administered a hard kick and there was no retaliation. During the night I passed several villages, and once found myself among a lot of small apple trees, which I shook violently. Down tumbled some unripe fruit. It did not take long to fill my pockets and clear off at full speed. Towards morning I lost sight of the camp lights, and, entering a small fir plantation, arranged a good hiding-place and soon fell asleep. In less than an hour I awoke in a soaking condition, and sat up with a start, the only result being that the movement shook the fir branches over my head, and a shower-bath ensued. The next day I enjoyed five thunderstorms! No sooner had one passed over than another came up. My home-made tent, a large sheet of green oilsilk, smuggled from home, kept off a good deal of the rain, but, nevertheless, I had a good opportunity of studying the condition of a half-drowned rat. In spite of the wet and the presence of some large wood-ants, I rather enjoyed the sour apples, the first I had tasted that summer. Once during the afternoon a red squirrel came jumping over the fir needles, and looked up impudently into my face. The sight of so much ugliness almost overcame him, but he managed to scamper off at a good speed. I tried hard to attract this, my only friend, by pretending to be Hiawatha, and calling him an "_Adjidaumo_," but this only hurried his retreat. My food consisted mostly of chocolate and biscuits, though, for the first three days, I did not feel at all hungry. Water was very scarce, but I received more than my share a few days later. The third night, leaving the moon behind, I climbed over a barbed wire fence, and found myself among a lot of large and boney black-and-white Holstein cattle. Murmuring soft German words of endearment, I approached the nearest cow in the hope of obtaining some milk. However, these good creatures, thinking it a most unusual milking hour, were not having any, and showed their disapproval of my conduct by careering madly round the field, making a fiendish noise, which caused the author of the disturbance to take to his heels for fear of discovery. A little later I changed my tactics. After stealing several luscious apples, I presented them to another walking milk-tank. The creature had a softer heart, and succumbed to the temptation. Everything went according to plan, for, while she munched the apple contentedly, I proceeded to fill a large tin mug several times over. I tramped for ten nights, and only missed my milk three times. Another night, passing in front of a farm-house, I came upon a full milk-can standing by a gate; the contents not only filled my water bottle, but even satisfied me. One morning, after an unusually long march, I flopped down and went to sleep in an overgrown ditch, surrounded by gorse and broom. The sun was just rising when I awoke with the idea that I was lying on a bed of pins. The idea grew to a firm conviction when an involuntary movement of mine considerably increased my discomfort. As I lay trying to solve the problem in a semi-conscious condition, the solution ran across my face; it seemed to have a great many legs. As my fingers closed round it I received another violent pin-prick, but held on manfully and, with an effort, forced myself to look at my prey. It was a gigantic angry wood-ant, which hung on to my finger for all it was worth. Considering the two things which terrify me most are ants and centipedes, perhaps the reader will understand my perturbed state of mind when I found myself lying beside a large ants' nest, being slowly devoured by its inhabitants, like a fat green caterpillar. As if propelled by a rocket I sprang up, and ran up and down the short ditch at full speed. When fatigue had brought me to a stop I was delighted to find that they had mostly been shaken off out of my clothes. It was impossible to find a resting place free from ants, the whole place was infested with them. In my efforts to avoid them I climbed to the top of a thick pine tree, but even there my little friends were parading along the branches. The day proved to be so hot and thundery that, before twelve o'clock, the milk in my bottle turned solid and had to be eaten like junket. It was with great satisfaction that I watched the darkness setting in, for, under its protection, I was enabled to leave the unholy spot and continue my nightly travels. One of the things which had troubled me considerably when planning my escape was how to reset my watch should it go wrong. As it was, the village clocks kept me well informed by striking the hour with much vigour. The next day, as I lay hidden at the edge of a very young plantation, a party of labourers with scythes assembled not far away. After leaving their coats and, presumably, their provisions behind, they proceeded to cut the grass along the edge of the plantation and in a neighbouring field. As I lay "doggo" I formulated many plans for stealing their food to replenish my store, but finally decided that the risk was too great. Only once did I think that I had been discovered, for, as I was passing my time in a wood by carving a souvenir stick, something burst close beside me, making quite a commotion and breaking many twigs. Just before the branches closed I caught sight of a fluffy white tail. After all it was only a frightened deer. Late on the sixth night I was walking fast along the side of a road which led through a forest when, stopping an instant to listen, I heard a low voice shout about forty yards in front. Then some one approached with a previously concealed lantern. Instantly I jumped over the ditch, hoping to get away under the trees unnoticed. Unfortunately, I landed on some dry twigs, which crackled at every step and betrayed my presence. Remembering the deer incident, I emitted a loud, coughing bark, such as those animals make, and crashed through the undergrowth, making as much noise as possible. To my relief I saw that the man with the lantern turned back to his post to rejoin his companion--presumably the ruse succeeded. It was just as well I was not caught here, for now I have reason to believe that I was close to an important aerodrome, and that this was a guard--possibly against espionage. The distance covered was, roughly, a hundred and sixty miles, and, during the whole period, only once did I recognise the name of a small town on a milestone, which told me I was going in the right direction. The fact of having no one to talk to for so many days, combined with the uncertainty of it all, had the most depressing influence. While waiting for the long days to pass, killing countless mosquitoes, I frequently wondered if the stars could be purposely leading me in the wrong direction, or if peace had been declared, and I was on an unnecessarily tiring walking tour. As I was approaching a busy railway, I frequently heard thuds and crashes, or, if the wind was steady, a faint roar, which, I afterwards found, was caused by the continued traffic and shunting of trucks. This troubled me quite a lot, for it sounded exactly like an intermittent bombardment, and not infrequently increased in volume, until I am convinced an old soldier would have sworn it was a distant barrage. I pictured my arrival at the frontier only to learn that Holland had decided to be in the fashion, and was therefore running a little war on her own, on the popular Bolshevik excuse of upholding the cause of democracy. The only thing left for me to do would have been to have turned about and, after many trials and hardships, succeed in getting into Switzerland, where Fate, with a smile on her face, would probably have arranged to have me shot by accident while on my way through Zurich, during the subsequent riots. Our "_moutons_" in the meantime, have been straying badly; it is, therefore, our duty to leave dreams to take care of themselves, and return to the subject without more ado. When I had been on the loose for a week the country became very flat and sodden--water was everywhere. Most of the roads were banked up to guard against flood, while all ditches were transformed into small canals. Trees became scarcer and, consequently, the daily problem of finding effectual cover increased in difficulty. Nearly all the seventh night I followed a tow-path at the side of an important canal, which led in a northerly direction. Innumerable movable bridges, traversing the lesser waterways which flowed into the big canal, had to be crossed. This procedure was more alarming than one might suppose, as the frail bridges shook at the slightest touch, and also advertised my crossing to the inmates of the usual adjoining lodge by magnifying every little sound. Most of the way, moored at the water's edge, were barges laden with peat, containing all sorts of dogs; in fact, in several instances they seemed to be veritable floating dogs' homes. These creatures barked as if paid to, and were usually sympathetically answered by dogs some distance in advance, thus inadvertently proclaiming the news of my arrival. Once two men came out of a cottage twenty yards ahead, and, stopping in the path, turned round and watched me approaching. That time I really thought the game was up. It was absolutely essential to maintain a bold exterior, despite the fact that my breathing apparatus almost ceased to work. Slouching quickly along, I whistled a bar or two of "Püppchen." Curiously enough my presence at that time of night created no suspicion, for I passed them without being spoken to. Before taking a road leading to the west, I sat down and dissolved my last Oxo cube in a mug of cold, greenish canal water. The meal is prepared as follows: First suck your middle finger until it tastes clean, then stir the Oxo until it is dissolved (this usually takes about half an hour). Before drinking the concoction it is necessary to remove any dead fishes that may be floating on the surface, and also make certain that none of the Oxo is wasted by remaining underneath the finger nails. At intervals I was very gratified to see that the sky, to the north and north-east, was illuminated by distant searchlights. As several naval bases lay in that direction, it is reasonable to suppose that the Huns were expecting a visit from our airmen. After following the road for over an hour, I procured some excellent apples at a wayside farm-house, and beat a hasty retreat. As time wore on and the milk carts began rumbling on their rounds, I quickened my pace and commenced a desperate search for cover. Leaving the road, I headed across the fields, and after jumping, or falling into, several flooded ditches, came to an overgrown marsh. A few yards from _terra firma_ was a large sallow bush, growing on a tiny island. After getting thoroughly wet, I succeeded in crawling on to this and screening my headquarters from prying eyes with green rushes. As it became lighter, I heard occasional voices and peculiar creakings, the cause of which I could not interpret, and might well render my position unsafe. The anxiety was increased when a large, dark shadow loomed out of the fog and threatened to completely swallow my little island. All at once the curling white mist drifted away, and everything was explained in an instant. The terrifying shadow resolved itself into the great red-brown sail of a passing barge. I was lying close beside the tow-path of a canal. Just as the sun had risen over the trees and the mists were beginning to disperse and float upwards, another noise attracted my attention, which developed into a deep throbbing roar. Looking up, I saw three large "Zepps," flying low, and rolling slightly in the stiff morning breeze, returning to their lair after a strenuous night out. As they passed over the school-children in a neighbouring village cheered excitedly. Except for the usual mosquito bites and inability to sleep, the day passed uneventfully. When darkness fell and all was quiet again, I once more saddled up and started out, this time earnestly hoping, yet fearing, to reach the river Ems, which had to be swum whatever happened. About midnight I came to something concrete at last--a long-expected railway. After a short reconnaissance, I crossed this, and made my way over the fields towards the all-important river, which flowed parallel to the frontier and about twenty kilos away from it. Every few yards I came to a dyke, which always had to be passed through if the direction was to be kept. It was an odious experience, for, no sooner did I emerge dripping from one than it was time to enter the next. About three o'clock, after milking several cows and swimming a few small canals, I passed through some open flood-gates, built in a grass ridge made to keep the water from encroaching on the low-lying farms, and came upon a most disheartening sight. Beyond several hundred yards of dangerous marsh flowed the river, looking very white in the deceptive light of early morning. The wavelets formed by the steady wind and the current were making a faint, but disconcerting, noise. Though it was only just possible to discern the opposite bank, there seemed to be a similar line of marshy ground between it and the water's edge. I determined to see if it was possible to get through the marsh with any degree of safety, but gave up the idea when some of the old decayed reeds on which I was standing suddenly gave way and let me through into the water up to my waist. No matter how good a swimmer, a reedy swamp is more than one can contend with, therefore I gave up the idea. Crawling out and walking a little way along the bank, something loomed up in front of me out of the darkness, which turned out to be a long iron bridge. Looking cautiously along it, I saw a couple of dim lights burning near the other side. What an easy way over; how I should have loved to stroll across; but it could not be, for a German guard was waiting there to receive me with open arms. Reluctantly I turned away and struck inland, intending to travel parallel to the river for some distance and then try my luck at another place. Shortly afterwards, when tramping along on the grass at the side of a road in search of a hiding-place, I heard footsteps approaching. At either side of the road grew a row of young trees, but, unfortunately, the trunks were not large enough to hide behind. The conditions were such as to render discovery inevitable should a hasty retirement be effected. For several precious seconds I stood paralysed with indecision, seeing my danger, yet unable to avoid it; meanwhile it seemed that cruel fate was carelessly deciding my destiny, weighing freedom against captivity in a balance, which my indecision was slowly causing to turn against me. For a brief period my brain refused to work, except vaguely to bring to my notice a few lines from "Eldorado," which affirm that there exists a loophole of escape in every difficult situation. This seemed to affect my present critical position, though it in no wise suggested a course of action. As I looked at the dyke which ran along at the side of the raised road, calculating that the noise made by a passage through it would only lead to detection, I clearly remembered an incident in "Lorna Doone," in which John Ridd, when a boy, had completely avoided discovery by his enemy (Carver Doone) by submerging himself in a stream and breathing through a straw. Without waiting to remove the pack, I followed his example by throwing myself on my face and crawling backwards on to the tangled reeds, which parted with a squelch and let me through into the stagnant water. The dyke proved to be deeper than I expected. My feet barely touched the bottom, so that I was literally clutching a straw to keep myself up. As the footsteps passed I kept my face and head under the surface, and trusted to Providence. When all the sounds died away, it took me some time struggling with mud, weeds and water, before I could extricate myself from that confounded ditch. I do not make a good water-rat; I would therefore suggest to the German authorities that they should train water spaniels, and not police dogs, for pursuit of prisoners in the future. I had only been walking for a little while when the distant rumble of a milk-cart reminded me that it was past time to hibernate. Then began the usual desperate search for cover. It became lighter and lighter, and, just as the mist was about to rise, I saw the faint outline of a clump of trees several hundred yards away. Plunging through more dykes I arrived at the trees, only to find that they were growing in a small garden and orchard which surrounded a large farm-house. As no one appeared to be stirring, and the discovery of an immediate hiding-place was essential, I commenced explorations. The privet hedge surrounding this oasis proved to be very thin and there were no convenient little bushes. I had just borrowed a good supply of apples from mine host, and had almost decided to seek shelter in an outhouse as a last resource, when I came upon a fair-sized heap of sticks, over which a hop plant sprawled, forming a straggly green covering. There being no better place, I decided that the hop would have to serve as my headquarters for that day. I was just moving some of the sticks when something caused me to remember the lateness of the hour. From a pigsty a few yards away came expectant squeals. The occupants doubtless imagined that I was arriving with their breakfast. As I was getting ready to crawl into the sticks, I caught sight of a little patch of washing close by, lying spread on the grass at the corner of a small green lawn. When the good lady came for her washing she would, in all probability, discover me, which would never do, as it would lead to all kinds of little unpleasantnesses. In a very short space of time I had moved the white handkerchiefs and collars to another corner of the lawn, not far away, and returned to the heap. I was beginning to tunnel into the sticks, when I heard a man's voice, followed by the clatter of milk cans. Diving into the small hole already made, I wriggled for all I was worth towards the centre, dragging the pack after me. It sounds quite simple; all you have to do is to wriggle; but, in reality, it is surprisingly difficult. When I tried to force an entrance every dead bough in the heap seemed to break with an ear-splitting crash, while all the smaller twigs crackled in chorus. The most peaceable sticks developed sharp spikes, which stuck into me. Even when I had removed a particularly objectionable one barring the way, another would shoot out and grasp my pack, causing an additional delay. Eventually, in a scratched and weary condition, I got under the centre of the heap, where I lay feeling none too secure. Although I was forced to keep still for fear of attracting attention, I managed to nibble the stolen apples and take stock of my surroundings. The light shone through the pale green hop leaves, revealing many hairy caterpillars, incessantly gorging. Inside the heap lived innumerable spiders and other horrors. These believed in making their presence felt when I did not deign to notice them. It was a very uncomfortable procedure, drying slowly in a cold wind. Once, when the leaves blew on one side, I caught a glimpse of a pear tree swaying overhead, and a dark, forbidding sky in the background. That day I enjoyed two heavy thunderstorms. At first the leaves kept off most of the rain, but it soon battered down with such violence that the former became limp and hung down, leaving me almost exposed. Everything became saturated. A steady stream of water poured off the sticks and ran down my neck, while the insects eagerly sought shelter in my clothing. When the first storm was over, and I lay shivering in the bright interval, two children came out of the house and played about in the garden, running several times round and round my heap. It was such a strain lying absolutely still that I almost welcomed the second thunderstorm, though it completely soaked everything that the first one had overlooked. Never in my life have I passed such an uncomfortable day. But, in the end, discomfort is preferable to actual danger in an adventure of this sort. At least so I thought in those days. As it is beyond me to convey to the reader any adequate idea of the unwillingness of the minutes to resolve themselves into hours, I will not attempt the impossible. Towards evening some one fired a shot-gun just beyond the privet hedge. Naturally the explosion caused me to jump, but that was nothing to the fright I experienced when it struck me that it might be a small boy out rat shooting, as vermin always run to a conveniently close heap of sticks for shelter. However, the person did not come my way, and in any case it is probable he was only after wild duck, which frequent most of the dykes. At last, when I could stand it no longer, I scrambled out into the dusk, guiltily ignoring the fact that I was running an unnecessary risk by starting on the war-path an hour too soon. CHAPTER X THE EMS There was no one about, so, after enjoying a good stretch, I pushed through the privet, jumped a narrow dyke, and started out over the low-lying fields towards the high grassy barrier which advertised the approach to the dreaded river. It was almost dark when I came to another portion of the winding, snake-like barrier, which curved out as if to meet me. Approaching it, I found that a thick and apparently endless prickly May hedge grew along the base. Getting through it proved to be such a painful proceeding that it seems probable that as soon as the hedge saw an Englishman coming towards it, it sharpened its claws and resolved to defend the way to the frontier to the last thorn. Of course I may be wrong in my surmise, but I well remember that, when I began extracting thorns afterwards, it was like plucking a pin-cushion. Crawling on hands and knees up the slippery grassy slope, I soon arrived at the top and, scrambling to my feet, looked eagerly towards the unknown West. The grassy barrier rose to an even height of about thirty feet above the low-lying country. On one side, the nearer dykes dividing the fields showed up a dull white in the semi-darkness; while on the other, beyond a narrow fringe of swaying reed-grass, ran the broad dark river. Although a steady wind was blowing, it was not quite as strong as on the previous night, the noise of the ripples breaking on the shore not being so pronounced. As I had not been dry for several days, the prospect of a prolonged bathe was not at all alluring. The longer I looked towards the opposite bank the more distant it appeared to be, and the greater became the width and volume of the river, until it seemed to be quite impassable. Hesitation meant failure, so, running down to the water's edge, I began to undress quickly. All at once it struck me that it would be foolish to wrap all my earthly belongings in one bundle, for, should it come to grief on the way over, I should have a decidedly cool time of it after my arrival at the other bank of the river. Besides, it would be most undignified to be compelled to walk up to a German sentry and address him thus: "Please, sir, I am suffering from loss of memory and seem to have mislaid my clothes; would you be good enough to supply me with a few, as fig trees do not abound in these parts?" Therefore, spreading my sodden waterproof on the ground, I deposited in it my tunic, shoes and now half-empty pack. Stuffing all the vacant space tightly with grass, I secured the corners by binding them together with my braces and bits of torn handkerchief. To complete the operation, I fastened my souvenir walking-stick (which, though large and clumsy, was exceedingly precious) to the bottom of the bundle in order to improve its floating capacities. Passing through the thin edging of reed-grass, I stepped into the shallow water and felt my feet sink into the deep mud, which gurgled hungrily and sent little lines of bubbles up to the surface. In a few strides I was out of my depth and amid the swirling eddies, which sought to drag me off down stream. Fortunately the water was warm and the bundle floated well. Considering the fact that I had already been tramping for eight days on short rations, it is not surprising that I found swimming against a steady wind to be very tiring. I kept the bundle well ahead by giving it a good push every few strokes, when I overtook it. After swimming for several minutes, I unconsciously changed my direction a little, at the same time giving the bundle another push ahead. At this part the river curved slightly, and the result was that the wind caught my worldly belongings and whirled them off down stream. Signalling to the engine-room for full speed ahead, I dashed off in pursuit, soon overtaking the runaway bundle. By this time, being very out of breath, I hung on to it, and was delighted to find that it would practically support me. I had been swimming for some little time and it seemed probable that my objective would not be far away, so, looking up at the stars and noting where the west lay, I raised myself in the water and looked for the opposite bank. Curiously enough, it seemed almost as far distant as it had been at first. Instinctively I looked back, and there, only a little way behind me, was the shore I had just left. I must admit that the sight was not encouraging. Well--hanging on to a waterlogged bundle and swallowing tadpoles would not help matters, so I settled down to business, swimming steadily on my side, but often changing the stroke, and heading a little up-stream to counteract the force of the current. Ever so gradually the water became calmer and the shore more clearly defined, until I could see a fringe of weeds similar to the one I had left. Vaguely I wondered if it would be really worth the extra effort required to actually reach it. It seemed so easy to give up. Just as I felt my remaining strength slipping away at each stroke I touched some soft warm mud. Mud as a rule does not have a stimulating effect on one, but then the very touch of it put new life into me. Dragging my bundle, I made a final effort to get ashore, but fell in the shallow water, where I lay utterly exhausted, hardly conscious of my surroundings, my head sinking gradually lower and lower. It must have been the objectionable taste of the muddy water which brought me to my senses sufficiently to enable me to leave the river for a more congenial resting place, namely, some grass at the edge of a field. When at last I got up, feeling very cold, and untied the bundle I found that everything was absolutely soaking. Assuredly there are many more enjoyable pastimes than putting on wet clothes in a cold wind in the dark. When everything was ready for the night's tramp, I discovered that my cap was missing, and after a short fruitless search, decided to leave it behind. Tired, shivering, and hatless, I started off into the West, reckoning that now the frontier could not be much more than a night's march away. No sooner had I crossed the little stubble field than I came to a ridge, beyond which the ground dropped several feet in a steep slope. As I moved down this incline towards what appeared to be a hedge, the ground became quite wet. Suspiciously I looked ahead into the darkness towards what seemed to be only an expanse of lower ground. Near the hedge the water rose over my ankles, but I forged on, determined to know the worst. I was not long in suspense, for the hedge in front rustled (a thing that well-trained hedges do not do), and I knew that it was another long line of high reed-grass. Fearfully I parted this with my hands, and there, in front, lay a rippling sheet of water, fully as wide as the river I had just crossed. With a thump my heart went down into my boots, and the little devil of despair whispered that I must be near the mouth of the river, on an island, a prisoner of my own making. (In truth, this was very nearly the case, for, as I feared, I was very far north, this accounting for the volume and width of the river.) This stretch of water was totally unexpected. Had I been fresh and known my whereabouts, it would have formed a formidable enough obstacle; as it was, I had already done more than my share of bathing for that night, and knew that I was in a totally unfit condition to attempt another long-distance swim. Obviously the first thing to be done was to make certain that I was indeed on an island, so I proceeded to take stock of my surroundings. I noticed that, except for the rough patches on the water which caught the wind, the surface was comparatively smooth, and there was no sign of a current. Walking a few yards to the right, I saw that the line of the old river and this strip of unknown water converged, leaving little hope in that direction. I therefore turned about, and started off to my left front. Evidence that the cereal crop had been carted quite recently was plentiful, for there was short, fresh stubble, cart tracks, and the impression of horses' hoofs. This pointed to the encouraging fact that I was not on an island, horses and carts not usually being transported by barge or aeroplane. I had not followed the tracks for more than fifty yards when they turned straight towards the water. The next minute I barely stifled a yell of delight, for there, staring me in the face, was a sort of pontoon bridge, stretching away into the darkness. On closer inspection, I found it to be composed of bundles of brushwood which were held together in some mysterious manner, and appeared to lie on the water. The surface of the bridge was in very bad repair and, as some of the top bundles of sticks were missing or pointing upwards at an angle, progress was very slow; but, sometimes walking, sometimes crawling, I got along at quite a good pace. Once it seemed that I should have to swim a short distance, but I found it to be unnecessary, as only the top layer of the bundles was missing. Nearing the other side, I made out a factory building of some sort, with a high chimney, a little way from the end of the bridge, and heard the occasional bark of a watch-dog. Try as I would, I could not move an inch without causing a number of sticks to crackle loudly--it was almost as bad as crawling under the heap of sticks the morning before. Fortunately the wind must have drowned any noise made, or carried the sound away, for, though the dog continued to bark intermittently, it cannot have been aware of my presence. Skirting the factory, I went across country, avoiding roads and houses like poison. The land was very low and flat and the dykes very numerous, sometimes whole fields being practically inundated. The only things that tended to relieve the monotony were the solitary gaunt willow trees, most of them mere shells of their former selves, which stood out from the misty darkness, black and threatening, like grim sentinels. Everywhere was water, water, water. Every few seconds I was up to my waist in it. Often I tried to jump a narrow dyke and misjudged the distance, or got a bad "take off," owing to the softness of the ground; this usually resulted in my falling with a splash into the middle. I think the most aggravating thing of all was to make a really good jump and land on the other side, just beyond the water-line, on all fours, only to find that I had not enough impetus to remain there, as the ground was sloping. Sometimes I was able to save myself by jabbing my stick into the ground, though, more often than not, this was impracticable, and my hands could find nothing firmer to catch hold of than a few tufts of grass, which almost invariably gave way, causing me to do a graceful but involuntary backward dive into the dyke. As constant exercise of this sort is very tiring and the weight of water contained in one's clothes greatly hinders freedom of action, my progress was necessarily rather slower than usual. A little after midnight the ground became harder, and I soon found myself once more on a moor, wandering along a narrow sandy track, among deep heather and broom bushes. Just as I was getting a little drier and it seemed as if the watery nightmare was over, I ran into a series of peat bogs, many of them more dangerous than those I had encountered my first night out. I found the best way to cross a narrow strip of marsh was to make a rush to the firm ground, as these tactics did not allow enough time for my feet to sink in very far. Once the little track I was cautiously following ended abruptly at the edge of a particularly watery-looking bog, which not only barred my way in front, but also curved round on both flanks. In order to avoid this _cul-de-sac_ it would have been necessary to make a wide detour, the accomplishment of which would have involved the wasting of much valuable time. Selecting a point where this strip of marshy ground appeared to be the narrowest, I retreated a few steps, gathered myself together, and, after a short run, attempted to take the bog by surprise and get across before it was quite ready to receive me. Wallowing towards the other side, I felt my feet sinking deeply into the decayed peaty moss, which gurgled expectantly. I was almost over when suddenly, in a second, I sank almost to my waist. Immediately throwing myself on my face, I scrambled forward, and digging my stick into the firm ground in front, pulled for all I was worth. I was almost free when my poor stick broke off with a resounding crack, leaving the top half in my hands. This I again drove into the firm ground, and with a final effort, drew myself out. After a short rest, during which I mourned the loss of my beloved stick, I went on my way determined not to risk a passage over any deceitful bogs in the future unless it was absolutely unavoidable. Very soon the heather became scarcer, and once again I was among dykes and flat, misty, green fields. For the next two or three hours I ploughed along towards the west, climbing over barbed-wire fences and wading through dykes, unless I was lucky enough to find a plank or small bridge spanning the latter. Scarcely perceptibly the darkness of the eastern sky changed to a dull cold grey and the landscape became clearer, revealing the bare motionless arms of several windmills stretching out into the clearer air, some distance away, in different directions. I roughly judged that I could not be far from the frontier. I might even have crossed it! Though I did my best to suppress undue optimism, this last rather improbable idea persisted in occupying my thoughts. It is true I had seen nothing recently on the way to arouse suspicion, but, owing to the marshy nature of the country, the guards might well be few and far between. The spirit of approaching dawn lent a faint tinge of colour to the lonely sweeps of white mist drifting slowly above the flat dark fields, and, settling down over the dykes, it commenced to unravel and piece together the ghostly confusion of dim blurred shadows and grossly exaggerated reflections crowding on the smooth, oily surface of the water, until they began to assume a definite shape. I could almost imagine that I was gazing at one of Tingue's early-morning landscapes, so unmistakably Dutch was the scene. Having got thus far no speculations of any sort could be indulged in, the price of uncertainty being too great. A distant village clock chimed four, each beat vibrating clearly in the still air. The crisis was at hand. Having successfully evaded capture during the eight preceding nights and days, the very thought of failure was unbearable, and compelled me to face the eternal problem of seeking adequate cover for the day at an earlier hour than usual. I therefore commenced a search without delay, experiencing the while, I am convinced, most of the alarming sensations felt by many fat, juicy worms who, having lost their burrows, are endeavouring to avoid contact with all marauding "early birds." The first glance revealed not so much as a bush or hollow willow tree in the immediate vicinity, but in a few minutes I made out a number of heaps of some sort away to the right, through the semi-darkness, so went to make a closer inspection, only to find that two rather broader dykes than usual sought to bar the way. When on the march a prolonged wetting is naturally most unpleasant, though the continued motion tends to dry one's clothes somewhat by shaking out much of the water. However, there being no alternative, I plunged into the first dyke, which proved to be quite deep, making it again necessary to swim a few strokes. I discovered a plank across the second one, and, passing over, found myself in a stubble field among a number of corn stooks. There being no better cover, I realised that I must hide in one of these little stacks, and chance my luck. The problem was to ascertain which part of the field was least likely to be overrun by people and dogs. A short inspection showed it to be very long and narrow, while several indications went to prove that the last of the crop had been cut near my original point of entry into the field; this was, therefore, the most desirable part to stay in, as it would naturally be the last to be carried. When people walk through a field they are most liable to wander along near the edges, or go through near the middle; consequently I chose a stook situated between the two, and about thirty yards distant from the end of the field. These heaps were rather too small to form a safe hiding-place, while an unusually large one would, in all probability, attract attention. It is reasonable to suppose that, should a general enlargement be effected embracing a number of stooks in one area, the result would be hardly noticeable. Removing my pack and coat, I set to work transporting two oat sheaves from each of the stooks in the next row for a length of about fifty yards, and adding them to the row in which my nest was planned to be. To avoid suspicion, I made the now depleted stooks up to their usual strength by again borrowing the same number of sheaves from each of the heaps in the row still further beyond. After repeating this strenuous operation a number of times the desired effect was produced, most of the heaps in my corner of the field now being considerably larger than the rest. Surely it was a good omen that my fat sheaves had devoured many of their leaner brethren, even though the number was not restricted to seven, as in Pharaoh's dream. The value of making oneself as comfortable as possible under adverse conditions cannot be over-estimated, for it not only stimulates the instinct of self-preservation, but renders one in the best condition to face the task ahead. Exposure and fatigue gradually wear down one's powers of resistance and bring with them the feeling that nothing matters. This is to be avoided more than anything, for it introduces the personal element into all reasonings, often forcing a decision against one's better judgment. Having chosen my special heap, I arranged it in such a way as to leave me as much room for movement as possible in the centre. As I exchanged the wetter sheaves for comparatively dry ones, the prospect of once again being warm was delightful and caused me to work with a will. Everything was almost completed, and I was just strewing a little dry straw on the ground between the sheaves, to serve as a mattress, when suddenly a man's voice hailed me, in unmistakable German, from a distance of about fifty yards: "_Was machen sie da_?" ("What are you doing there?"). Any doubts as to which country I was in were rudely dispelled. For a moment I was completely at a loss for an answer, then, bending down, I seized the loose sheaf (which was to have acted as a door to my palace) and placed it against the others, and, turning round, replied in low German, "I am only replacing these, which have fallen down." Two workmen were standing just beyond the dyke, having evidently approached by an unobserved track, and were now gazing suspiciously at me. There being no more prostrate sheaves, I could not very well throw some down and then pick them up again, for the action would not have been at all convincing. I therefore had to content myself with smoothing the side of the stook in a business-like way, trusting that the uncertain light would not disclose the insanity of my actions. In a few seconds I moved to another stook, and was commencing to stroke the sheaves, when the same voices demanded, in a peremptory manner, to know what I was really doing. It was a case of bluff, so, busying myself with the heap, I snapped out, "Ach! go away, I have a lot to do." From the murmur that reached me it was obvious that this abrupt answer was puzzling them considerably. My position was still extremely unsafe, for border folk are usually of a very suspicious nature, which is intensified by the activities of war. At the best of times my excuse would have been feeble enough. Ordinary people don't usually rise at four a.m. for the purpose of walking round a soaking field stroking sheaves of corn. Besides, it was not unlikely that I was talking to the owner of the field. Whether they saw the brass buttons on my service jacket, or merely felt that I was wanted, I do not know, but they walked quickly towards the plank spanning the dyke which divided their field from mine. Directly they reached it one of them shouted something that I could not understand and was immediately answered by a third person, away in the mist. Once across the plank the men, after jabbering excitedly, came towards me at a quick run. Needless to say, it is extremely dangerous to be chased in bare country of this sort just when the day is breaking and the fields rapidly filling with workers, for once the alarm is raised the result is almost certain to mean capture. This time, however, it was not a matter of choice; my hand had been forced, compelling me reluctantly to play my last card. Picking up my pack and coat, I ran as only once before in my varied career--the night when I almost felt the pitchforks belonging to the little devils which chased me away from Ströhen camp. After running about a hundred yards, trusting to the mist and uncertain light to partially screen my movements, I turned aside and dived headlong into a stook, pulling the straw after me. In a few seconds my pursuers drew level and, to my intense satisfaction, passed on, breathing heavily. This is the last I saw of these two eager sons of the Fatherland. For all I know, they may be still following the excellent example afforded by "Charlie's Aunt." CHAPTER XI HOLLAND I was now in a small wet stook, very cold and hungry. It being too light to risk a return journey to my carefully prepared nest, I had to take things as they were, and fell to wondering what it must feel like to be in a nice warm bed. The day proved to be one long nightmare. By careful observation I saw that a number of girls were working on the same crop, luckily at the other end of the field. They appeared only to be gleaning, but as it was quite likely this was preparatory to the carting, I resolved to keep a very sharp look-out to avoid being transfixed by a pitchfork and hoisted on to a cart. About breakfast-time a peculiar noise came from somewhere quite close, so, parting the corn carefully, I peered out in that direction. There, to my horror, were three men scything the rushes along a ditch which passed a few feet from me. The heap was a small one, and, therefore, to avoid detection, I endeavoured to put the best part of it between myself and them when they were working the closest to me. The completion of this operation naturally left me a little exposed on what I supposed to be my safe side. The men had almost passed, when I happened to look away from the ditch and saw a farmer standing beside the very next heap to mine, surveying the crop, his hands in his pockets. Somehow or other I wriggled back unobserved, and lay shivering with a combination of cold and fear. After half-an-hour's wait, I again looked out cautiously, and was relieved to find the man gone, though there seemed to be even more people in the neighbourhood than before. To add to my discomfort the breeze increased to quite a strong, piercing wind, which whistled in and out among the corn-sheaves until I felt very like an ice-cream in a refrigerator. Even then there were more trials to come, for, not only did the grain pour itself into my clothes, eyes and ears, but also mixed with the crop was a large proportion of barley or bearded wheat, which took a truly fiendish delight in slowly but relentlessly making its way up my sleeves or down my back. In this predicament it seemed almost unthinkable that I should ever have been so foolish in my schooldays as to pick barley heads and deliberately put them a little way up my coat-sleeves, the barbs downwards, expressly for the pleasure of feeling them crawling up my arms. Most of us do curious things in our youth! Suffice it to say that, in spite of all convictions to the contrary, I was still in the heap, unmolested, when the afternoon resolved itself into evening and the labourers left for their homes. A little before nine o'clock, after a short but drenching shower, I could stand it no longer, so crawled out, damp and cold, but still almost glad to be alive. Looking towards the west in the fading light, I saw a large shape moving slowly from left to right through the country, roughly a couple of miles away. It could only be a sail. With a sinking feeling I realised that in front lay at least one more canal which must be crossed. (This canal, I afterwards discovered, was actually in Holland.) Although I did not feel desperately hungry, I somehow felt that I was getting near the end of my tether; my food, also, was dwindling and could not last more than two days at the outside, for I was already half-way through my emergency ration, a tin of Quaker oats. Strange to say, porridge is nothing like as nice eaten raw. As soon as it was dark I started out, resolved not only to be extremely cautious, but, at the same time, to get as far as possible before the next day overtook me, time now threatening to form one of my most formidable adversaries. Travelling across country, I soon came upon a long road bordered by trees, so hid in the edge of some beans to make sure that all was clear before venturing across it. Almost immediately I heard voices not far distant, and presently a man on a bicycle rode past. When everything was quiet again I managed to step across the road unobserved, feeling sure that another danger point was past. The night being cold it may be imagined that I was scarcely overjoyed at finding it necessary to wade or swim through another short series of dykes; this was, however, the case. Drawing near to the dreaded canal, I noticed that on either flank, some distance away, were clusters of rather brilliant lights. Presumably this pointed to the fact that these lights were placed at points of special importance, such as strongly guarded bridges, in which case it seemed probable that the canal might form part of the boundary line. In order to avoid the slightest rustle which might attract attention, I rolled my raincoat and secured it over one shoulder, "bandolier fashion." I next covered the brass buttons of my tunic with mud, to prevent their reflecting the rays of a possible flashlight, and, after smearing some dirt on my face and hands, moved forward once more, prepared, in case of discovery, to make a dash towards the west regardless of the consequences. In a few minutes I saw, by the even line of the higher ground in front, that I had almost reached the raised canal, and was just preparing to mount the short, grassy slope when I came upon a hard-worn narrow track running along near the edge of a rather wide dyke, which separated me from the embankment. The dyke being in the lee of the wind it seemed advisable to ascertain whether it was possible to cross by any plank or bridge which might be in the vicinity in preference to going through it, for, though one may be able to get into a dyke quietly enough, the getting out is a very different matter when the sides are steep and one's clothes full of water. Walking along this path very warily for about twenty yards, I was lucky enough to discover a plank leading across (for except for the faint silhouette of the top of the embankment against the sky, practically everything was hidden by the darkness). Though the plank bent threateningly I succeeded in crossing it, and crawled to the top of the rise. A glance revealed a broad, reed-fringed canal, reflecting little dancing lights on its wind-swept surface--the stars which had the audacity to peep out from between the clouds. I could hear the splashings of a water-rat actually swimming at that time of night for the fun of it! Quickly crossing the tow-path and parting the reeds, I followed its example, and, not waiting to remove pack, clothing or shoes, swam towards the opposite bank as silently as possible. It can only have been a few yards across, but I remember feeling almost as tired as if I had swum the Channel. This was the tenth night of my escapade, and the strain was certainly beginning to tell. As I was leaving the canal behind some wild duck rose from a dyke close by me, with much flapping of wings. If their desire was to frighten me they certainly achieved their object. When, after an hour or more, I continued plodding along without seeing anything unusual, I could not help again wondering if I was still in German territory. My curiosity increased when two motor cycles with powerful headlights went by on what appeared to be a main road. I had not seen anything like that for weeks, so resolved to go along the road myself in the hope of seeing some other strange sights. Immediately on arriving there I had to take cover in a corner of an orchard to avoid another light, which was rapidly overtaking me. From this point of vantage I was soon able to see that the light was on a bicycle, and the rider not a tin soldier, complete with helmet and curling moustache, but a peaceably dressed young woman. Encouraged by the promising trend of events, I stole some apples and made my way, munching and shivering, towards a little group of houses, hoping to discover some writing which might prove which country I was in. Eventually I found a letter-box and feverishly endeavoured to decipher, in the semi-darkness, a long word printed in black letters on a white background. With a sinking heart I slowly made out the letters B--R--I--E. Was it necessary to read any further? Surely this was proof positive that I was still under the gentle sway of the Kaiser! What else could the remainder be but "fkasten," completing the German word for letter-box. With almost a feeling of resignation, I continued to wrest the remaining letters from the darkness. The expected F was a very peculiar shape. No, it was a V, after all! With every letter my hopes rose as I spelt out the remaining E N B U S. I do not profess to be a German scholar, but I do know that the word "BRIEVENBUS" does not adorn their letter-boxes in the ordinary course of events. Feeling vaguely happy, but still haunted by the first syllable of the word, I made my way further into the village. At first all seemed quiet, but presently I heard a couple talking near the entrance of a house. Creeping up as close as I dared in the deep shadow of the building, I strained my ears almost to dislocation to catch a few words of the conversation. The language they were speaking struck me as peculiarly ugly, and did not seem to lend itself readily to the uses to which they were undoubtedly putting it. The fact that they were not speaking ordinary German did not necessarily mean that the language was Dutch, for it might have been some border dialect. However, I could restrain myself no longer, so, walking up to the man, I addressed him thus in German, with as much nonchalance as I could command: "Can you tell me if I am in Germany or Holland?" He did not seem to grasp the question at once, which in itself was a good sign, though it lengthened my breathless suspense. I believe I would willingly have murdered him if, by doing so, I could have had the answer an instant sooner, for so much depended on it. All at once he straightened himself up and, in a surprised voice, replied, "Holland!" I should never have believed that one simple word could have meant so much. The news so completely overwhelmed me that, for a few seconds, I failed to grasp its import. Then, springing forward, I seized and shook his hand so violently that it almost threatened to fall off, at the same time showering explanations at him in a hundred and one different languages, in the hope that he would understand one of them. Needless to say, at first the unfortunate Dutchman was rather perturbed at being so cordially greeted by some one he must have thought to be a dangerous lunatic at large, though I consider that he stood the ordeal very well. I think the girl was the first to really grasp the situation, for, to my surprise, she congratulated me in broken German, and insisted on shaking hands, too. In spite of the good news I was still wet, cold and hungry, and the prospect of again sleeping in a warm bed was very alluring. I therefore inquired the way to the nearest hotel, and was told to make for a larger village, some three kilometres distant. I asked if there was any possibility of my taking a wrong turn leading back into Hunland, and being assured there was none if I followed the main road, started off in the best of spirits. It was just like walking on air. My dreams of freedom had at last come true. Though it was after one o'clock, I encountered several people and each time inquired the way, thus making assurance doubly sure. I can hardly attempt to describe the strange exultant feelings which surged through me as I marched along, conscious of having left "Brother Bosch" behind. Eventually, singing a marching song, I rounded a corner and found myself in a village street, almost opposite a house in front of which hung a sign, just distinguishable in the darkness: "Hotel Van Dijk." Regardless of the fact that I did not possess a cent, I proceeded to knock loudly on the front door. After a few minutes my efforts were rewarded by hearing an upstairs window open, and being told in Dutch to go away. However, my mind being made up, I persisted in making more noise than ever. Seeing his protestations were in vain, and evidently scenting something unusual, I understood "mein Host" to say that he would come down. My knowledge of the laws of internment of a neutral country being very limited, it behoved me to act with extreme caution if I wished to follow in the footsteps of brother escapers, whom I knew had preceded me to England. Though I had committed no act of war, such as crossing the frontier carrying arms, I did not feel very sure of my ground. Therefore when the elderly innkeeper, holding a flickering candle, shot back the bolts, he found me wearing only a khaki shirt and grey flannel trousers, the soaking raincoat and tunic having been hurriedly secreted in my pack, so that he could not assert that I was in uniform when he first saw me, in case the subject should be raised later. As soon as he heard the facts of the case, the Dutchman motioned me to accompany him along the street, which I did wonderingly. I imagined myself shortly being interviewed by a fat, sleepy-eyed and pompous burgomaster, who would either fall upon my neck, or order me straight back to Germany. After half-an-hour's walk, when my guide halted beside a long wooden hut and knocked vigorously, I decided that there was nothing to fear in that direction, for no such distinguished person would deign to live in so humble a residence. Presently, in answer to our repeated efforts, we heard several grumbling voices, a door was opened, and I was bidden to enter. As soon as I was accustomed to the glaring gas-light, I experienced a considerable shock. Occupying the whole length of the room in which I stood was a double line of beds, mostly containing sleeping men, and from the walls hung many greenish uniforms, rifles and bayonets! On recovering from my first surprise, I turned to a fully dressed soldier I took to be a sergeant, who by this time, presumably, understood that I was an escaped "Inglesman," and asked him, in German, for an explanation. In the midst of his almost unintelligible reply I caught the word "_Grenswacht_" (frontier guard). Seeing that we were at cross purposes, the sergeant roused a man who spoke very fair English and acted as interpreter. I soon learnt that I was in the local headquarters of the Dutch Frontier Guard, and would have to remain there until seen by an officer the next day. This suited me only too well, so having duly impressed the fact that I was not in uniform, I retired to a bed arranged for me in the N.C.O.'s room, and commenced to pull off my wet clothes. Meanwhile tongues had not been idle, and eager, curious faces began to peep at the "stray dog" through the half-open door. Just as I was about to turn in, curiosity could be restrained no longer; the room filled with noisy young fellows, who took up a position round my bed and proceeded to bombard me with questions. It was all so well meant that I endeavoured to give them a brief outline of my doings, in German. The idea of an Englishman speaking German was evidently quite beyond their comprehension, for, judging by many doubtful looks of astonishment, it seemed that the general impression was that I was a camouflaged Hun. As they all persisted in talking at once, I put an end to the argument by disappearing under the bedclothes. About ten o'clock the next morning I awoke, feeling stiffer than ever before, the slightest contraction of a muscle resembling the jerking of a rusty wire. However, when a soldier, seeing that I was awake, brought my breakfast, I sat up with remarkable agility and devoured every crumb. Never have I enjoyed a meal more. Every additional mouthful of the deliciously fresh Dutch cheese and new bread seemed to receive a still more exquisite taste when I thought of the Irish stew I had missed when standing behind my imitation wall at Ströhen. It was not until after a thoroughly good scrub and a cold bath that I could screw up enough courage to look at myself in a mirror, and, prepared as I was, the sudden reflection of the wild-eyed, bearded tramp considerably surprised me. A little before lunch, having obtained some dry underclothing, I was sitting on my bed, extracting a selection of barbed wire and splinters from my hands with a large needle, when a Dutch officer walked in to see the curiosity. He greeted me cordially in very good English, introducing himself as Lieutenant Hoffman, in charge of the local detachment of the Frontier Guard, and asked me to lunch with him at his hotel. On the way thither I could not help being very impressed by the design and beauty of the village. The houses were mostly large, with spacious, well-kept gardens, the streets clean and the general atmosphere of the place spoke of great prosperity. Hoffman took me to a barber, who performed for a long time, but in the end turned out a comparatively respectable human being. At lunch I met another Dutch officer, also an English scholar, who, after hearing the latter part of my experience, told me that I must have actually walked along the German sentry's path, just beyond the canal, the night before. Having had no escaped prisoners in that district before, they had a disquieting idea that I should very likely be interned. I learnt that, in all probability, I should proceed to a larger town for further examination the following day, and gathered that, in the meantime, it would be advisable for me to remain close to my headquarters and refrain from wandering about by myself, the frontier being too close for safety. Shortly after lunch the two officers entered the room, carrying a couple of sporting guns, and announced their intention of spending the afternoon at a canal on the frontier duck shooting, and said that I might expect them back about tea-time. Being a prisoner no longer the very thought of seeing grey-clad sentries standing at their posts appealed to me so much that I begged to be allowed to accompany them, deciding to run the small risk such a visit might entail. Hoffman was considerably surprised at my proposal, but said I could come at my own risk if I thought I had known him long enough to be able to take his word. He reminded me, at the same time, that one can easily step over a frontier line, intentionally or otherwise, and produced a loaded automatic pistol from his coat pocket as if to back up his argument, asking me to choose my course of action. For a few seconds I reasoned with myself and then accepted, it seeming perfectly obvious that Hoffman would never have shown his hand had he intended playing a crooked game. Just before starting the innkeeper lent me a civilian cap and overcoat, which gave me a sense of security and enabled me to set out with the others if not a perfect, at any rate a passable Dutchman. Presently we arrived at a bridge-head, where the Dutch guard turned out and saluted, when, it must be confessed, I felt a trifle nervous, being then almost on the frontier. The formalities over, we left our bicycles in the guardroom and, crossing the bridge, proceeded along the tow-path at the side of the canal. There, sure enough, were the grey-clad sentries, standing near their boxes along a little raised path, at intervals varying from one to two hundred yards. Seeing that our presence seemed to occasion considerable interest on the part of the sentries, I inquired the reason from one of my companions, and was informed that only persons in the company of Dutch officers were allowed where we were walking, in the neutral zone dividing the two countries. Curiously enough the water dog, whose duty it was to start the birds from among the reeds, was English and went by the name of "Tom." Fortunately he was very obedient, for had he once crossed between the extenuated lines of grey men Tom would have afforded the Huns some moving target practice, which in all probability would have resulted in his contributing to a sausage machine. I am sure I do not know what I should have done if this had happened while I was with the party, for Tom, when feeling lonely, used to run straight up to me, wagging his stumpy tail and looking up with eyes which so plainly said that he was indeed glad to meet a fellow-countryman, for, though Dutchmen were kind enough to him, the scent was somewhat different. Towards the end of the afternoon we came to a place where the frontier line gradually converged, running parallel to, and about twenty-five yards away from, the canal, just the other side of a dyke at the bottom of the embankment. It must have been somewhere here that an unseen hand had unconsciously guided me to safety through the darkness of the night before. I selected a particularly Hunnish-looking sentry, who was standing beside a painted black and white box, with a long, wicked-looking and old-patterned bayonet gleaming above his slung rifle, and, hailing him casually, remarked that it must be weary work doing nothing, and inquired if he was tired of the war, to which he replied with a sullen "_Ja_." Undismayed by his dismal expression, I inquired if they ever had any escaped prisoners in those parts. This time he did not deign to answer, but merely shook his head solemnly. By removing my coat I could have easily disillusioned him, but, remembering that a rifle bullet is not a thing to be trifled with, I refrained. Feeling my triumph complete, I turned and limped away, still hardly able to realise that only a few hours before I had unknowingly paraded along the same little raised path which the Germans were so jealously guarding. Of all my escapes this was the most inexplicable. To what was it due? Certainly not to my own initiative alone. Man's extremity is indeed God's opportunity. * * * * * Supreme in the world of red tape, far above the ken of misguided mortals, lives an omnipotent being--the Censor. In imagination, he sits in a huge armchair, wreathed in tobacco smoke, casually sorting, from piles of manuscript, the sheep from the goats. The former are destined to be smothered in official stamps and coloured inks, while the latter are cast ignominiously into the gigantic waste-paper basket. Though this little sheep, in particular, may have a little of its wool shorn off, I trust that it may eventually avoid the rubbish heap. For this reason I must ask the reader to be contented with a very curtailed and disjointed account of the remainder of my wanderings. * * * * * In due course I was placed in a quarantine camp, to remain there until a given number of days should elapse, when, on being pronounced free from infection, I should be allowed to continue my journey through Holland. The camp contained a number of German deserters who, it appeared, crossed the frontier in this district at the average rate of one per diem, having for the most part arrived direct from the front, with every intention of leaving their beloved "_Vaterland_" behind for ever. They made no secret of the fact that they hoped to be able to emigrate to England or America as soon as it was all over. Several of them were N.C.O.'s, wearing the black and white ribbon of the Iron Cross, to all appearances good soldiers whom their relentless system had forced to desertion rather than the terror of the British guns. The Germans occupied a separate hut, and were kept strictly to themselves. This probably saved a lot of trouble, for, judging by the spirited way they occasionally sang "_Deutschland, Deutschland über alles_," accompanied by an accordion, the spirit of patriotism and savage "kultur" still flowed in their veins. Doubtless the first German band to return to England will be composed of the most gentle peace and beer-loving Huns that ever visited our favoured shores. Whatever the nature of the welcome and guarantees extended to them by our English "Bolsheviks" (who even now have the audacity to advocate a policy of "shake and be friends"), their lives will not be at all secure when they come in contact, as they ultimately must, with Britishers who have been most brutally treated and forced to work as prisoners in the German salt mines, men who have come to know the truth of the saying, "Once a Bosch, always a Bosch," during their stay of several years in Hunland. I feel genuinely sorry for the very few really nice Germans who certainly do exist (several of whom I met during my captivity). However, considering that their influence has been practically _nil_ in the War, on account of their being in such a minority, I suppose they will be bound to suffer with the rest. The number of escaped French and Russian soldiers was surprising. However they must have had many excellent opportunities, while working in the fields near the frontier, to cross the dividing line. It did not take me long to discover three British privates, who were distinctly bored and very pleased to see me. The eldest was a South African, escaped from a reprisal camp, while the other two belonged to the Warwicks. Though little more than boys they had in all probability seen more of the hardships of life than many men of treble their age. Great excitement prevailed when, by dint of much cajoling, I managed to procure a mandoline from the town, for, though the meals were very much looked forward to and enjoyed, the rest of the time passed very slowly. It is not easy to play tunes to satisfy the cravings of different nationalities at a moment's notice. A few Russians flung themselves about to the lilt of some of their rowdiest cake-walks, while the "Marseillaise," seeming a universal favourite, was repeatedly called for. On the morning of the fourth day three weird-looking figures, wearing a queer mixture of ready-made Dutch garments, entered the camp with a guard. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I recognised some of my former companions at Ströhen. Two of them, Captain Harrison, of the Royal Irish, and Lieutenant C. F. Templar, 1st Gloucesters (since then, I regret to say, killed in action), were "old Contemptibles," having been captured about the beginning of the War, while the third, Lieutenant J. Insall, V.C., R.F.C., had been in captivity two years. They had all made many previous attempts to escape, and consequently had sampled many German prisons, and now at last succeeded. Captain Harrison, I have since heard, was again captured, during the German advance in the spring of '18, but was fortunately able to regain our lines the same night. Our delight at meeting again outside Germany was mutual, and, having so many notes to exchange, the time then passed much more rapidly. After various communications with the British authorities, we were successful at last in getting in touch with the British Minister at the Hague, who almost immediately obtained our release from the quarantine camp, to the unbounded astonishment of the local Dutch magnates. * * * * * Receiving an invitation to visit Sir Walter Townley (British Minister), I proceeded to the Hague, freed at last from the annoying formality of being continually escorted by an officer or guard. Imagine my pleasure at once more sitting down to afternoon tea in an English drawing-room. I shall never forget the kind thought and solicitude of my hostess, Lady Susan. I almost seemed to be in England. Before catching my train back, I engaged a taxi and tried to see as much of the town as possible in the time. The driver understood but little of my directions; the sight, however, of a few _guldens_ caused him to drive so recklessly that I thought my last hour had come. It seemed that we must be leaving the path strewn with luckless victims. Arriving at the Palace of Peace, where the nations had so unsuccessfully beguiled each other with "smooth words, softer than honey," I succeeded in inducing my charioteer to come to a standstill. Alighting, a policeman informed me that the building had just been closed, but pointed out the highly ornamental metal gates, which, at the cost of 40,000 marks, had been presented by the Kaiser Wilhelm a few years before the War. Espying on them angels of peace carrying palm branches, I could contain myself no longer, so delivered an impassioned harangue to the astonished Dutchman on the subject of hypocrisy, in a mixture of German, French and Dutch. Presently, seeing a large crowd gathering around us, I concluded my remarks with a substantial tip, and signalling to "Mynheer Mercury," was once more whirled into space. * * * * * The convoy, in formation, steamed through the neutral waters towards the open sea. On board were a party of women and children, proceeding from Germany to England for repatriation. Several of them must have been in Germany an exceedingly long time, for they could only speak broken English, while some of the children, having evidently been born there, could speak no English at all. Soon the ship began to roll gently in response to the ever-increasing swell. As the White Ensign fluttered happily from the stern, most of us took advantage of the still comparatively calm sea by parading along the deck in company with a British commodore, confidently straining our eyes to catch a first glimpse of the approaching escort; and it was, unfortunately, obvious that every one on board did not share our good spirits. As the disconcerting movements of the ship increased, the Anglo-German element, pale-faced and dejected, assembled amidships, and forming a small, huddled group, hastily commenced to put on their cork jackets and life-belts, evidently preparing for the expected impact of the dreaded torpedo. Just then, as the look-out, attracted by some specks of foam emerging from the grey, misty horizon, signalled that a number of ships were fast approaching, they could stand the strain no longer, so, breaking into a weird German chant, they wailed disconsolately. Could it be that the victorious German fleet, of which they had so often heard, was at this very moment bearing down upon us? Perish the thought! The specks of white grew larger with alarming rapidity. It was not until the British destroyer flotilla was almost on us that we could discern, behind each dividing mass of curving foam, the sinister and capable grey shapes of Britannia's watch-dogs moving swiftly, in perfect harmony with sea and sky. As if inspired by one mind, our guardians turned about, and silently taking up their respective positions at a reduced speed, they passed with us safely along the King's Highway! THE WHITEFRIARS PRESS, LTD., LONDON AND TONBRIDGE. PHILIP GIBBS ON THE WAR IN FLANDERS I. The Battles of the Somme 6/- net II. From Bapaume to Passchendaele 6/- net III. Open Warfare 10/6 net London: Wm. Heinemann, 21 Bedford St. _OTHER RECENT VOLUMES_ THE SWORD OF DEBORAH. By F. Tennyson Jesse. F'cap 8vo. 3/- net A woman's account of woman's work in France. THE LOVERS. By Elizabeth Robins Pennell. F'cap 8vo. 2/6 net A true love story of the war. A DIARY WITHOUT DATES. By Enid Bagnold. F'cap 8vo. 2/6 net "Here is a book that will live on."--_Morning Post._ London: Wm. Heinemann, Bedford St. Transcriber's Notes The list of other volumes in the collection has been moved from the front of the book to the end. Obvious typographical errors have been fixed. See the list below for details. The original errata in the book has been included. Issues fixed: page 5--typo fixed: changed 'stacatto' to 'staccato' page 25--errata typo fixed: changed 'weis' to 'weiss' page 32--spelling normalized: changed 'guard-room' to 'guardroom' page 43--errata typo fixed: changed 'balolaika' to 'balalaika' page 47--errata typo fixed: changed 'Weiswein' to 'Weisswein' page 51--errata typo fixed: changed 'Hammelin' to 'Hameln' page 55--errata typo fixed: changed 'Weiswein' to 'Weisswein' page 75--typo fixed: changed 'Middlesessex' to 'Middlesex' page 103--spelling normalized: changed 'gaolbirds' to 'gaol-birds' page 111--spelling normalized: changed 'bathroom' to 'bath-room' page 126--typo fixed: changed 'Pupchen' to 'Püppchen' page 127--typo fixed: changed 'farmhouse' to 'farm-house' page 152--typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Ströhen' page 159--errata typo fixed: changed 'feasten' to 'fkasten' page 165--typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Ströhen' page 167--spelling normalized: changed 'guard-room' to 'guardroom' page 171--typo fixed: changed 'uber' to 'über' page 172--typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Ströhen' 
34421	----	THE ESCAPING CLUB by A. J. EVANS [Illustration] THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY Publishers New York Copyright 1922 by THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY All Rights Reserved _PRINTED IN THE U. S. A._ TO MY MOTHER WHO, BY ENCOURAGEMENT AND DIRECT ASSISTANCE, WAS LARGELY RESPONSIBLE FOR MY ESCAPE FROM GERMANY, I DEDICATE THIS BOOK, WHICH WAS WRITTEN AT HER REQUEST. CONTENTS PART I CHAP. PAGE I. CAPTURE 3 II. GUTERSLOH AND CLAUSTHAL 12 III. THE FIRST EVASION 21 IV. WHAT HAPPENED TO KICQ 26 V. THE FRONTIER 35 VI. PAYING THE PIPER 48 VII. REMOVAL TO A STRAFE CAMP 56 VIII. FORT 9, INGOLSTADT 67 IX. CAPTORS AND CAPTIVES 87 X. ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE 103 XI. AN ESCAPE WITH MEDLICOTT 127 XII. SHORT RATIONS AND MANY RIOTS 139 XIII. A TUNNEL SCHEME 149 XIV. THE BOJAH CASE 163 XV. THE LAST OF FORT 9 172 XVI. WE ESCAPE 182 XVII. THROUGH BAVARIA BY NIGHT 199 XVIII. THROUGH WURTEMBERG TO THE FRONTIER 213 XIX. FREEDOM 230 PART II I. ARABS, TURKS, AND GERMANS 241 II. ONE MORE RUN 257 III. TO AFION _via_ CONSTANTINOPLE 284 IV. THE ROUND TOUR CONCLUDED 300 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE SKETCH-MAP OF CLAUSTHAL 20 SKETCH-MAP OF FORT 9, INGOLSTADT 102 SKETCH-MAP SHOWING ROUTE OF ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 188 SKETCH-MAP SHOWING PLAN OF ESCAPE IN PALESTINE 210 PART I THE ESCAPING CLUB CHAPTER I CAPTURE For over three months No. 3 Squadron had been occupied daily in ranging the heavy guns which night after night crept into their allotted positions in front of Albert. On July 1st 1916 the Somme offensive opened with gas and smoke and a bombardment of unprecedented severity. To the pilots and observers in an artillery squadron the beginning of this battle brought a certain relief, for we were rather tired of flying up and down, being shot at continually by fairly accurate and remarkably well hidden anti-aircraft batteries, while we registered endless guns on uninteresting points. On the German side of the trenches, before the battle, the country seemed almost peaceful and deserted. Anti-aircraft shells arrived and burst in large numbers, coming apparently from nowhere, for it was almost rare to see a flash on the German side; if one did, it was probably a dummy flash; and of movement, except for a few trains in the distance, there was none. Only an expert observer would know that the thin straight line was a light railway; that the white lines were paths made by the ration parties and reliefs following the dead ground when they came up at night; that the almost invisible line was a sunken pipe line for bringing water to the trenches, and that the shading which crept and thickened along the German reserve trenches showed that the German working parties were active at night if invisible in the day time. For the shading spelt barbed wire. Only about half a dozen times during those three months did I have the luck to catch a German battery firing. When that happened one ceased the ranging work and called up something really heavy, for preference a nine-inch howitzer battery, which pulverised the Hun. When the battle had started the counter-battery work became our main task. It was wonderfully exciting and interesting. Nothing can give a more solid feeling of satisfaction than when, after seeing the shells from the battery you are directing fall closer and closer to the target, you finally see a great explosion in a German gun-pit, and with a clear conscience can signal "O.K." During the battle we were much less worried by the anti-aircraft than we had been before. For some had been knocked out, some had retreated, and some had run out of ammunition, and in any case there were so many British planes to shoot at that they could not give to any one their undivided attention. Up to July 16th, and possibly later, for I was captured on that day, German aeroplanes were remarkably scarce, and never interfered with us at our work. If one wished to find a German plane, it was necessary to go ten miles over the German lines, and alone. Even under these conditions the Germans avoided a fight if they could. Shortly after the beginning of the battle, Long, my observer, and I were given a special job. We went up only at the direct orders of our Brigadier and did a continuous series of short reconnaissances as far over the lines as Bapaume and as far south as Cambrai. We had several fights, of which only the last, on July 14th, when we shot down our opponent after a manoeuvring fight lasting about ten minutes, has a direct bearing on our capture. The end of this fight came when, for perhaps twenty seconds, we flew side by side, and at the same time as Long shot down our opponent, he riddled us with bullets, and I was very lucky to get home without the machine catching fire. My machine was too bad to be repaired, and they sent me a second one from the Aviation Park. This seemed a splendid machine, and I can only attribute the failure of the engine, which led to our capture, to a bullet in the magneto or petrol tank, probably the former. Whatever the cause, on July 16th, during an early morning reconnaissance, the engine suddenly stopped dead at 4000 feet. We must have been just N.E. of Bapaume, ten miles over the line, at the time, and I turned her head for home and did all I could; but there is very little one can do if the engine stops. After coming down a couple of thousand feet I began to look about for a landing-place away from houses and near a wood if possible, and told Long to get out matches. Just at that moment the fiery rocket battery near the one sausage balloon, which remained to the Germans after the anti-balloon offensive of July 4th, opened fire on us, and I had to dodge to avoid the rockets. By the time they had stopped firing at us we were about 500 feet from the ground, and I heard a good deal of rifle fire, apparently at us. As my engine showed no signs of coming to life again, I picked out an open field where I thought we should have time to set fire to the machine in comfort before the Germans came up. I was only up about 200 feet or less when I found we were landing almost on top of a German battery, of whose existence I had had no idea. I don't think the position of this battery was known to our people, but I may be wrong, as I temporarily lost my bearings while dodging those infernal rockets. As soldiers from the battery could be seen running out with rifles in their hands towards the spot where we obviously had to land, and as I much doubted whether we should have time to fire the machine, I determined when I was about 50 feet from the ground to crash the machine on landing. This I managed pretty successfully by ramming her nose into the ground instead of holding her off, and we had a bad crash. I found myself hanging upside down by my belt. I was a bit shaken but unhurt, and got out quickly. Long was staggering about in a very dazed condition near the machine, and the Germans were about 50 yards away. I got a matchbox from him and crawled under the machine again, but found, firstly, that I could not reach the petrol tap, and in spite of the machine being upside down, there was no petrol dripping anywhere; and, secondly, that Long in his dazed condition had handed me a box without any matches in it. The Germans were now about 25 yards off, and I thought of trying to set the thing on fire with the Lewis gun and tracer bullets, but I could not find the gun. I think Long must have thrown it overboard as we came down. We were then surrounded by soldiers--they were a filthy crowd, but showed no signs of unpleasantness. An officer, whose face I disliked, came up, and, saluting very correctly, asked me to hand over all my papers and maps. Rather than be searched, I turned out my own and Long's pockets for him. In doing so, I found to my horror that I had my diary on me! Why, I can't think, as I was always most careful to go up without any paper of importance, and particularly without my diary. However, I managed to keep it from the Germans, and got rid of it about an hour later without being detected. We walked with the German officer to the Gondecourt road, and I was glad to see as we went away, that the machine seemed thoroughly smashed up. The propeller was smashed and nose plate obviously bent badly; one wing and the under carriage were crumpled up. The elevator was broken, and it looked as if something had gone in the fuselage, but I could not be certain of that. Long was thoroughly shaken, and walked and talked like a drunken man. He kept on asking questions, which he reiterated in the most maddening way--poor chap--but to be asked every two minutes if you had been captured, when you are surrounded by a crowd of beastly Huns...! I own I was feeling pretty irritable at the time, and perhaps a bit shaken. It took Long several days to become anything like normal again, and I don't think he was completely right in his mind again for weeks. He was obviously suffering from concussion, and I think that he now remembers nothing of the smash nor of any events which took place for several hours afterwards. About 7 a.m., as far as I remember, a staff car picked us up and took us to Le Transloy. We were taken to one of the houses and given a couple of chairs in the yard. The place was apparently an H.Q., but what H.Q. I could not find out. I had seen about twelve English soldiers under guard as we came in, and after waiting for about two hours, we were marched off with them under escort of half a dozen mounted Uhlans. It was a pretty hot day, and we were both of us in very heavy flying kit and boots. Long was still much shaken, and walked with difficulty; in fact, I am doubtful whether he could have walked at all without my help. I amused myself talking to the guard and telling them how many prisoners and guns, etc., we had taken. After a march of several hours we reached Velu, very tired indeed. One incident which happened on the road is perhaps of interest. A woman waved to us in a field as we went by. I waved back, and this harmless action was instantly reported by one of the guard to an N.C.O., who rode back after the woman; but she, knowing the Germans better than we did, had disappeared by the time he had got there. We had been at Velu for an hour or more when a crowd of orderlies learnt that we were officer aviators. They collected around us and assumed rather a threatening attitude, accusing us of having thrown bombs on to a hospital train a few days before. This was unfortunately true as far as Long was concerned, but as the train had no red cross on it, and was used to bring up troops as well as to take away wounded, we had a perfect right to bomb it, and anyhow could not possibly have told it was a hospital train. However, this was not the time for complicated explanations, so I lied hard for a very uncomfortable ten minutes. Just when things were looking really nasty an officer came up and took us off. We got into a staff car with him and were taken to Havrincourt to a big château--the H.Q. of the VI. Corps, I think. A young flying corps officer who spoke a little English came to question us. He seemed a very nice fellow, and was full of praise for the audacity of the R.F.C. and most interested to learn that Long had dropped the wreath for Immelmann. This wreath had been dropped on a German aerodrome a few days before, as an official token of the respect which the R.F.C. had felt for a great pilot. On our journey to Cambrai we had three or four guards in the horse truck with us, but as it was a hot night the sliding door was left half open on one side, and about a foot on the other. If we had made a dash for it, we might have got clear away, but after discussing the scheme I rejected it, as Long was quite unfit for anything of the sort. Some time before midnight we entered Cambrai fort. In Cambrai station I saw a train crammed with German wounded, and there were no red crosses marked on the train. The condition of the wounded in this train was very bad--extremely crowded and dirty. We remained in Cambrai five or six days, and were rather uncomfortable and rather short of food, but a kind French lady in the town sent us in some of the necessities of life--tooth-brushes, shirts, socks, etc. The sleeping accommodation was not luxurious, but the blankets were not verminous, which was something to be thankful for. Whilst we were at Cambrai a German Intelligence officer took me to his room and had a long conversation with me. I refused to answer questions, so we discussed the war in general--who started it, the invasion of Belgium, our use of black troops, war in the colonies, about which he was particularly angry, quite forgetting, as I pointed out, that they began it by instigating rebellion in South Africa. He suggested that the Somme was an expensive failure, so I said, "What about Verdun?" Although I made one or two hits, he had his facts more at his fingers' ends than I had, and I think honors were about even! Next day he took Long and myself off in a car and showed us over the Fokker squadron at Cambrai. The two pilots next for duty sat in their flying kit, in deck chairs, by the side of their planes and read novels; close behind them was a telephone in communication with the balloons, who notified them when the enemy aircraft ventured far over the lines. It seemed to me a pretty efficient arrangement, but of course suitable only for defensive and not for offensive tactics. After we had been five or six days at Cambrai, and the number of prisoners had increased to nearly a thousand men and about a dozen officers, we were moved by train, the officers to Gütersloh, and the men, I think, to Münster. I cannot remember how long the journey took--about thirty hours, I believe. I am sure we had one night in the train, and I remember a good feed they gave us at a wayside station. I also remember remonstrating with a German officer, O.C. train, because he insisted on keeping shut the doors of the horse trucks in which the men were, causing them to be nearly suffocated with heat. During the journey I was rather surprised to find that we were nowhere insulted or cursed--very different to the terrible experiences of our early prisoners. Only in one station a poor devil, just off to the front in a crowded cattle truck, put his head in our carriage window and cursed the "verfluchte Schweinhunde" who were traveling second class and smoking cigars. After a reasonably comfortable journey we came to the prisoners-of-war camp at Gütersloh. CHAPTER II GUTERSLOH AND CLAUSTHAL I believe the camp at Gütersloh had formerly been a lunatic asylum. It was composed of six or seven large independent barrack-like buildings. One of these buildings was a civilian camp, and one was a quarantine, used also as a solitary confinement or _Stubenarrest_ prison; another was used as the quarters of the commandant. The ground was sandy, and I should think comparatively healthy and dry even in the wettest weather. In hot weather the heat was much accentuated, but there were patches of small pine trees in the camp which gave a pleasant shade. The camp area could not have been less than eight acres altogether, enclosed by two rows of barbed wire, with arc lamps every seventy yards or so. The prisoners comprised some 1200 officers--800 Russians, over 100 English, and the rest French or Belgians. We were marched up to the camp through a quiet village, and were put into the quarantine, where we remained for about a week. The morning after our arrival, we were medically inspected and questioned as to our name, rank, regiment, place of capture, age, where taught to fly, etc., all of which questions evoked a variety of mendacious and romantic answers. We were then put to bed in the quarantine and treated with some beastly anti-lice powder--most disagreeable! The food was insufficient in quarantine. We had no opportunity of taking exercise, and were all much bored and longed to be sent into the main camp, which we were told was the best in Germany. This was not far off the truth, as subsequent experience proved the administration and internal arrangements of this camp to be admirable. Originally English, Russian, and French prisoners had lived all mixed up together, but now the nationalities were mainly in separate buildings, and always in separate rooms. In the English building there was a common room in which there was a daily English paper and two monthly magazines, all typewritten in the camp. From an artistic point of view the magazines were excellent, rather after the style of _Printer's Pie_, and the daily paper consisted of leading articles, correspondence, and translations out of German papers. The canteen was very well run by a Russian on the co-operative share system, but when I was there it was becoming more and more difficult to buy goods in Germany. I don't think any food could be bought in the canteen, but wine, and, I think, whisky also, could be obtained, as well as tennis racquets, knives, books, pencils, boxes, and tobacco of all sorts. The feeding in the camp was very bad indeed, the quantity quite insufficient, and most of it almost uneatable. However, we were hungry enough to eat it with avidity when we first came in. Most wisely the Germans gave us ample facilities for playing games in the camp. There were ten tennis courts, and two grounds large enough for hockey and football, so we spent our time in playing tennis and exchanging lessons in modern languages, for which of course there were unique opportunities. We had two roll-calls a day, which lasted about ten minutes each, but otherwise the Germans interfered with us very little, and I think most of us found the first month or two of captivity a real rest cure after the strain and excitement of the Somme battle. I did, at any rate. Long and I had been less than three weeks in this place when all those flying officers who had been captured on the Somme were removed from Gütersloh to Clausthal. Looking back on the life at Gütersloh, one thing strikes me more now than it did whilst I was there, and that is the fact that all the officers, with the exception of a small section of the Russians, had apparently abandoned all hope of escaping. The defenses of the camp were not strong enough to be any reason for this lack of enterprise, and I can only attribute it to the encouragement and opportunities given by the Germans for game-playing, which successfully turned the thoughts of the prisoners from escaping. Of the journey to Clausthal, in the Harz Mountains, I only remember that it was quite comfortable, and that we arrived at night. The camp was about a mile up from the station, and we were let through a barbed wire fence and into a wooden barrack. For the next eight days we remained shut up in this place, and it was only with difficulty that we were allowed to have the windows open. There were three of these wooden barracks and a hotel or Kurhaus inside the barbed wire. This was the best German camp for food that I was in, and I think it would be possible to live on the food the Germans gave us. After eight days' quarantine we were let out into the camp. Long and I, and a captain in the R.F.C. who had been lately captured, called Nichol, had a little room together in the wooden barrack. On the whole, life was pleasant at Clausthal. The Germans were very polite, and the sentries were generally friendly. We passed the time at Clausthal in much the same way as we had done at Gütersloh. If anything, it was more peaceful and pleasant, and the country surrounding the camp, where we sometimes went for walks, was beautiful. The Harz Mountains are a well-known German health resort, so that by the middle of September I was feeling so remarkably fit, and was getting such an overpowering aversion to being ordered about by the Germans, that, encouraged by a young Belgian called Kicq, I began to think very seriously of escaping. When I had been about six weeks at Clausthal I was given details by one of the conspirators of a scheme for escaping from the camp by a tunnel. Apparently two of the party had struck work, and owing to this I was offered a place. I was not surprised that some one had downed tools, when I saw the unpleasant and water-logged hole which was to be our path of freedom. The idea was rather a good one, but it was too widely known in the camp for the scheme to have any chance of success, and after working it for three weeks we abandoned it. In the first place because the tunnel became half full of water, and secondly, because we had reason to believe the Germans had learnt of its existence and were waiting to catch us red-handed--a suspicion which was afterwards confirmed. I was very glad, for there were never less than two inches of water when I worked there, and it was a horrible job, as all tunneling is. About this time Kicq suggested that we should escape by train, which he felt sure was possible if we were suitably dressed. I was of the opinion that there were too many difficulties in the way to make it worth while trying, but he eventually talked me over and told me that long train journeys had already been done by Frenchmen. We then decided that we would go for Switzerland, the general opinion being that it was impossible to cross the Dutch border, as it was guarded by electric wire, dogs, and several lines of sentries. It was absolutely necessary to our plans to have a clear start of seven or eight hours without an alarm, and when our tunnel had to be abandoned I despaired of getting out without being seen or heard. Kicq, as always, was ready to try anything, and produced scheme after scheme, to all of which I objected. The real difficulty was the dogs round the camp, and though there were numerous ways of getting out of the camp, in all his schemes it was heavy odds on our being seen and the alarm being given. We both thought it was too late in the year to walk (nonsense, of course, but I did not know that then); and where should we walk to, since the Dutch frontier was impossible? As an English major said to me, "The frontier is guarded against spies who have friends on both sides and know every inch of the ground; how can you, tired prisoners of war, with no maps worth having--no knowledge and no friends--hope to cross?" I was further discouraged by a rumor that there were new railway regulations about showing passes which would make it quite impossible for us to travel by train. About that time I got into conversation with one of the German sentries, and bribed him with half a pat of butter to allow me to speak to a prisoner who was supposed to be in solitary confinement. At the end of a week the sentry had agreed to help me to escape, as long as the plan did not in any way implicate him. He told me that, speaking German as well as I did, I should have no difficulty in going by train, and that there were no passes to be shown or anything of that sort. I agreed to send 500 marks to his wife if I got away by his help. A day or two later I suddenly saw the way to get out. I was walking round with one of the tunnel conspirators at the time, and pointed it out to him. Then I found Kicq and told him we would depart on Monday. He, of course, was delighted, and ready to fall in with anything I might suggest. For some time our plans and preparations had been completed as far as possible; money had been no obstacle, as there were many men in the camp who had 20 or 30 marks, German money, and I managed to collect 80 and Kicq 120 marks. He had already got a civil outfit, and I had got a cap from an orderly. We decided not to take rücksacks but a traveling-bag, and I bought just the thing in the canteen. I was going to take an empty rücksack in the bag so that we could divide the weight afterwards, as we intended to walk the last 40 kilometres. We knew we could catch a 2.13 a.m. train at Goslar (a small town about 15 kilometres due north of Clausthal), and after that we had to trust to luck to find trains to take us _via_ Cassel to Rotweil, a village near the Swiss frontier. The one difficulty remaining was a suit of civilian clothes for me. There was an English flying officer in the camp whose uniform had been badly spoilt when he had been brought down. In consequence, he had been allowed to buy a suit of civilian clothes in Cambrai. He was still wearing these; in fact, he had nothing else to wear. The Germans had been most unwilling to let him continue in possession of these clothes, and always had their eye on them and of course intended to confiscate them as soon as his uniform turned up from England. This fellow agreed to allow me to steal his clothes. It was a most courageous thing to do, as he would certainly have got fourteen days' imprisonment for it, in spite of the evidence which would be produced to prove that the clothes were stolen quite unknown to him. As it happened, this theft was not necessary, as I was able to buy a new suit in the camp for 20 marks. It was green, and of the cheapest possible material; the jacket was of the Norfolk type with a belt, and buttoned up high in front at the neck. A black naval mackintosh, some German boots, a pair of spectacles, and a cloth cap completed my equipment. The suit had been bought over a year before from a German tailor who had been allowed to come into the camp to do ordinary repairs. This fellow had brought with him a number of civilian suits, which had been bought up in a very short time. A few days afterwards the Germans got to hear of this, and gave orders that all civilian suits in the camp were to be confiscated and the money would be returned. Needless to say, no one owned to having a suit, and a mild search failed to unearth any of them. We intended to escape on Monday, because Tuesday morning roll-call was at 11.30 a.m. instead of 9.30 a.m., and if we could get out unseen it would give us two hours more time before we were missed. On Friday I found out that two good fellows, Ding and Nichol, also intended to escape by the same method. We decided that all four of us would try. Naturally it was necessary to go on the same night, and Monday was selected. We tossed up who was to cut the wire and go first, and fortune decided for Ding and Nichol. [Illustration: CLAUSTHAL.] CHAPTER III THE FIRST EVASION A brief study of the plan of the camp and its defenses will make our plan of escape quite clear. The sentries are represented by ×, the arc lights by (·), and the dogs in kennels by "O." All round the camp was iron wire torpedo netting, with two-inch mesh, about 12 feet high on iron poles. The gardens offered a very suitable hiding-place close to the wire-netting. At "G" was the German guardhouse, and "K" was the kitchen, and Germans used to pass frequently between the guardhouse and the kitchen along a footpath close to the wire. At 6.45 an extra sentry was placed outside the wire at "S," and it was not sufficiently dark to make the attempt till 6.30, so that we had a quarter of an hour to cut the wire and to find an opportunity to cross the path and reach the darkness behind the glare of the arc lights. By far the greatest danger came, not from the sentries, but from stray Germans who used the footpath at frequent but irregular intervals. We agreed to give the other two five minutes' start so as not to interfere with their escape if we were caught getting out, and also to avoid being caught red-handed ourselves if they were seen and chased in the immediate vicinity of the camp. Longer we could not allow them, and even five minutes' delay would give us very little time before the extra sentry was posted at "S." On Monday night all went excellently up to a point. The sentries marched with commendable regularity up and down their beats. At 6.30 the four of us were changed and ready. There were so many different uniforms in the camp, and so many officers habitually wore garments of a nondescript character, that in the dusk we were able to mingle with the other prisoners without drawing attention to ourselves. A minute later Ding entered the peas and began to cut the wire. He had scarcely started when a German walking on the footpath passed a few inches from his nose. Ding felt sure he had been seen and retreated hurriedly. We waited anxiously for a minute or two, prepared to rush to our rooms and change and hide our kit if there were any signs of alarm. Then Nichol went round to investigate, and taking the pincers entered once more into the garden and prepared to cut the wire. The German had certainly not seen Ding in the garden, but how he had escaped being seen coming out, considering the commotion he made, passes my comprehension. Kicq and I had a rapid consultation, and decided that it was too late to escape that night, so we sent a friend round to tell Nichol not to cut the wire, and we all retreated and changed, feeling rather crestfallen. At 6.45 Ding suddenly remembered that he had left his greatcoat in the peas close up by the wire. This was most gallantly rescued by Nichol under the nose of the sentry. The attempt had been a failure, but not a disaster. Kicq and I decided to wait another week, for we wished to make certain that the Germans were not keeping an eye on the place in order to catch us red-handed, and Monday was the most suitable day. Ding dropped out; and Nichol, who did not speak German and consequently could not come with us, said he would not get another partner, firstly, because Kicq and I would have a better chance without a second party following us, and, secondly, because it was getting rather late in the year for walking. Nichol offered to cut the wire for us, and this offer we were only too pleased to accept, for we knew he was absolutely reliable, and it would save us from dirtying our clothes. During the week Kicq and I changed our plans and determined to go straight by the through train which left Goslar at 2.13 a.m. to Düsseldorf, and then try to find a Dutch bargee on the Rhine, who could be bribed to take us as far as the frontier and could probably give us information as to the best method of crossing if he could not take us through himself. This plan was obviously better than the long and complicated train journey to Switzerland. The only result of last Monday's failure was to convince us that, unless real bad luck or unforeseen circumstances intervened, we were certain to get clear away. We revised and perfected details and equipment, raised some more money for the purpose of giving a larger preliminary bribe to the bargee, got some tracings of maps for the night march to Goslar, and began to feel pretty confident. I don't think there is anything that I have ever done quite so exciting as escaping from prison. It may not be the same for other men who have tried both fighting in the air and escaping, but I know that for me the "nervous tension" before the latter is much greater than anything I have experienced at the front. Once in the middle, one has not time to be nervous in either case. It is the necessity of walking and talking and acting as if nothing were about to happen, right up to the moment of going, which is such a strain. I think there were only half a dozen people in the camp who knew that Kicq and I were going, though many knew that Ding and Nichol had tried a week before. It was very necessary to keep the knowledge, not only from the Germans, but also from the foreign members of the camp, as one can never be quite certain that there is not a spy or some one in German pay among them. For obvious reasons it would be very much more difficult to introduce a spy amongst the English, but it is a good rule that the fewer who know the better. On Monday night at 6 o'clock Kicq and I had a good feed with Nichol on sardines and jam, and then changed into our civilian clothes. At 6.30 Nichol was timed to go in and cut the wire. We walked round the hotel, and I deposited the bag in a dark spot by "M." We then took a turn or two up and down. We had only to wait about five minutes, when Nichol appeared and said, "The wire is cut, but I am not sure if the hole is large enough to get through; take the cutters" (a pair of sharp nail pincers which had been stolen off the German electrician), "as you may have to enlarge it." The sentry at "C," a fat old Landsturmer, chose to stand still instead of going up and down his beat, but he only glanced very occasionally towards "M," and we thought the moment favorable. This time we made no mistake about it. Kicq and I walked round to "M," stood a moment on the path, and had a look round. "C" had his back turned--"B" was at the far end of his beat. I took the bag and put it among the peas. Then in went Kicq, and I after him--he was through the hole in no time. I passed the bag through to him and came through myself, and we were across the lighted-up strip and into the darkness behind the arc lights inside six seconds. We went at full speed for a hundred yards or so, then, as there was no alarm, we stopped and looked back. Everything was quite quiet and we could see the sentries walking up and down on their beats under the electric lights, so we shook hands on the success of the first phase. Meanwhile Nichol, having seen us off and done his best to close the hole, strolled back round the building and there met Kicq's friend and confidant, a Belgian captain, an excellent fellow but rather an excitable conspirator. "C'est bien l'heure," said the Captain, "ils doivent partir tout de suite ou il sera trop tard." "Ils sont déjà partis," said Nichol. With a cry of joy, the captain fell on his neck and kissed him. CHAPTER IV WHAT HAPPENED TO KICQ We now felt pretty safe from immediate pursuit, and turning off to the right we made a semicircle round the camp and crossed the causeway between the two lakes. There was a good chance that our absence would not be discovered for another sixteen hours, that is, till the 11.30 roll-call next morning. We had about 16 to 20 kilometres to go to Goslar station, but as it was not yet 7 o'clock, and as our train left at 2.13 a.m., we had heaps of time. Besides this, Kicq knew the first 6 miles or so, having been that way on a walk. The walk to Goslar was almost without incident. We had two compasses, which had been made in the camp by a Belgian, and we had a sketch map of the way, which was mostly through pine forests. We were really overcautious and made wide detours round houses and took great pains not to meet any one on the road. All this was most unnecessary, as our civilian kit was quite good as I afterwards proved, and we both spoke German well enough to pass off as Germans for a few words. After walking fast for a couple of hours we found we were much ahead of time and so halted for half an hour at the foot of the Brechen, a huge tower built for sight-seeing purposes on the highest hill in the neighborhood. Soon after half-past one we entered Goslar and walked boldly through the town, saying what we had to say to each other in German; but we only saw one man, who took no notice of us. The station was easily found, and as there were twenty minutes before the train started we sat on a bench at the side of the road and waited till 2.05 a.m. before entering the station. Kicq wished to buy tickets for both of us, but I insisted on our having nothing to do with one another during the journey. We decided that Kicq was to go in first and buy a ticket for Düsseldorf if the train went as far, and if not, for Elberfeld. At 2.05 a.m. I followed him at about 150 yards distance into the station, and found that the booking office was not yet open, and that some dozen people were waiting to take tickets. Our appearance apparently caused no suspicion, and we both of us examined the time-tables on the walls in the hope of finding out if the train went to Düsseldorf. I should very much like to have known how much the ticket would cost, but could get no information on either point. Kicq looked a proper Hun in knee-breeches, dark puttees, brown boots, a German cape, and no hat. The fashion of going bareheaded had scarcely come in then, though hat cards had been lately introduced. Kicq told me afterwards that my own mother would not have known me. I wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and walked with a bit of a stoop and a limp. My clothes were green, with a collar that buttoned right up to the neck. I wore an ordinary black cap, and carried a black mackintosh over my arm. We both of us had our hair cut short, and our moustaches had been training for some time and curled up a bit at the ends. At last the ticket office was opened and we got into the queue. I could not hear what ticket Kicq took, so I said, "Dritte nach Düsseldorf Schnellzug" when my turn came. The clerk made some remark which I did not catch, so I added another 5 marks to the 20-marks note which I had put down. He had apparently asked if I had any small change, as he pushed back my 5-marks note and gave me a lot of change and my ticket. I pretended to count it and then stuffed it into my pocket and was jolly glad to get that business over. After I had taken my ticket I lost sight of Kicq, but the man who clipped my ticket at the barrier told me from what platform the train for Düsseldorf went. I put my bag down and sat in a dark corner on one of the benches and lit a German cigar. Kicq was walking up and down, and I did so too, though we took no notice of each other. The train was rather late, and I dared not go near my bag as an officer and a girl were standing close to it. When the train came in and I picked up the bag the girl gave me a suspicious look, but she did not have time to say anything, as I grabbed the bag and scrambled into a third-class coach. I did not see Kicq again till we met once more in prison. Before I go any farther with my story, I will tell you how Kicq was caught. He told me about it in prison, but I cannot be certain that I have remembered all the details accurately. He got into a third-class coach and stood in the corridor. After he had been there a short time an officer came up and talked to him, and as the train rocked about a good deal they had to shout to make themselves heard. The officer did not seem to suspect anything wrong with the accent. Kicq talked German perfectly fluently, but in my opinion he has rather a curious accent. In answer to a question he told the officer that he had been on a walking tour, during his holiday, in the Harz Mountains, and numerous other lies. When asked if he had served in the army he said he had been paralyzed in the arm from infancy, and then was forced to tell more lies of a complicated nature. Kicq swore the fellow did not suspect anything, but was merely a conscientious ass. Evidently the officer asked to be allowed to look at Kicq's passport. Kicq said he was sorry he had not got it on him; he had never found it necessary to carry a passport, and he had never been asked for it before. The officer said that any letters he had on him would do, just to prove his identity. Kicq answered that for the last few days he had been walking and he had received no letters. The Bosche, apologizing, said he was sorry he would have to ask him to identify himself by telephone from the next station, but that he was officially bound to do so under the circumstances. Kicq said that of course he would be delighted to do so, and went to the lavatory, where he got rid of everything by which it would be possible to identify him as a prisoner of war. At the next station he intended to bolt as soon as the train stopped, but for some reason he had no chance of doing so. At the next station he said he was a Swiss deserter, and refused to give his name for the sake of the honor of his family. During the next twenty hours he told the most amazing number of lies, and at the end was very nearly sent to a civilian camp to be interned there pending investigations. Of course that was just what he wanted, as he had managed to hide money on his person and was quite confident that he would have no difficulty in escaping from any civilian camp. Unfortunately he was identified by an Unteroffizier sent from Clausthal for the purpose. But if he had not succeeded in his main object, he had at any rate concealed his identity for twenty-four hours, and thereby greatly increased my chances. To return to my story. After getting into the third-class coach I made my way along the corridor, looking for a seat. The train was rather crowded, and the first carriage I tried to get into was half full of soldiers. I asked if there was a seat free, and was told, "Nur militärisch." By this time I had completely got over all feelings of nervousness, and was thoroughly enjoying the whole situation. A little farther on a young fellow saw I was looking for a place, and coming out into the corridor said he was getting out next station and I could have his corner place. This suited me very well, as I got a seat next to a woman. So I sat in the corner, pulled the curtain over my face, and went to sleep. I did not wake up again till we got to Elberfeld about 6 a.m. At Elberfeld a number of people got in, and the carriage was crowded with business men. A pretty lively discussion started, and I was afraid of being asked for my opinion, so I buried myself in the paper I had bought at Elberfeld and soon pretended to be asleep again. We got to Düsseldorf between 8 and 9, I think. I could see no signs of Kicq as I got out, and not caring to loiter about too much on the platform I went through the barrier and waited about in the main hall, through which he would have to pass to leave the station. After waiting for ten minutes I became anxious about him, and turned over all the probabilities in my mind. (1) He might have been recaptured in the train. (2) He might have taken a ticket to Elberfeld, under the impression the train only went as far as that. In this case he would come on soon, and I searched the time-tables without much success to find out when the next train from Elberfeld to Düsseldorf came in. (3) He might be waiting for me in some other part of the station, but as it was obviously easier for him to come out through the barrier than for me to go in, I decided that I was waiting in the most suitable place and had better stay there for a bit. In the meantime, according to our scheme, I asked for a plan of the town from a bookstall. The old man who sold it to me had to get it from the main bookstall, and then chatted very pleasantly to me on the weather, the war, and the increase of paper money with every new war loan. I confined my remarks to "Ja wünderschön," "Da haben Sie recht," "Ja wohl, es geht nicht so schlimm," "Kolossal," etc., but nevertheless began to get enormous confidence in my German. I also bought a local time-table. After waiting for about half an hour I did not like the way an old fellow in uniform, a sort of station official, was looking at me, so with the help of my plan I made my way to the river. I spent the next four hours in Düsseldorf, going to the station at intervals to see if Kicq had turned up. Our plan was to get hold of a Dutch bargee, so that I thought I had almost as good a chance of meeting him on the riverside as at the station, besides which the aforesaid old man at the station had got a nasty suspicious look in his eye. I bought some apples from an old lady in the market-place by the river, and then went to a quiet spot and ate some sandwiches and considered the situation. As far as I could see, there was nothing at all promising in the way of bargees on the river. I knew that an English officer had escaped from Crefeld, and that from Crefeld to the frontier was only about twenty or thirty miles. I soon saw from my time-table that I could get a tram to Crefeld across the Rhine, so I inspected the bridge over the Rhine, and as far as I could see no passes were asked for, from those going over in the tram. Before I did anything more, it seemed to me absolutely necessary to have some sort of map of the frontier, so I determined to try to buy one. I walked back once more along the riverside, and, as it was hot, tried to buy some milk in a milk shop. The woman said something about a milk card, so I said, "Ah, I forgot," and walked out. I went back once more to the station by tram (I was getting tired of lugging my bag about, and used the trams pretty freely). On the way there I went into a bookshop and bought a map of Nord Deutschland and then asked for a Baedeker. The woman said she did not think she was allowed to sell that, and called her husband, who turned out to be a German N.C.O. He said that, owing to the number of suspicious persons, spies, prisoners of war, etc., he had to be very careful to whom he sold maps. I said, "Natürlich, das verstehe ich wohl" (Naturally, I can well understand that). Just then I caught sight of a map marked "Umgebungen von Krefeld" (The Neighborhood of Crefeld), and asked to look at it. It was just what I wanted, an excellent map of Crefeld to the frontier, about 1:100,000. I bought this and cleared out, without, I think, arousing any suspicion. My confidence in my German was now "kolossal"! There was, of course, no sign of Kicq at the station, so I took the tram for the park in order to have lunch and a quiet look at my map. After I had been there a short time and had made up my mind as to my plan of campaign, I noticed an old gentleman observing me in a suspicious manner. He was obviously stalking me and trying to get a better look at me and my map. I waited till he had gone round a bush and then packed up rapidly, walked round another bush, and going through a sort of shrubbery got out of the park and boarded the first tram I saw. After traveling I know not where on this, I got out, and making my way to the river, strolled once more along the docks, keeping a lookout for Kicq, and then walked up the main street (always carrying my bag) to Prince Afold Platz, from where my tram to Crefeld started. A pointsman showed me the place from which the trams left every half-hour, so after one more visit to the station I caught the one o'clock tram. The girl conductress on the tram said I was on the wrong tram when I asked for my ticket. She gave me the ticket, however, and told me to get out at the first station over the Rhine and get into the next tram. At the first station over the Rhine I got out, and seeing a Bierhalle asked for a glass of beer. I had just given the woman a mark when my tram came in, so without waiting for the change I grabbed my bag and made off. She ran after me, but I pointed to the tram and called, "It does not matter, I have no time," and boarded the tram. CHAPTER V THE FRONTIER When we got to Crefeld I saw that the station was on the east side of the town, but after my experience at Düsseldorf I thought it would be much safer to walk boldly right through the middle of the town than to skirt round the edges. My brother was at this time interned at Crefeld, and I thought how amusing it would be if I were to meet him in the town and wondered if he would keep a straight face when I winked at him. The walk through the town was without incident. One fellow, in Landsturm uniform, a prison guard I should think, turned round and looked at me in a nasty way, perhaps recognizing my likeness to my brother, but I walked quickly on and nothing came of it. It must have been just after 2 p.m. when I got through into the open country on the southwest side of Crefeld, and a more horrible country I have never seen; it was absolutely flat, no trees and no signs of cover of any sort. There were one or two disused factories, which I inspected, but did not like the look of them as hiding-places. I passed several parties of French soldiers working in the fields, but did not dare to speak to them. The day was very hot and my bag was very heavy, and I could not help feeling I was rather a suspicious figure wandering about through the fields with a heavy traveling-bag within 20 miles of the frontier. It was a most unpleasant walk, and at times I thought of just throwing myself down in the middle of a field of roots, but the country was so flat that I could never be quite sure that someone would not see me crawling into them. It was not till 3.30 that I found a small alder copse with thick undergrowth, which I thought would do. There were a number of people working in the fields quite close to it, but I walked by them and round the copse, and putting the copse between them and me I doubled back into it. It was quite a small copse, about 50 by 20 yards, with thick rank grass in between the clumps. The people outside were only about 50 yards from me, and I could hear them talking and laughing. Still I was very comfortable and there were no tracks, and when I had made up some yarn to tell them if I was discovered, I went to sleep. Later on I opened a tin of Oxford sausages and had a good meal. Once a dog came through hunting rabbits, and once a man and a girl came quite close, but neither disturbed me. I began to find things very tedious and looked forward to the night's walk. Soon after 10 p.m. I started out from my hiding-place and walked hard with very few rests till 5.30 next morning, when I found a good place to lie up in. Considering the amount of energy expended, I made very little progress. Many detours were necessary to avoid the villages and houses, and for the most part I walked across country by small paths which were very clearly shown on my excellent map. However, my bag and the going were both heavy, and three-quarters of an hour's halt between 1 and 2 a.m. and some hot cocoa were most refreshing. At one place where there was a level crossing a man came to open the barrier, so I took the initiative and said, "Nach Anrath gerade aus?" (Straight on to Anrath?) He said, "Ja wohl," and opened the gate. (After that I always kept the name of the next village of which I was sure of the pronunciation in my head, so as to be able to ask my way there.) At about 5 o'clock I was pretty tired and found myself with the large village of Süchteln in front of me, through which I had to pass, as it is on a river. I funked it, as the bridge over the river was such an obvious place to have a sentry. After thinking it out, I decided it would be less suspicious to go through just after daylight when there were a few people about, so I lay up and went to sleep in a bush in the middle of a water meadow. When I woke up, shivering with the cold, it was about 5.30 and still dark, so I crossed the road and found a splendid warm spot in the middle of a haycock, which completely covered me up. Still, I thought, they might cart the hay that day; so at 6.15 a.m., when it was just getting light, I walked boldly through the village. There were one or two people about, but they took no interest in me. At 6.30 I had found an excellent hiding-place on the far side of the town. It was rather hot all day, and I had no water-bottle and suffered from thirst a good deal, but otherwise it was very pleasant, being up in the thick bushes on the top of an old gravel pit. The time seemed very long, and in the afternoon I very foolishly wandered about a bit in the woods. I was seen by one man, but I don't think he was suspicious, and so making a short detour I got back to my hiding-place. That is the worst of being alone; it is almost impossible not to do foolish things. I started off again about 9.30 p.m., hoping to cross the frontier that night. I was about 10 miles from the frontier, but reckoned that it would be necessary to walk nearly 15 miles if I wanted to avoid all the villages, as the country was very thickly populated. There is nothing much to say about this night's walk--it was much like the other, though I suffered rather more from thirst. At all the places where there was water there were also houses, and I did not dare to stop. I managed to quench my thirst to a certain extent by chewing roots from the fields. Unfortunately, after crossing the canal, I took a wrong road and went many miles southwest instead of west, and found myself in a long straggling village. Fortunately for my nerves there were very few dogs (very different, as I found afterwards, from Bavaria), and after walking through about two miles of village I extricated myself and got into the big wood on the frontier at about 4.30 a.m. It was a very wild spot, and rather like some thickly wooded parts of Scotland. It was also very hilly, with ridges of thick heather or long grass between almost impenetrable fir woods. I had an extremely pleasant sleep in the heather, and at 6.30 a.m. decided that I would move on cautiously. It was an ideal place for stalking, and I thought I would try and locate the frontier in the day time and if possible find out what obstacles I had before me. From my map it appeared that I had about 3 kilometres of forest between me and the frontier, but of course I did not know whether the guards would be placed exactly on the frontier. It seemed to me at the time absolutely essential, and even now I think I was quite right, to try to find out by day exactly where the sentries' line was. For all I knew there might be electrified wires, and on a dark night in the forest one was more likely than not to walk straight into them without ever seeing them at all. The rides would almost certainly be guarded, and the woods were so thick that it was impossible to crawl through them without making an awful noise. I know now that a forest is not only the most obvious place to try and cross the frontier, and for that reason the best guarded, but under any conditions, and for many reasons, the open country is the best place to try. However, I felt pretty confident that I should see the sentries before they saw me, so I went forward cautiously, examining every ride before I went down it. I went slowly through the woods for about three hours, in a west or northwest direction, steering by compass, and then began to think I must be getting pretty near the frontier. I was confirmed in this idea by finding a well used path down one of the rides, so I crawled into the wood at the side and lay down to think it out and have lunch. While I was sitting there a soldier wheeling a bicycle came down the path. When he had gone I crawled out to the edge of the ride and had a good look around. Almost north of me I could make out the roof of a house through the trees with a flagstaff and flag beside it. Like a fool, I never grasped that that was the frontier blockhouse--and then I suddenly saw a figure half a mile away, with something on his shoulder, cross the end of the ride--a soldier with a rifle, I thought, but could not be sure. After resting till about 10.30 I retraced my steps to look for a bit of map which had fallen out of my pocket, but was unable to find it. However, it did not matter, as the map was no longer of much use to me. Once on the move I felt very restless and not a bit tired, and as the cover was so good I determined to try and find out a bit more about the frontier. I found a ride leading in the right direction and followed that along very cautiously, mostly on my hands and knees, crawling through thick heather. I crossed two more rises without seeing anyone, and still crawled on. It was really madness to go any farther now, but it all seemed so safe and the woods were so thick that the necessity seemed to me greater than the danger. It only shows the great advantage of having a friend with you when you escape--if Kicq had been there I am sure we should both of us have got across; alone, it is almost impossible to refrain from taking undue risks. It is partly overconfidence and partly boredom with doing nothing, and partly a sort of reckless and restless feeling which comes over every one, I think, at times. Buckley and I, when we got away some six months later, nearly always adopted the more cautious of two plans. The occasions on which the more cautious advice was abandoned in favor of the more reckless, though few, three times nearly led to disaster. On this first expedition of mine I had no rules and regulations for escaping prisoners, such as one learned at Fort 9, and no experience of escaping. I had to carry on by the light of nature. However, instead of making further excuses for what I did, I had better go on with the story. After crossing a ride, I climbed a steep bank and came out on to a sort of plateau, about 100 yards across. The undergrowth was thick but there were only a few trees about, though there was a wood on the far side again. I was crawling through this undergrowth when I suddenly stopped short and held my breath. There, 15 yards from me, was a low wooden hut and I caught sight of a German soldier through the open door. I stymied myself from the hut by a bush and looked over my shoulder for the best line of retreat. Just as I was about to crawl off, a German sentry walked by me from the right, walking towards the hut. He was only about 10 yards off and was unarmed, and was buckling up his belt as he passed. I was not very well under cover from that direction, as my legs were sticking out of the bush, but I thought he would not see me if I lay quite still. When he was 5 yards from me, he stopped to adjust his belt and turned towards me, and as he looked up he saw my legs. He was a big heavy built fellow, and as he walked quickly up to me he said, "Who are you? What are you doing here?" I crawled out of the bush and stood up. "I am a papermaker from Darmstadt out on a holiday," I said. "Have you got any papers?" "Yes," I lied. "Well, you must come and show them." I took no notice of this hint, but said, "Could you kindly tell me if this is the Dutch frontier just here?" "That has nothing to do with you," he answered; "you just come along with me." I took no notice, and repeated the question. "Mit mir kommen--so fort," he roared out, and gripped me by the shoulder. He took me across the plateau and towards the wood on the opposite side, and as we were stepping out of a sort of pit I suddenly bolted from him. I dashed into the wood and he was after me yelling "Posten" at the top of his voice. We were running steeply down hill through the woods, consequently it was difficult for me to double back into the thick woods behind without being cut off. I turned as much right handed as I could, but he was only about 10 or 15 yards behind me, and I had not much time to think. About 50 yards ahead at the bottom of the slope there was a road which I could not avoid crossing as I saw it curling around to my right. As I was crashing through the last few yards of wood before the road, the fellow behind still yelling "Halt!" like a madman, I suddenly saw a sentry on the road who put up his rifle at 10 yards' range and called "Halt," and I halted as abruptly as possible. The fellow behind came up cursing and panting, and I was marched along the road to the left. On the road I saw there was another sentry leading a dog about 100 yards north of us. As we went along I saw the sentry who had held me up slip a clip of cartridges into his magazine, so that I am not sure that his rifle had been loaded after all. We passed another sentry (they seemed to be stationed about every 150 yards or so), and then came to the wooden hut which I had seen earlier in the day. There were about ten men in the hut (it was the guardroom for the frontier posts on that sector), and they treated me quite well. I asked for some tea and tobacco, and sat down in a corner near the window to consider the position. Rather foolishly I told them who I was. A "Flieger Hauptmann" was a bit of a capture, and they were very pleased about it. They searched me very mildly, and took away my map and compass but nothing else. From where I was sitting I could see out of a window. There I was--20 yards from the Dutch border. I had only to get across the road and I should be in thick undergrowth on the far side. It seemed to me most unlikely that there were any further obstacles than this one line of sentries. I believed at the time that I was actually on the very border, but I am not quite so sure of that now--anyhow, I am nearly sure I should have got clear away if I could have got out of that hut with a few yards' start. I could see the sentry outside the door, and he had his rifle slung over one shoulder by the strap. As I was afraid that he would get rather too good a shot at me if I ran straight, I determined that if I could get out of the hut I would double round it and get back into the thick woods behind and get across the following night. There seemed to be no obstacle of any sort in the way of wire. While I was sitting there several girls came into the hut who presented papers, which were checked by the N.C.O., and laughed and joked with the soldiers in a lingo which I could not follow. I found also that I could not understand the German soldiers when they talked among themselves. I must have sat there for an hour or more--pretending to doze most of the time, but keeping a pretty sharp lookout for a chance of getting out of the door. Several people had come in, and I noticed exactly how the latch worked. There was an oldish fellow who annoyed me a good deal by standing with his back to the door the whole time. I thought it was accident at first, but I soon saw that he had his suspicions of me and would not be enticed from the door for anything. The only thing to be done was to pretend to fall fast asleep. This had the desired effect, and when half an hour later he left the door to glance at a paper which a soldier had brought in, I made a dash for it. There was a fellow sitting by the side of the door who must have seen me turn and, so to speak, gather myself together to make the dash; for, as I went out, he made a desperate grab at me and by ill-fortune caught the belt at the back of my coat. It tore in his hand as I struggled, but it stopped me just long enough to give the sentry outside the time to fall on my neck, and then they all fell on me and every one tried to hit me at once. For some minutes there was a horrid scene. Ten furious men hit, kicked, punched, and cursed me all at once. I did my best to ward off the blows with my hands, and luckily there were so many of them that they all got in each other's way and I was scarcely hurt at all till one of them cut my head open with a bayonet. After a bit they calmed down and I was led back into the hut, with much kicking and cursing. For a long time they continued to curse me, and I think I must have gone temporarily mad, for I started to argue with them and made matters worse. About an hour later, preparations were made to remove me to Brüggen. They undid my braces--they undid all the buttons of my trousers, which I had to hold up with one hand whilst I carried all my belongings in the other. The walking was very rough, mostly through thick heather, and I was escorted by five men and an N.C.O. The five men carried their rifles in a most explosive state of readiness and the N.C.O. kept a revolver handy. Once, when I fell, I was very near being shot on the spot. Of course there were thick woods on either hand most of the way, and once in them they would never have caught me again. However, they never gave me a chance. I was feeling extremely fit and well, and managed the hot walk over heavy ground much more easily than most of my guards, who were fat old chaps. Although I was bitterly disappointed, I did not feel it so much at the time as afterwards, and really enjoyed the whole experience more than now seems to me possible. I was an object of curiosity in the village of Brüggen, and was eventually brought into an office, on the second story of a house, where several soldier clerks were working and given a chair in a corner, where I went to sleep. I was awakened by the entrance of a fat, unhealthy looking German lieutenant, to whom I took the most intense dislike at sight. He brought me into the next room, placed a loaded revolver on the table beside him, and ordered me to strip nude. I suppose I must have laughed at him, as he got very angry and told me it was no laughing matter. After my clothes had been searched he allowed me to dress, and then with intense deliberation began to write an account of me. I told him my camp, name, rank, etc., but when one of the guards (the brute who had first caught me) said that I had hit about me with my fists, I protested and said that, on the contrary, I had been brutally man-handled and my head had been cut open. My coat collar and head were all covered with blood, but the cut, though deep, was clean and gave little pain. He called a medical orderly, who dressed my head quite efficiently. After waiting for an hour or two more in the clerks' office, I was solemnly warned by a nasty little N.C.O. that I would be shot immediately if I made a further attempt to escape, and was marched off with a couple of guards. One happened to be the fellow who had originally caught me and the other was the old fellow who had made such a point of guarding the door in the hut. They were both, rather naturally, very suspicious of me and never gave me half a chance. After a march of three miles or so, we came to a big factory which was used as barracks, and I was put into the guardroom. When feeding time came round, I was given a very good plate of excellent vegetable soup, of which they gave me a second helping when I asked for it, and as much hot water, colored to look like coffee, as I could drink. On the whole, considering they were a rough lot of soldiers, I was treated very decently indeed. One young fellow, in fact, went out of his way to be nice to me and to make me comfortable. He passed me a packet of tobacco when no one was looking, and later in the evening there was quite an amusing discussion on the war, aeroplanes, etc. I think it rather astonished them that an English officer, a "Hauptmann," was prepared to talk and be more or less friendly with them. I think they also rather appreciated the fact that I seemed to bear no grudge against them for hitting me over the head with a bayonet; one of them in fact almost apologized for it by saying that they had been so enraged because they would have been heavily punished if I had escaped. They gave me some blankets, and I had an excellent night on a bench. One or two of them were thoughtful enough to warn me not to attempt to escape the next morning. Precautions had been taken, they said, and I would not have a chance. CHAPTER VI PAYING THE PIPER Next morning I was marched off with my two old guards, and during the march, by orders from the Company H.Q., a third was added. We went by train to Gladsbach, and I was locked up in a strong room in the citadel. There was a spy-hole in the door, and a number of people came and had a look at me through it. Several plates of vegetable soup and a large hunk of very satisfying brown army bread were given to me later. An exhaustive search of the cell disclosed a book hidden in the straw mattress (which was verminous, by the way) on deeds of valor in the German army, so I passed a peaceful and not unpleasant day. Next day I was given a ration of bread and cheese, and a pleasantly fat German, an Offizier Stellvertreter, with a humorous face, informed me that he had to conduct me to Clausthal, and then (in an aside) that he did not like the job a bit. There was a sentry with us, a tall, good looking man of fifty or so, who slung his rifle over his shoulder instead of carrying it at the "ready," as all my sentries had done for the last twenty-four hours. We got into a third-class reserved carriage at the station. The officer asked me some questions about my escape, and said that he had been told I was a desperate character. "Are you going to try to escape again from me?" he said. I laughed, and said it depended on what sort of opportunity he gave me. "It will be a most uncomfortable journey," he said with a resigned sigh. Then he brightened up and said, "Why not give me your parole not to escape till Clausthal; it will be so much more comfortable?" "All right," I said, and we shook hands on it. The soldier immediately put his rifle, and the officer his revolver, on the rack. Then the latter got down a hand-bag, which was packed with food and a couple of bottles of wine, and we had a fine feed. We continued to have good feeds about every two hours all the way to Clausthal. During the lunch, I explained to him that if I had wanted to escape from him, he had given me several opportunities before I gave my parole. "Ah, what!" he said, "when you went to the lavatory?" "Yes," said I, "that was one of them; there was a door on the far side opening into the far carriage." "Ah, but that was guarded," he said, obviously rather startled. I knew that it had not been guarded, but it had not been worth my while attempting to escape, for many reasons. My clothes were badly torn and covered with blood, and it was broad daylight, so that I don't think I should have had any chance at all. My head was all bandaged up, and, if I had taken off the bandage to put my cap on, the wound would have started to bleed again. Also, I was beginning to feel the effects of my exertions, and had no map or compass, and very little idea of where I was. Consequently I was very glad to give my parole, and never regretted it. All my money had been taken from me, but in the most generous way he insisted that I was his guest and bought literature, beer, and food for all three of us on all possible occasions. He said he could not understand how I managed to pass myself off as a German, as he would have known me by my accent for a foreigner immediately. Soon afterwards a pretty shop-girl got in (up to that time we had kept people out by saying it was a reserved carriage), and to my guard's surprise she had no suspicion of my accent. Eventually he told her that I was an Englishman, which she refused to believe till I owned that it was true, and then she edged away into the far corner and got out at the next station. We got into Clausthal late at night and had a very dark walk up to the camp. My old fat officer and I parted the best of friends. He was a vulgar fellow but a good sportsman, and I am very grateful to him for his kindness. The fact of the matter is that he had been nearly two years at the front, and it was most noticeable that any German who had been at the front for any length of time became quite a decent fellow. It is the swine who has never been near the front who is intolerable. Very much the same contrast is noticeable in peace time between those Germans who have lived abroad (especially in England) and those who have always stayed at home. I suppose that an Englishman who has never traveled is a pretty intolerable sort of person to a foreigner! The little lieutenant met me and showed me into a room in the German guardhouse, and told me to change into my uniform, and then to take any clothes I should want for the night. I was put into a very nasty, bare, whitewashed brick room, next the pigsties. A Russian orderly brought me my food, and through him I had no difficulty in secretly exchanging notes with Nichol and others in the camp. I was allowed to have any food they sent me, so, being very hungry, I naturally overate myself. Exercise consisted of half an hour's walk morning and afternoon, and I found that quite insufficient. My cell was next the pigs on one side and next the motor for making electricity on the other, and was consequently both smelly and noisy, besides being dirty. I asked to be allowed to have a bath, but it was not granted me for some days--four, I think. There were no windows to the place, but there were two doors and one doorway; that is to say, when they shut me in, they first locked an iron cage in front of the doorway, and outside that a wooden door. The wooden door, however, did not quite come to the top of the doorway; there was a gap of about nine inches, and through this gap light and air were supposed to enter. There was a bed, a basin, and a horrible stove, which either got red hot or went out. Books and tobacco were sent in to me; but, even so, I spent a fairly uncomfortable fourteen days. After I had been in there for a week, Kicq was brought in and we shared the room, which was only about 10 feet by 6 feet. We had to put one bed on top of the other to fit the beds in at all. I was beginning to feel the disappointment of failure very bitterly, and should really have preferred to have been left alone to brood over it in peace. Kicq, however, did his best to make an exchange of Spanish and English lessons a regular occupation, and we eventually spent a good deal of our time like that. It was a disgusting sort of existence, and for several days it was extremely dirty and uncomfortable. Eventually, after repeated complaints, some improvements were made. We were not allowed to have a bath in the main building, as we would have been liable to come in contact with the other prisoners; so Nichol sent us in a tin hip-bath. We also got leave from the lieutenant to have our outside door open for half an hour in the morning and half an hour in the afternoon. As the sentries changed every two hours, it was a simple matter to tell each sentry that we had not yet had it open for half an hour that morning, so by this _ruse de guerre_ we got a certain amount of light and air into the place. One morning about 9.30, whilst we were in the middle of washing and shaving and having breakfast all at once, a General, an A.D.C., the Camp Commandant, and the lieutenant all suddenly appeared outside our "grill" and were admitted by the sentry. I was in pyjamas and a tunic, and Kicq even more undressed, with his face covered with shaving soap, but we gave the General as military a "stand to attention" as we could under the circumstances. He answered our salute very politely, taking no notice of our undress uniform, and turning to the Commandant, said, "Sie waren in dem Tunnel gefangen?" "Nein, nein," said the lieutenant, saluting violently, and Kicq and I grinned, whilst the lieutenant and the Commandant showed obvious signs of anger! For a long time we had believed that the Germans knew of our tunnel and were trying to catch us red-handed in it, and this of course confirmed our suspicions. The General was told that we both spoke German, and asked us if we had any complaints. We objected to the place in which we were imprisoned, but otherwise had not much of which to complain. I then said that we should like to receive our punishment, since at present we were just under arrest "pending investigation." The General turned to his A.D.C., who, saluting between each sentence, said that the General had signed our punishment the day before and that we were sentenced to fourteen days' _Stubenarrest_, and that our punishment started from the day he had signed it. We thanked him, and said that was just the thing we were particularly anxious to know, and felt delighted that we had got off so lightly. Two days later we went over into the old room in which Long, Nichol, and I had originally lived in No. 3 Barracks. The windows of the room were whitewashed, and there was a sentry in front of our door, the idea being, of course, to prevent us communicating with the other prisoners. This was quite absurd and nothing but red tape, as we were allowed to have the top part of the window open and we were separated only by thin wooden walls from the rooms on either side of us. It was only necessary to bang on the wall and shout anything you might wish to say. If we wanted anything, such as books, some one just threw them through the window to us. One day when the lieutenant was in the room, a book came hurtling through the window and hit him full in the chest. The German kept his temper very well and merely remonstrated with us, saying that it was unnecessary to break the rules when we could have anything we wanted by asking him. He was quite right, and I put it down to his credit that he kept his temper, but the amusement of disobeying rules slightly relieved our very monotonous existence. I have already explained that the whole camp was divided into two by torpedo netting. For the rest of our imprisonment at Clausthal, we used to take our exercise in this lower or southern section, all the other prisoners being cleared out of it for half an hour in the morning and half an hour in the afternoon for that purpose. The weather was beautifully fine, and, as the tennis-court was in this section, we decided we had better play tennis during our half an hour's exercise. We just banged on the wall and asked the people next door to leave two racquets and some balls outside our door. This was a great success. Kicq was not much of a player, but he improved fast. The sentries were on the whole quite friendly. They were ostentatiously officious when another sentry was near, and did not care that an officer of any nationality other than English should see them talking to us. Most of them were physically unfit or badly wounded, and, though all seemed to be sick of the war, they did their duty in as inoffensive a way as possible. The old chap whom I had bribed was several times our sentry, and when he was on at night he would allow us to go into the room next door and see Nichol and Long. We in return gave him some good things to eat and hot chocolate and coffee when the nights were cold. When I was alone in the pigsty we had had a long talk in which he said that the N.C.O. of the guard had told him that I was actually over the frontier when I was caught. I am sure that this was not the case, however. A few days before we expected to be released, the lieutenant came in and told us that the General had made a mistake and that our _Stubenarrest_, as opposed to our _Untersuchungschaft_, did not start when the General signed our _Bestrafung_, but when the warrant was received by the Camp Commandant. Consequently, we should not get out till November 12th. I was extremely angry, as I was weary of the confinement, but Kicq took it very philosophically. CHAPTER VII REMOVAL TO A STRAFE CAMP About this time I wrote home for the first time in code. The last time I had been home on leave from France before being taken, I had made up, with the help of the rest of my family, a very rough sort of code depending on the formation of the letters. I wrote a longish message, very small, on a piece of cigarette paper, and stuck it to the flap of the envelope, and then wrote a code message in the letter saying, "Tear open flap of envelope." The letter got through all right, but they failed at home to see that it was in code. The other letters I wrote in code, and I wrote many from Fort 9 (and much more important ones), all got through successfully. At midday on November 12th we came out of prison. We had already been told that we were going to be sent to Ingolstadt; but, though Nichol made inquiries in the camp, no one seemed to know what sort of place it was. We had to leave Clausthal camp about 2 o'clock and walk to the station, so that we had about half an hour in the camp to say "good-bye" and pass on all we had learnt. Both Kicq and I did a good deal of talking during the last hour we spent at Clausthal, and when the sentry came to fetch us we were given a very cheery send-off, nearly all the camp turning out. We had a two or three mile walk to the station, and were escorted only by an N.C.O. with a revolver. In fact, during the whole of this journey we were, quite contrary to our expectations, so badly guarded that I swore I would be properly prepared to escape the next time I had a train journey at night. The little lieutenant met us at the station, and proved to be the most incompetent traveler. Although he asked every one he saw, he never seemed to know how or where to catch any train. In fact, Kicq, who had studied the matter when we had had intentions of trying for Switzerland, knew much more about the route than he did. We had a pretty uncomfortable and very dull journey. At Halle, after we had waited an hour or two in a Red Cross dormitory, the lieutenant made some bad muddle about the trains, and there was also a difficulty because prisoners-of-war were not allowed to travel on a "Schnellzug" (fast train). However, eventually we got into a third-class coach, and after pushing along the corridor, to the surprise of a crowd of peaceful travelers, we got into a third-class wooden-seated compartment. The lieutenant was perfectly hopeless and helpless, and I several times felt inclined to take command of the party and give the conductor a few marks to get us a decent carriage. I had a longish talk that night with him, but he would insist on smoking strong cigars with the window tight shut, and his breath stank so that I was nearly sick. He gave me rather an interesting picture of the Russian front during the big German advance. He said the dirt and discomfort were absolutely horrible. The usual Polish village consisted of huge barn-like buildings where several families lived together with a swarm of children and some half-dozen adults of both sexes. They usually slept, as far as I can make out, on top of the stoves, which were of the big tiled variety. A large number of animals and chickens lived in the same house, or rather room. For billeting purposes as many men as possible were crammed in these places--half a company or more. The whole place was indescribably filthy, and he assured me that every soldier, from a Tommy to a general, was simply covered with lice, and never got rid of them during the whole campaign. He was wounded very seriously early on in the advance. He got a bullet through his "Herzbeutel" (the bag which contains the heart), he said. The lot of the wounded was a terrible one, as they had to be transported on carts, over the worst possible roads, for very big distances to the rail-heads. Altogether he looked back on the Russian campaign with horror. We got to Nüremberg about 2 or 3 a.m. and were put in a room above the police station or guardhouse in the station. We were allowed to buy some coffee and bread, and later got a wash and shave. We got to Ingolstadt some time about midday without further incident, and walked up to the central office of the prisoners-of-war camp. Here the lieutenant said good-bye, and I can't pretend I was sorry to see the last of him. He was quite a good, honest fellow, but one of those hopelessly conscientious people, with no initiative and no sense of humor. After waiting in the bureau for some time we were told we were bound for Fort 9, but could elicit no information as to what sort of place it was. We were told that we should have to sleep the night at the men's camp, as the fort was about 7 kilometres out of the town, and it was either too late or inconvenient to send us out that night. Ingolstadt is a town of some 30,000 or 40,000 inhabitants and is built on both banks of the Danube. The prisoners-of-war camp consists of half a dozen or more old forts, some of which lie on the north and some on the south bank. Fort 9 has the date 1870 above the gateway and as the others are on an almost identical plan, I expect they are much the same date. Besides these forts, which form a ring around Ingolstadt with a radius of about 7 kilometres, there is a camp for men on the outskirts of the town itself. As far as I know, all the forts except one, which is a _strafe_ camp for N.C.O.'s who have attempted to escape, are used for officer prisoners-of-war. Fort 9, as we soon learnt, is the fort where the black sheep go. On our way to the men's camp we passed several working parties, mostly of French soldiers. As far as I could see, they showed no signs of ill-treatment, though I thought some of the Russians looked rather hungry and ill-kept. All we could see of the men's camp was a palisade with several strands of barbed wire on top. An extremely dirty, unsoldierly Bavarian sentry was sloping about outside, apparently having a beat of 200 or 300 yards long. He was merely typical of all Bavarian sentries. They are all, with rare exceptions, filthy and slovenly, and an incredibly large proportion have most unpleasant faces. Before I went to Bavaria as a prisoner, I had always looked on the South German as a kindly man--"gemütlich" is the word they like to use about themselves--but it did not take long to completely change these ideas. I had no longer any difficulty in believing that the Bavarians are justly accused of a very large share in the Belgian atrocities. While I am on the subject I might mention here Kicq's story of how the sack of Louvain was started. The account is supported by what Major Whitton says in his book _The Marne Campaign_, and makes some excuses for the Germans, though it by no means frees them from blame. The Germans entered and occupied Louvain with little or no opposition, and pushed a fairly strong advance guard through the town in the direction of Antwerp. This advance guard was heavily attacked by a portion of the Belgian army, was defeated, and fled in panic and complete disorder back towards Louvain. The Germans in Louvain took these fugitives for a Belgian attack and fired on them, and they fired back. Very soon there was a general mix-up on a large scale. The defeated advance guard was being fired into by the Belgians on one side and by their own comrades on the other. The civilians in the town also thought that Louvain was being attacked and was about to be retaken by the Belgians. They were determined to do their bit, so they added to the general confusion by firing off all the guns they had left, and, if they had none, throwing furniture, hot water, and anything else handy on the heads of the Germans in the streets. A certain number of Germans were killed and injured in this way, and the German soldiers, furious not only at this but, when they found out their mistake, at having massacred their own comrades, got completely out of control and sacked and burnt the greater part of the town. Kicq, at the time when this happened, was in a hospital at Antwerp, so that his is only a second-hand account, but I think that most intelligent Belgian officers believe this to be a fairly true explanation. To return to our story again--just inside the palisade was a group of wooden huts which I imagine were the offices of the camp. We were led through the guardroom, a filthy place with wooden benches running all down the middle, on which still filthier Bavarians were sleeping, drinking beer, or playing cards, and were locked into a small room at the end. We had some food left, and with the help of some nasty looking soup which the Germans brought us we made quite a good meal. There were wooden beds and mattresses in the room, and luckily not sufficient light to allow us to examine them too closely, so we passed quite a good night. Next morning I asked to see the Commandant, who seemed quite a nice old fellow, and requested permission to go over the camp, so that I could testify to other officers that our prisoners were well treated. He answered that to grant my request was impossible. "In that case," I said, "I can only draw the conclusion that you will not let me see the camp because our prisoners are not treated as they should be." The old man said he was very sorry, but it was absolutely "verboten," but he assured me that the prisoners were well treated. An hour or so later an N.C.O. with a rifle turned up, and we were marched off to Fort 9. The whole country round Fort 9, which lies due south of Ingolstadt, is very flat and uninteresting. In fact, it is one of the few really ugly places I remember seeing in Bavaria. There are a few small woods and clumps of trees about, but as there is very little undergrowth in them, they afford only a very temporary shelter to an escaping prisoner--as Medlicott and I found out later. The fort, as you approach it from the north, has the appearance of an oblong mound of earth, some 350 yards long and about 60 feet high. There is a moat 4 to 6 feet deep all around the place, but a small rampart on the outer side of the moat prevents the latter being seen from the south till the outer gate into the first courtyard has been passed. We tramped along the main high road which leads over the Danube directly south out of Ingolstadt, and after walking for well over an hour we began looking about for some signs of a camp, but could see nothing resembling our previous ideas of one. The guard informed us, however, that we had only 200 metres to go, and soon we turned sharp to the right towards the mound before mentioned. We then saw a sentry on one of the two battery positions which flanked the fort, and another on the top of the mound. In another minute or two we came to an iron door in a half-brick, half-earthen wall. Our guard looked through a peep-hole in this and said we could not go in yet, as _Appell_ was taking place. I had a look through the peep-hole. Some 40 yards across a sort of courtyard was a moat, about 15 yards broad, over which there was a roadway with a heavy iron and wire gate, guarded by a sentry. The road led over the moat into another courtyard, at the back of which was a brick wall about 20 feet high with half a dozen large iron barred windows in it. On the top of the wall was some 40 feet of earth sloping backwards and upwards to the center "caponnière," the highest part of the mound, where a sentry stood. In the center of the wall was an enormous iron door leading, to all appearances, into the heart of the small hill in front of us. Through the peep-hole I could follow the moat for 50 or 60 yards in either direction. On the far side of the moat the ground sloped up slightly for 15 metres to a brick wall about 15 to 20 feet (surmounted by 4 or 5 metres of earth) with heavily barred windows at regular intervals all the way along it. The windows in this wall were the windows of our living rooms, and on the strip of grass between the windows and the moat sentries walked up and down. In the courtyard about 200 prisoners-of-war of various nationalities appeared to be mixed up in a very irregular manner; in fact, a good deal of movement was noticeable among them, and from the confused shouting which went on I gathered something exciting must be happening. Suddenly the whole mob broke up and began to stream back into the fort through the main gate. A German from the inside opened the outer gate, and we were marched across the moat, a sentry unlocking the gate for us, into the inner courtyard. Suddenly I saw Milne, whom I had last seen at St. Omer in 25 Squadron. He was wearing an old flying coat and was bareheaded. He greeted me with enthusiasm and surprise. A sentry tried to stop us from meeting, but Milne took no notice of him, and we shook hands. Several other Frenchmen and Englishmen came crowding round us, and then some one began roaring out orders in German at the top of his voice about 10 yards off. I looked up and saw a German captain, who looked like a middle-aged well-to-do shopkeeper (which in fact he was), in a furious rage, gesticulating like a windmill. I gathered that Kicq and I were to be prevented from talking to the other prisoners. I thought that we had probably better obey him, but none of the other prisoners paid any attention whatever to the noise he was making till several sentries bustled us through the main door and into the Commandant's bureau. As we were going in, an Englishman in a beard passed by the side of me saying, "Have you anything to hide?" My compass, which had been given me by a Belgian at Clausthal, was hidden in my big baggage, so I shook my head. A young French officer was in the bureau, and a furious discussion took place between him and the Commandant, who immediately began to shout and gesticulate. As far as I could make out, the Frenchman had been arrested at _Appell_ for refusing to stand still. The Frenchman answered that his feet got cold because, owing to the total incompetency of the Germans, they took much longer than was necessary at _Appell_. "Aus dem Bureau!" (Leave the office immediately!) yelled the Commandant. The Frenchman tried to speak again, but was drowned by the shouts of "No, no, go out at once, you must not speak to me like that." "Pourquoi non, il n'est pas la manière d'addresser un officier Français," answered the Frenchman; and as he spoke the door behind me opened and another Frenchman entered who, pointing his finger at the Commandant, said, "Oui, oui, je suis témoin, je suis témoin," and went out again. The first Frenchman bowed in a formal manner to the Commandant, who had started to yell "Posten, Posten," and went out of the door just as the sentry entered. The Commandant mopped his brow and seemed almost on the verge of collapse, when Kicq protested against the way he had spoken to us when ordering us into the bureau. This raised another small storm, in which Kicq easily held his own. The Commandant calmed himself with an effort. We were then asked the usual questions by an Unteroffizier and told that we should be in Room 45. Our hand baggage was then searched, and my rücksack was taken from me. To reach No. 45 we went along a very dark underground passage dimly lighted by an oil lamp. At the end of the passage there were some enormous iron doors. These led to one of the two inner courtyards of the fort, and were then shut, as they always were during _Appell_. A few yards before coming to the door we turned sharply to the right into an extremely dark arched opening. The whole passage was built of solid blocks of stone and had a vaulted roof. After groping our way round a turning, we came suddenly into another passage some 70 yards long, and also of stone. On the left hand was a bare stone wall running up 15 feet to the roof; on the right there were doors about every 4 yards with numbers on them ranging from 39 to 56. Light and air were brought into the passage by square ventilator shafts in the roof which ran up through the 15 feet of earth to the pathway above. At the top of the ventilators glass frames on very strong iron supports prevented the rain from coming in and the prisoners from getting out. Needless to say, the passage was the coldest and draughtiest place it is possible to imagine. Owing to the mound of earth on top, no heat but much dampness found its way into the passage. At the far end were the latrines. These were very insanitary, and the smell of them pervaded the whole passage, into which our living rooms opened. In certain winds they became almost intolerable. A detailed description of them will have to be given later, as they played an important part in many attempts to escape. Room 45 was about half-way along the passage, and we found Captain Grinnell-Milne, R.F.C., Oliphant, Fairweather, and Medlicott, R.F.C., already installed there. The dimensions of the room were, at a guess, about 12 yards by 5 yards. The floor was asphalt and the walls were whitewashed brick. The walls and the ceiling were both curved and together formed an exact semicircle. In fact, the room was very much of the shape and size of a _Nissen_ hut. This is an excellent shape from the point of view of strength, but not very convenient for hanging pictures or putting up shelves. The end of the room farthest from the door was mainly occupied by two large windows looking out over a strip of grass which sloped gradually down to the moat, 15 yards away. These windows were heavily barred with square one-inch bars, three to a window, and sentries passed along the strip of grass from time to time and glanced suspiciously in. If they saw anything that interested them they stood at the window and stared in. There was obviously no such thing as privacy. In each of these rooms five or six men lived and cooked and fed and slept. CHAPTER VIII FORT 9, INGOLSTADT In the early days of the war Fort 9, Ingolstadt, had been, according to the oldest inmates of the prison-house, a quiet, well-behaved sort of place, but for the past six months the Germans had collected into the fort all the "mauvais sujets" from the German point of view, and all those prisoners-of-war who had made attempts to escape from other camps. There were about 150 officer prisoners in the place, and of these at least 130 had made successful attempts to escape from other camps, and had only been recaught after from three days' to three weeks' temporary freedom. When Kicq and I arrived, 75 per cent. of the prisoners were scheming and working continually to this end. Some had tramped to the Dutch or Swiss frontiers and had been captured there; some had taken the train (those who could speak German) and had been eventually caught by some mischance; and all firmly believed that it was only the blackest misfortune which had prevented them from crossing the frontier, and were convinced that, if once more they could get clear of the camp, they would reach neutral territory and freedom. Escaping, and how it should be done, what to beware of and what to risk, what food to take, what clothes to wear, maps, compasses, and how to get them, how to look after your feet and how to light a fire without smoke, where to cross the frontier and what route to take, and a hundred and one things connected with escaping, were the most frequent subjects of conversation and rarely out of the thoughts of the great majority of the prisoners at Fort 9. Each man was ready to give the benefit of his experiences, his advice, and his immediate help to any one who asked for them. In fact, we pooled our knowledge. The camp was nothing less than an escaping club. Each man was ready to help any one who wished to escape and had a plan, quite regardless of his own risk or the punishment he might bring upon himself. For courts-martial no one cared twopence, and nearly every one in the fort had done considerable spells of solitary confinement. There were in the camp, mainly among the Frenchmen, some of the most ingenious people I have ever come across. Men who could make keys which would unlock any door: men who could temper and jag the edge of an old table-knife so that it would cut iron bars: expert photographers (very useful for copying maps): engineering experts who would be called in to give advice on any tunnel which was being dug: men who spoke German perfectly: men who shammed insanity perfectly, and many, like myself, who were ready to risk a bit to get out, but had no parlor tricks. One had escaped from his prison camp dressed as a German officer: another had escaped in a dirty clothes basket, and another had been wheeled out of the camp hidden in a muck tub: another sportsman had painted his face green to look like a water-lily and had swum the moat in daylight under the sentry's nose. It is impossible to recount all the various means that were tried, and successfully tried, in order to escape from camps. Forgery, bribery, impersonation, with an utter disregard of risks of being shot, all found their advocates in Fort 9. In spite of the fact that every man was ready to do his utmost, at whatever personal risk, to help a friend who was trying to escape, each man was advised to keep his own plans of escape strictly to himself. It was not that we were afraid of spies among ourselves, but it was impossible to be quite sure of all the orderlies, who were either Frenchmen or Russians. There was one French orderly of whom we had serious suspicion but could never prove anything against him. It can be readily understood that the Germans, having herded some 150 officers with the blackest characters into one camp, took considerable precautions to keep them there. From the moat on one side to the moat on the other, the fort at the broadest part measured about 300 yards. On the southern side, as can be seen from the sketch map, the moat ran around the fort in a semi-oval, and steep grass banks sloped from the top of the ramparts to the edge of the moat, beside which was a narrow footpath patroled by sentries. On the southern side the ramparts were higher than on the northern, and the top must have been 50 feet above the moat. Along the top there was a narrow footpath where the prisoners were allowed to walk. From this path we got a good view of the surrounding country, which was completely under cultivation and very flat, with small wooded downs in the distance to relieve the monotony. From the path, we were able to see the moat, but, owing to the shelving of the bank, not the sentry in the path below. Just inside the parados there were at regular intervals heavily built traverses, and between the traverses glass ventilators poked up from the rooms and passages which lay under the southern ramparts. From the parados a grass bank sloped down to a broad gravel walk, and from this another steep bank dropped some 20 feet into the inner court. The barred window from the orderlies' quarters, the kitchen, and the solitary confinement cells looked out from this bank into the courtyard. On the northern side a similar bank, but without windows in it, sloped up to the gravel path, which ran all round the fort. Only a 7-foot parapet, over which we were forbidden to look, bounded the gravel path on the north side; but the rules did not forbid us looking into the outer courtyard, where _Appell_ was usually held. On the south side the moat was about 40 yards broad and on the north only about 16 yards, and though we never found out the depth accurately we imagined it to be about 5 feet at the deepest part. The whole space inside was formed into two courtyards by a very broad central passage leading from the main door to the center "caponnière" on the south side. The earth ridge on the top of the passage formed the highest point in the fort. On it was a flagstaff where flags were hoisted at each German victory, imaginary or otherwise. A sentry was always posted there. In the day time there were eighteen sentries posted in and around the court, and at night time twenty-two posted as I have shown them on the sketch map. It was obvious that there were only two possible ways of getting out: one was to go out by the main gate past three sentries, three gates, and a guardhouse and the other was to go through the moat. It was impossible to tunnel under the moat. It had been tried, and the water came into the tunnel as soon as it got below the water level. An aeroplane was the only other solution. That was the problem we were up against, and however you looked at it, it always boiled down to a nasty cold swim or a colossal piece of bluff. All the members of Room 45, where I now found myself, had previously escaped from other camps. Milne and Fairweather, with Milne's brother, then at Custrin, had walked out of the main gate of a camp of which I forget the name, the brother dressed as a German officer, Fairweather as a soldier, and Milne as a workman. The scheme had worked well. They had walked into the commandantur as if to see the commandant, and then had pulled off their British uniforms in the passage and, leaving them on the floor, had calmly walked out of the other door of the commandantur and passed all the sentries without any difficulty. Milne's brother spoke excellent German, and they said that their "get-up" had been very good and had been the result of some months' hard work. Oliphant and Medlicott[1] had been caught together within a mile or two of the Dutch frontier. Poole and these two had escaped together from a camp by an audacious bit of wire-cutting in full daylight, suitable side-shows having been provided to keep the sentries occupied. After doing the march on foot to the frontier at an almost incredible speed, they lay up in a wood a couple of miles or so from the frontier sentries, intending to cross that night. Most unluckily for them, the day being Sunday (always the most dangerous day for escaping prisoners, as there are so many people about), a party of sportsmen came upon them. Oliphant had his boots on and managed to get away, but Poole and Medlicott were collared. A sentry marched them along to a sort of barn, opened the door, and entered before them. They slammed the door on him and bolted. Poole got clean away and crossed the frontier that night, but Medlicott was caught after a short, sharp chase. Oliphant took a wrong compass-bearing during the night, lost his way, and was caught the following morning. They really had very bad luck. All three ought to have crossed, as they were very determined fellows, and all of them had had considerable previous experience in escaping. We used to talk bitterly of prisoners' luck at Ingolstadt, and one of the things which induced us to keep on trying was the belief that our luck would turn. Medlicott especially had had four or five attempts before he came to Ingolstadt. One of these was most spectacular, and I must give a short account of it. I am not sure out of which camp the escape was made, but one-time inmates will perhaps recognize it. A road ran alongside one of the main buildings of the camp. On the far side of the road was a steep bank with a barbed wire fence on the top, and from there terraced gardens sloped steeply up a hill and away from the camp. The building was several stories high, and Medlicott and a companion decided that it would be possible to fix up a drawbridge from the second-story windows, and from there jump over the road and the wire on to the terrace. Every detail was fully thought out. They had a 9-foot plank, the near end of which they intended to place on the window-sill, and the far end would be supported by a rope from the top of the window. This would form an extremely rickety bridge, but though they would have a considerable drop, 12 feet or so, they had only quite a short distance to jump forward, as the road was quite narrow. Arrangements had been made to put out the electric light and to cut the telephone wires simultaneously, as a sentry was posted in the road and they had to jump over his head. The most suitable room was occupied by a Belgian general, and they decided to make the attempt from there. When they entered the Belgian's room on the selected night and informed him of what was about to happen, he absolutely refused to allow his room to be used for such a purpose. Medlicott explained to him (in bad French) that they were going from that room at once, whatever the general said, and that if he made a noise, they would be compelled to use force to keep him quiet. The general started shouting "Assassin!" and "A moi!" "A moi!" but they sat on him and gagged him and tied him to the bed. They then got out their plank and successfully jumped over the road and got clean away. They were recaught, however, about four days afterwards, I don't remember how. At their court-martial they were complimented by the President on their escape, and were given the lightest possible punishment (about two months apiece, I think) for the numerous crimes they had committed. The Belgian general was brought up as a witness against them, but could say nothing without making himself a laughing-stock or worse! The other Englishmen at Fort 9 all lived in Room 42. They were Major Gaskell, Captain May, Captain Gilliland, Captain Batty Smith, Lieutenant Buckley, together with Lieutenant Bellison, a Frenchman, who spoke English with complete fluency, though with a bad accent. I know that when I first went to Ingolstadt they had some scheme on for tunneling out of the inner court through the rampart so as to come out half-way up the bank above the moat on the south side. It was a good idea, but never got very far, as the beginning of the tunnel was discovered by the Germans--without Room 42 being incriminated, however. I do not remember any time in Fort 9 when there was not some scheme or other in the English rooms for escaping, and we all occupied some hours nearly every day in perfecting our arrangements for escaping. There were several excellent maps in the fort, especially amongst the Frenchmen, and very many laborious hours were spent in copying these in different colored inks. Several people even made two or three copies, so as to be ready to try again immediately in the event of their being recaptured with a map in their possession. A certain amount of map copying was done by photography. Cameras were strictly prohibited, but there was at least one in the fort, which had got in I don't know how, and which did a lot of useful work. The Frenchmen in the fort were, as a whole, a most excellent lot of fellows, and the English and French were the very best of friends. Colonel Tardieu, the senior French officer, was one of the old school. "He thanked whatever gods there be for his unconquerable soul," and would have no truck with the Germans. He asked no favors from them, and would show no gratitude if they offered him any. He protested formally but vehemently against such insults as being asked to sit at the same table as the German officer who was guarding him on a railway journey. He said that eating at the same table was in a way a sign of friendship, and to ask a French colonel to eat with a German was an insult. I hear he was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment for this and many similar offenses. How could we all help having the greatest admiration for the unbending spirit of this man, who had his own rigid ideas of honor and lived up to them to the letter, in spite of a feeble body by no means fit to withstand the strain of continuous antagonism and physical discomfort? Commandant de Goys, who escaped from Germany a few months after I did, was in the French Flying Corps, and a very well-known man in it, I believe. At one time he had been sent by the French to reorganize the Turkish aviation corps, and told some amusing stories of his meetings with Germans there who were simultaneously reorganizing the Turkish army. He had escaped from some other camp in a clothes-basket, and had very nearly got across the Swiss frontier. He had a perfect mania for attempting to escape in baskets, and tried twice more at Ingolstadt. He was a good-looking, strongly made, athletic fellow of forty or thereabouts, and a great friend of Major Gaskell's. Through Major Gaskell I very soon got to know de Goys very well. Then there was Michel, a big fat man, whose father had been in a very high position in the French army but had retired just before the war. He was an extremely nice fellow, and very keen and quite good at games. He and Desseaux, also a charming fellow, were the best French hockey and tennis players in the fort. One of the most interesting people in the fort, and certainly the best read in French literature, was Decugis, the son of Colonel Decugis, who took some considerable part in the invention of the French 75 mm. gun. I gathered that he had led a pretty fast life before the war. He was a small dark fellow, very strong and wiry, and French to his finger-tips. He used to give me French lessons, and he learnt to talk English very quickly. Le Long, La Croix, and de Robiere and several others were nothing but children, and they were always in irrepressibly good spirits. They were great men at our fancy-dress balls, when they usually came marvelously got up as ladies of no reputation, with immense success. They were ready to attempt to escape, play the fool, or be a nuisance to the Germans at any time night or day with equal good humor. Room 39, where they lived a sort of hand-to-mouth existence, was always untidy and always noisy. They preferred it like that. Then there was a French colonial colonel and Moretti, both Corsicans. The colonel had been in command of the disciplinary battalion of the "Joyeux," that is to say, the French criminals who do their military service in Africa in a special military organization. You can well imagine that the colonel of the battalion, to which the most incorrigible cases are sent, is likely to be a pretty hard case himself. The French used to say that all Corsicans, as soon as they get a command of any sort, imagine themselves to be budding Napoleons. This was rather the case with the colonel. He had been badly hit on the head by a bit of shell, and was not always quite sane. He was a middle-sized man, very strong and active, with close-cropped hair and rugged face, and I am sure he would stick at absolutely nothing to gain his ends. He considered himself a great strategist (with regard to escaping at any rate), but it was Moretti who had the brains and ingenuity, as well as the skill to carry out the plans. Moretti was very short but wonderfully well made, with a round cheerful face and a funny little flat nose. He was always laughing or ragging some one. He and Buckley were inseparable companions in crime and stole oil, potatoes, coal, or wood together, keeping up a continuous flow of back-chat all the time. He had been an adjutant chef (sergeant-major) in a "Joyeux" battalion at the age of 28, which is extraordinarily young, considering that only the very best N.C.O.'s can be used for such work, and had won his commission in France. Having been employed for the eight years previous to the war in managing and outwitting the most ingenious criminals that exist when they tried to escape, he knew just about all there was to be known about stealing, cutting iron bars, picking locks, etc. He told wonderful stories of the doings of his "Joyeux" in France. He used to say they were the best troops in the world, and I believe they were extraordinarily good as _troupes d'assaut_. He told us how in the early days of the war 450 of his "Joyeux" had stormed a trench system and killed 600 Germans with their knives alone. That was at Maisonette, I think. He had some wonderful stories of the second battle of Ypres, where the Germans were driven back into the canal which they had crossed at Bixschoote, and were killed almost to a man. He saw more corpses there, he said, than at Verdun. When his "Joyeux" were billeted behind the lines, a special warning had to be sent to the inhabitants to lock up all their belongings. There were, of course, a number of other Frenchmen who helped us, and whom we helped at various times, and who practically without exception were our very good friends, but I think I have mentioned those with whom we came most in contact. Among the Russians there were several excellent fellows, but as a whole we did not find them very interesting. Curiously, few of them spoke any language but their own really well, and except for Oliphant, and afterwards Spencer, none of us spoke much Russian. They were very generous fellows, and whenever they did have any food, which was seldom, they used to give dinners and sing-songs. With regard to escaping, if you needed anything such as a leather coat or a greatcoat (the Russian greatcoat can, with little alteration, be turned into a very respectable German officer's greatcoat), you could be sure to get it as a gift or by barter from the Russians if they could possibly spare it. The difficulty of saying anything about them is added to by the fact that I cannot recall their real names. "Charley" was a very rough diamond, but as generous and kind-hearted a fellow as one could meet anywhere; he and Buckley were good friends. He spoke German perfectly and played hockey, so I also got to know him a bit better than most of the others. Lustianseff was a Russian aviator. He spoke French well, and used to teach me Russian. So did Kotcheskoff, a regular Hercules of a fellow, but mentally an absolute babe--a sort of Joe Gargery. He was universally liked, and continually had his leg pulled by the Frenchmen in de Goys' room, where he and Lustianseff lived. Kotcheskoff could talk English not much better than I could talk Russian; he also talked French and German very badly; consequently he and I could never manage much of a conservation with one another without the help of all four languages. There were, however, several Russians, real good fellows, whom I never got to know well. One of them had escaped from a camp with some friends, and had reached the frontier after walking for over thirty days. His friends had got across, but he had been recaptured. I heard a short time ago that he had escaped and had crossed the Swiss frontier at the same place as Buckley and I did. Our day at Fort 9 was regulated to a certain extent by _Appells_ or roll-calls. When I first went to Ingolstadt there were three _Appells_ a day--at 7 a.m., at 11.30 a.m., and between 4 and 7 in the evening, according to the time of year. After I had been there a month or so a fourth _Appell_ was added at 9 o'clock at night. After this fourth _Appell_, the door leading from each wing to the center of the fort was locked and bolted, so that the two wings were cut off from communication with each other. The 7 a.m. _Appell_ took place whilst we were still in bed. A German N.C.O. came round and flashed a torch in each of our faces or satisfied himself that we were all there. Immediately afterwards the great iron doors leading into the inner courtyards were opened. It was in these inner courtyards that we played hockey and tennis and football, and did our exercises, etc. The rules of the fort stated that the 11.30 _Appell_ should take place either in our rooms or in the outer courtyard, the place where it was being held when Kicq and I first arrived, at the discretion of the Commandant. As the feeling between the Germans and the prisoners became more and more bitter, the _Appell_ outside became really very exciting, and from the German point of view an almost intolerable performance. We always used to object to this outside _Appell_ owing to the nuisance of turning out and to the waste of time, as the Germans never managed to count us in less than half an hour. I will say that they had a pretty difficult task; we never stood still and gave them a fair chance, as the general spirit of Fort 9 was to be insubordinate and disobedient whenever possible, so the Germans more or less dropped this outside _Appell_ and only had it when the C.O. had some order or _Strafe_ to read out to the prisoners as a whole. If the Germans wished the 11.30 _Appell_ outside, they gave one ring on an electric bell which sounded in our passage, and if inside, two rings. As 11 a.m. was our usual time for breakfast, we used to listen for the second ring with some impatience. About ten minutes after the bell had rung for outside _Appell_ the greater part of the prisoners would congregate in the outer courtyard. They turned up in any sort of costume, smoking cigarettes and talking and shouting and laughing. In the courtyard on the far side of the moat a guard of some twenty or thirty Hun soldiers was drawn up, and on either side of the main gate stood eight or nine more villainous looking Bavarian soldiers with rifles and fixed bayonets. The C.O. usually kept us waiting for a minute or two, being perhaps under the delusion that we might get into some sort of order if we were given time. He came from the bureau through the main gate followed by his _Feldwebel_ (sergeant-major) and several N.C.O.'s, and, though the majority used to take no notice of him whatever, he was usually greeted by some confused shouting in four languages. By this time nine-tenths of the officers had ranged themselves very roughly five deep on the right-hand side of the main gate, which was immediately closed by a cordon of sentries. Several officers would continue to stroll about behind the ranks or wander from one part to another to talk to friends; and in several parts of the line, and especially at the English and French end of the line, little knots of men would hold animated discussions of the latest news. The front ranks stood firm, but the rear ranks paid little or no attention to the Germans. On the left of the gateway the orderlies were drawn up and stood in a fairly regular and silent mob, highly amused at the disorder in the ranks of the officers. The C.O. would stand in front for perhaps a couple of minutes, hoping vainly that things would calm down. He then saluted us formally. A few Frenchmen, and most Englishmen and Russians, who happened to be looking in that direction answered his salute. Then a scene something as follows used to take place. The C.O. called out, "Meine Herren," then louder, "Meine Herren, etwas Ruhe bitte." This had some small effect, though there would be one or two cries of "Comprends pas," "Parle pas Bosche," of which the Germans took no notice. One or two Englishmen whose breakfasts were getting cold would try to make the Frenchmen shut up, but only added to the noise. Two N.C.O.'s were then sent off to count us. One went along the front and one along the rear of the ranks trying to get the officers to stand in files of five. As the prisoners were continually moving about this looked an impossible task, but they eventually used to manage it, though they sometimes had to give up in despair and start again. As soon as this was over the numbers were reported to the _Feldwebel_, and two more N.C.O.'s were sent into the building to count the sick who had remained in their rooms, while we stood stamping our feet in the cold and waiting for them. Perhaps some Frenchman would call out to an Englishman, "Savez-vous combien de prisonniers Bosches les Anglais out pris hier?"--"Onze mille trois cent quatre vingt deux Bosches." A certain amount of laughter followed, and the ranks would break up more or less and start walking about and talking. After ten minutes' wait, the N.C.O.'s who had been counting the sick would return and give their counts to the _Feldwebel_. Sometimes the tally was right and sometimes wrong--if the latter, the whole thing had to be done over again, accompanied by cries of derision, contempt, and impatience from the prisoners. Very often the riot got so bad that the C.O., after glancing anxiously over his shoulder, beckoned the guard to come in to overawe us. The old Landsturm, as they came pouring through the gate over the moat, were greeted with hoots and yells. At the order of an N.C.O. they loaded--this had no effect on the Frenchmen, who laughed and ragged the C.O. and sentries in French and bad German. But why did the Germans never shoot? It is not difficult to understand. We had no reason to suppose that the Commandant was tired of life, and we knew that his _Feldwebel_ was an arrant coward; and the one thing quite certain was, that if the order to fire on us was given, the first thing we should do would be to kill the Commandant and the _Feldwebel_, and they knew it very well--and that was our safeguard. Many times during those outside _Appells_ at Fort 9 I was sure we were pretty close to a massacre--and the massacred would not have been confined to the prisoners. There were in that small courtyard only about forty armed Germans, all oldish men, and there were of us, counting the orderlies, nearly 200 extremely active men. We should have won easily--and the Germans knew it. At any time we wished, we could have taken that fort and escaped, though if we had, none of us would have got out of the country alive. You must understand then that the Germans did not tolerate this insubordination because they liked it or because they were too kind-hearted to fire, but because for the sake of their own skins they dared not give the order to fire. The prisoners, on the other hand, were prepared to risk a good deal for the sake of demonstrating how little they cared for German discipline, and for the sake of keeping up their own spirits, but most especially just for the fun of ragging the hated Bosche. Towards the end of my time at Ingolstadt, the Germans, as I have already said, only had _Appell_ outside when they had something to announce to the prisoners. In the momentary hush which usually occurred when we were expecting the Commandant to dismiss us, the _Feldwebel_ would step forward, produce a paper, and start to read in German. This was always the signal for a wild outcry--"Comprends pas!" "Assassin!" "Assassin!" (for, as I will show later, the _Feldwebel_ had good reason to be unpopular), "Parle pas Bosche!" "Can't understand that damned language," "Ne pomenaio!" (Don't understand) from a Russian, etc. The _Feldwebel_ would carry on, white with funk, till the end, when the C.O. would seize the first moment in which he could make himself heard to dismiss us with the words, "Appell ist fertig, meine Herren." If the cordon of sentries in front of the main gate happened to hear the dismissal, they got out of the light quickly; if not, they were brushed aside before they knew what was happening. Why no one ever got stuck with a bayonet I never could make out. So much for the 11.30 _Appell_. Very much more often than not it took place in our rooms. We carried on with our breakfasts or whatever we were doing, and an N.C.O., after giving a tap at the door, came in, made certain that every one was present, and went out again. Five minutes or so later the electric bell would ring, and _Appell_ was over. The doors into the inner courtyard were then opened again--they were always closed during _Appell_--and everything was done with the minimum of inconvenience to ourselves. The time of the next _Appell_ varied with the time of the year. It took place about half an hour before dark, and after it the doors into the inner courts were shut for the night, but the two wings were not locked off from one another till after the 9 o'clock _Appell_, when we were visited in our rooms in just the same way. Between 4 and 9 a sentry was left in the long passage in each of the wings. Poor chap! He used to have an uncomfortable time trying to stop us from stealing the lamps in the passage. After 9 o'clock he was withdrawn, and, as I have already said, the doors at the end of the passage were locked and we were left to our own devices. The above description of an outside _Appell_ is by no means an exaggeration. Certainly they were sometimes less rowdy, but not often. I remember one _Appell_ was taken by General Peters in person. General Peters was the C.O. of all the camps of Ingolstadt and appeared one morning with some special _Strafe_ or reprisal to read out to us. If I remember right, it had something to do with alleged ill-treatment of German officers in France. The General was not popular, and even more noise was made than usual. Just before the cordon was drawn across the door, a French captain walked down the whole front line carrying a chair and sat down throughout the _Appell_. When the _Feldwebel_ stood forward to read his document, he was greeted with the usual cries of "Assassin!" and "Parle pas Bosche!" and finished in a storm of howls which completely drowned his voice. The interpreter then proceeded to read a French translation, which was listened to with attention, the reading being merely punctuated by cheers and laughter and hoots at the interesting points. After the Russian shooting affair, which happened towards the end of our time at the fort, one Russian always used to turn up with a large Red Cross flag on a pole. When things began to get really exciting, I own I used to edge away from the flag, as I felt sure the Germans would fire their first volley into the group round it. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Lieutenant Medlicott, R.F.C., was later murdered by the Germans on his tenth attempt to escape.] CHAPTER IX CAPTORS AND CAPTIVES One morning just before _Appell_, a Frenchman came along the passage and announced in each room that Colonel Tardieu was not going out to _Appell_ that morning, and would be obliged if other officers would remain in their rooms when the bell went. We did not know exactly what the reason was, and I don't know now, but I think the Colonel had some right on his side--as much right as we usually had in Fort 9. Soon after this announcement a deputation of Russians waited on Major Gaskell to find out what the English intended to do. I may as well say here that Gaskell and most of the other Englishmen (myself included) did not altogether approve of this rowdyism on _Appell_, as we thought it might lead to serious restriction of our exercise and consequently of our chances of escaping, which was of course the only thing worth considering. As the Russian colonel insisted on acting as interpreter for the deputation, the discussion lasted a quarter of an hour before we understood that the Russians thought it would be better to go out, as they considered it probable that the Germans would treat our refusal as an organized mutiny. But they were, they said, prepared to follow our lead. Gaskell and I then went off to see Colonel Tardieu. The Colonel said that, though it was best for us to stick together, this case was a purely personal matter, and we could please ourselves--he could only say that he was not going out, and that the French would follow his lead. Gaskell and I determined to compromise by leaving the matter unsettled, but to go out ourselves to _Appell_ very late. In this way it was quite impossible for the Germans to prove organized mutiny against us, and equally impossible to hold _Appell_ outside--and the whole thing could easily be put down to mismanagement and the lack of clear orders on the part of the Germans. This was, in fact, just what happened. The Germans were furious, but we pointed out that they had given so many contradictory orders about _Appell_ that no one knew what they wanted. They soon saw that there was no case against us for organized mutiny and let the matter drop. The real trouble was that the Commandant was a man who was simply made to be ragged. A more unfortunate choice for a C.O. of a _strafe_ camp can scarcely be imagined. He was a short, thick-set, dark man, about fifty years old, with a large drooping moustache and an inclination to stoutness. His hair was rather long, and he wore pince-nez for reading. I think he had only been C.O. of Fort 9 for a few months when we first went there, but some of the prisoners had known him when he had been in command of another camp, and he then had the reputation for being a kindly and sympathetic commandant. But when we first knew him constant badgering had already soured his temper. He was rather like a schoolmaster whose form has got quite out of control, uncertain whether his boys were intending to be insolent or not. He never pretended to stand on his dignity--his appearance and behavior stamped him as an amiable shopkeeper cursed with occasional fits of violent temper. Then he laid himself open to be ragged so dreadfully. Although he knew little about the business of the fort and had to appeal to his _Feldwebel_ on almost every point, yet he insisted on attending personally to nearly every officer who came into the bureau. The _Feldwebel_ and two extremely efficient N.C.O.'s, known as Abel and the "Blue Boy," really managed the fort. This reminds me of a most amusing caricature of the _Feldwebel_ ordering the C.O. about, which was pinned up in a conspicuous place. I think a _Reclamation_ or official letter was sent in to General Peters, protesting against this state of affairs, for which the author got a few days' "jug." A few days' "jug" was just a farce. The cells were always full, and when you got your _Bestrafung_ you were put on a waiting list and did your period of solitary confinement from three to five months later. One angry Frenchman wrote a furious _Reclamation_ talking of justice and favoritism because Oliphant had been allowed to do a "slice of four days' jug" out of his turn on the list. A sheaf of _Reclamations_ (the word was pronounced in either German or French way) used to go in daily to General Peters on every conceivable subject, from serious grievances to humorous insults, from a protest against the filthy habits of Bavarian sentries to an accusation of poisoning a pet rabbit. Some men used to spend a great deal of their time writing _Reclamations_ conveying veiled insults to the Germans. It seemed to me rather a waste of time, but they caused a great deal of amusement. It was just like composing a sarcastically offensive letter to a Government department. Some of the results were really very humorous and witty, but I am afraid they were wasted on the Bosche, and I have no doubt they all went straight into Peters' wastepaper-basket--at any rate, I never heard of a _Reclamation_ having any effect except three days' "jug" for the author of the most offensive ones. When we first came to the fort we were told that some of the French had sworn an oath to drive the Commandant off his head. He was pretty far gone. Some of the Englishmen, chiefly Oliphant, Medlicott, and Buckley, with these Frenchmen, used to get an enormous amount of amusement by baiting the old fool. I remember once a conversation something as follows:-- _Frenchman._--"The German food you give us is very bad." _Commandant._--"Es tut mir sehr leid, aber----" _Frenchman._--"And it is impossible for any one but a Bavarian to eat it without wine." "Was meinen Sie, das dürfen Sie nicht sagen," answered the Commandant furiously. "Why won't you give us wine?" shouted the Frenchman. "You have got no right to speak to me like that." "And you don't know how to speak to a French officer; it's disgusting that when you give," etc. "Sofort aus dem Bureau gehen?" (Will you go out of the bureau?) Both start shouting simultaneously: "Why won't you give us wine?" "Aus dem Bureau ... I will report you to General Peters." "Je m'en fous de General Peters--I won't go out till you speak politely to a French officer." "Go out of this bureau immediately when I tell you to." "I won't go till you learn to speak politely to me." The Commandant then rushed at the telephone and pretended to wind the handle violently, but without really calling up at all. He put the instrument to his ear and said: "Herr General Peters. Are you there? I am Hauptmann L'Hirsch. There is a Frenchman in the office who won't go away. What shall I do?" Slight pause for Peter's reply. Then to the Frenchman in French: "The General says that you must leave the bureau immediately." "Did the General speak politely?" "Yes." "Eh bien je sors." I have already given a description of a scene which took place the first time I ever entered the bureau--and these sort of scenes used to happen daily and hourly. Whenever the Commandant lost his temper, which he did without fail every time, he threw his arms about, clenched his fists, gesticulated furiously, and shouted at the top of his voice. Soon after the Bojah affair, which I will describe later, when rows of this sort multiplied exceedingly, he was removed from the fort nothing less than a raving maniac with occasional sane intervals. In the court-martial which followed the Bojah case, the witnesses for the defense attempted to prove that the insane behavior of Hauptmann L'Hirsch was the main cause of all trouble in Fort 9. In an impartial court of justice, which this court-martial was not, I have not the smallest doubt that they would have succeeded in proving this, owing to L'Hirsch's behavior during the trial. The food given us by the Germans was not only very nasty, but there was not enough of it to keep a man alive. Perhaps this is an exaggeration, as I know that a man can keep alive, though weak, with very little food. But lack of food to this extent, combined with the hardships of a winter at Fort 9, would, I am sure, be enough to kill most strong men. Every day each man received a loaf of bread, shaped like a bun, about 4-1/2 inches across the bottom and 2 inches in depth. It was of a dirty brown color and, though unpleasant, it was eatable. Some even said they liked it. I don't know what it was made of, but I should think from the taste that rye, sawdust, and potatoes formed the ingredients, the latter predominating. It was sometimes very stodgy, and sometimes sour, but on the whole was better bread than we received either at Gütersloh or Clausthal. Later on, the size of the loaf was reduced by more than a third and the quality deteriorated very much, the percentage of sawdust and other unpleasant ingredients being much increased. We never ate it unless we were very hard up, but, if left for a few days, it became as hard as a brick and was most useful as a firelighter. I remember an officer telling us that when he was a prisoner at Magdeburg in the early days of the war, the English prisoners had started playing rugger in the exercise yard with a piece of bread that had dropped in the mud. There was a terrible scene of indignation and excitement among the Germans. The guard turned out--fixed bayonets--charged--rescued the loaf--arrested every one, and I don't remember what happened after that, but all the criminals were severely punished. It must have been terrible to have been a prisoner in those early days. I heard hundreds of stories from the poor devils who were caught in 1914. Some of these stories were funny, some were filthy, that is to say, funny to a German mind, and some were enough to make a man swear, as many have sworn, never to speak to a German in peace time and never to show mercy to one in war.[2] Besides this ration of bread, we were given a small basin of soup daily--it was just greasy hot water with some vegetable, nearly always cabbage, in it. The amount of meat we received used to provide each of us with one helping of meat once every ten days. Two or three times during my stay at Ingolstadt I remember the meat was quite good, and, if it was eatable at all, we enjoyed it enormously, as fresh meat was such a welcome change after the tinned food which we ate continually. Usually, however, it was impossibly tough, and sometimes merely a piece of bone and gristle. We tried keeping it for several days, but it always got high before it got tender. At the end of my time there, when Moretti had been elected chef of Room 42, we always used to make soup from it. Moretti used it five times for soup before he would throw it away, and announced, as he put the soup on the table, "La première," or "La troisième séance," or "La cinquième et dernière séance," whichever it was. The Germans also gave us a certain amount of perfectly undrinkable acorn coffee, and sugar at the rate of about two lumps per man per day. Sometimes they gave us some very nasty beans and sometimes some really horrible dried fish--I think it was haddock. It was very salt, and stank so that we used always to throw it away immediately--we simply could not stand it in the room. Room 39 used to hang all their fish outside the window during the cold weather--a revolting sight. It was their reserve rations, they said. Some of the Russians managed to eat their fish, and I believe there was a French room which had a special method of treating it, but it was generally voted uneatable throughout the fort. About one moderate sized potato per day per head concluded the food rations. This may seem a fairly generous allowance of food, even if it was not of very high quality, but in reality it was very little indeed. A day's rations would work out something as follows: one potato, one small plateful of hot-water soup, one cup acorn coffee, one lump of sugar, two mouthfuls of fish, one mouthful of meat, four or five beans, and the loaf of bread. If any one thinks he can live on that, I should like him to try for a few months in cold weather. We had not many luxuries and comforts in Fort 9, and we did look forward to and enjoy the good things to eat that came from home. It is only people who have never been hungry who can pretend to be indifferent about food--that is to say, if they are well and in hard training as we were. The arrival of the parcel cart was hailed with enormous enthusiasm. I think our people at home would have been well repaid for all the trouble they took in packing the parcels if they could have seen the pleasure it gave us receiving them. Excitement reached a high pitch when we knew that a map or compass was hidden in one of the parcels. All the work of the fort--cleaning, cooking, emptying dust-bins, etc.--was done by French and Russian orderlies under the orders of German N.C.O.'s, and when our parcels came they were taken out of the cart and wheeled in on a hand-cart from the outside courtyard to the packet office. There they were sorted by Abel, a German N.C.O., with the help of a French orderly. When this had been done, usually the day after the arrival of the parcels, a list was put up of those who had received any, just inside the main gateway, on the official notice board. The giving out of the _paquets_ was a pretty lengthy process, as each was opened by Abel or an assistant Hun and carefully searched. Each wing alternately was served first, and an orderly warned each room when the parcels for that room would be given out. This prevented there being a long queue of officers waiting outside the _paquet_ office. A sentry stood outside the door and admitted three officers at a time. A couple of yards inside the door there was a counter right across the room, and on the far side two German N.C.O.'s stood, each armed with a knife and a skewer--the first for opening the parcels, the latter for probing the contents for forbidden articles. You signed for your parcels and paid 5 Pf. or 10 Pf. for the cost of carting them up. The Germans, after showing you the address on the outside, cut them open and examined the contents, sometimes minutely and sometimes carelessly. Abel was an oily little brute, very efficient; we hated him and he hated us with a bitter hatred--not without reason on both sides. I think he hated the French more than he did the English, but he hated Medlicott more than all the rest put together. About two months before I left Fort 9 a rumor went round, to the intense joy of every one, that Abel was under orders for the West Front, and we all wished him luck, and he knew what we meant. Abel was just a bit too clever, and consequently got done in the eye sometimes; but I must own that he had a tremendous amount of work to do and did it very quickly and efficiently. His very capable assistant was the "Blue Boy," whose chief job was to lurk about the fort and try and catch us out. He was always standing in dark corners and turning up unexpectedly. It was his job to tap the bars of our windows with a sledge hammer every three days, and he took an active part in the pursuit if any one escaped. He was not so clever as Abel, but he had more time for spying and was more persistent. It always seemed to me to be worth keeping on fairly decent terms with these two. It was only necessary to refrain from being offensive to be on better terms than most people in the fort. It was very different with that swine of a _Feldwebel_. He never walked about without a revolver in his pocket, and he never came alone down any dark passage; "et il avait raison," as the French said, as he had several pretty narrow shaves with brickbats as it was. At one time those tins and jars, such as butter, jam, quaker-oats, which had been packed and sealed in a shop, were passed over to us unopened, and only home-made and home-packed articles were examined. Later on, however, everything had to be turned out on a plate and the Germans kept the tin. Although very nearly all our parcels arrived eventually, they used to come rather irregularly, and several times as many as twenty to thirty parcels would arrive for the six of us who were in one room. Consequently, if all the food had been opened immediately, much of it would have gone bad before we could eat it. To obviate this difficulty, the Germans made shelves in the parcel office, and each room or mess could leave there the food which it did not need for the moment. At first sight it would seem that this arrangement would make the smuggling through of forbidden goods almost impossible, or at any rate that our difficulties would be greatly increased. In reality the business was simplified. As long as we knew in which tin or small package the map, compass, or what-not was coming, we could make fairly certain, by methods which I shall describe later, of getting it without it ever being opened by the Germans. After _Appell_ all the fort except the English had dinner. This was the hour when the potato, wood, oil, and coal stealing fatigues did their duty. For some weeks our French orderly used to steal potatoes for us as we needed them. He knew the ropes very well, as he had been in the fort for more than a year. One day, however, he said that this stealing in small quantities was a mistake, and that it would be safer to have one big steal once a month or so. Four of us, under the leadership of Carpentier, stole eight small sacks without much difficulty. It was just a matter of knowing the habits of our jailers and timing it accurately. The Germans were not so suspicious in those days as they became later. There was a small trap-door 6 feet up the wall in the central passage, which Carpentier knew how to open. He got in, filled the bags, and passed them out to us. To carry the full bags back to our rooms we had to pass under the eyes of a sentry. But that is just the best of a German sentry. He had had no orders to spot prisoners carrying bags, and he had also no imagination, so he took no notice. Between the hours of twelve and two we did our lessons. From two till four we played hockey or tennis. Tea was at four, when some Frenchmen usually came in to see us. _Appell_ took place and the doors of the courtyards were shut about half an hour before sunset. After this _Appell_, till the evening _Appell_ at nine o'clock, a sentry was left in our passage; but we could still communicate with the other wing. Bridge, reading, lessons, lectures, and preparation for dinner took place during this period. The great amusement was lamp-stealing. During the winter the Germans allowed us, as we thought, a totally insufficient supply of oil, which only enabled us to burn our lamps for four hours out of the twenty-four. This meant going to bed at nine, which was of course ridiculous. The gloomy passages of the fort were mainly lit by oil lamps, and from these we used to steal the oil systematically. After a month or two the Germans realized that this was going on and reduced the number of lamps, and in the long passage where it was obviously impossible to stop us stealing oil they put acetylene lamps. Two lamps to a passage 70 yards long was not a generous allowance. Between 5 and 9 p.m. the sentry in the passage had special orders, a loaded rifle, and a fixed bayonet, to see that these lamps were not stolen. As all the sentries had been stuffed up by the _Feldwebel_ with horrible stories about the murderous and criminal characters of the prisoners, it is not surprising that each sentry showed the greatest keenness in preventing us from stealing the lamps and leaving him, an isolated Hun, in total darkness and at the mercy of the prisoners. As any man came out of his room and passed one of the lamps, which were on brackets about 7 feet from the ground, the sentry would eye him anxiously and hold himself in readiness to yell "Halt!" and charge up the passage. The lamps were about 30 yards apart, and someone would come up, walk up to a lamp, and stop beneath it--the sentry would advance on him, and when he was sufficiently attracted, the officer would take out his watch and look at it by the light of the lamp. Meanwhile a second officer would come quickly out of his room and take down the other lamp. As soon as the sentry perceived this he would immediately charge, with loud yells of "Halt! Halt!" but as he turned both lamps would be blown out simultaneously, and the officers would disappear into their respective rooms, leaving the passage in total darkness. The amusing part was that this used to happen every night, and the sentries knew it was going to happen; but against tactics of this sort, varied occasionally, of course, but always ending with the lights being blown out simultaneously, they were quite powerless! The evening, after the sentry had been withdrawn at 9 p.m., was spent in the ordinary occupations of gambling, reading, tracing maps, making German uniforms and pork-pie caps, with occasional fancy-dress balls or impromptu concerts. Sometimes mysterious lights would be seen in odd corners of the passage, where someone was industriously working at making a hole through the wall, removing the blocks of stone noiselessly one by one; and sometimes one would run up against a few men round a wonderful structure of tables and chairs in the middle of the passage, where someone was climbing up the skylight to inspect the sentries on their beats on the top parapet, but usually all was peace and quiet till about 11 p.m. At that hour the sentries were supposed to make us put out the lights in our rooms, but when they found that we paid little or no attention to repeated cries of "Licht ausmachen," and as there was no method, short of firing through the bars into a lighted bedroom, to make us put them out, they eventually gave up these attempts, and, except for an occasional very offensive or conscientious sentry, we put out our lamps or candles when we wished. [Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF FORT 9 INGOLSTADT] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 2: The Germans varied their treatment of their prisoners inversely with their prospects of victory. When things were going badly with them--during most of 1916, for instance--much unnecessary harshness towards their prisoners was relaxed. When once more their hopes of final victory were raised by the invasion of Roumania and the checking of the Somme offensive, the poor prisoners had a rough time. Such is the way with bullies.] CHAPTER X ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE When we had been a few days at the fort, and had had time for a good look round, Room 45 formed themselves into an escaping club. That is to say, our ideas and discoveries would be common property. If possible, we would all escape together; but if the way out was only for two or three, the rest would help those selected to go to the best of their ability. It was universally agreed that Fort 9 was the toughest proposition that any of us had yet struck. The difficulty was not so much the material obstacles, but the suspicious nature of the Germans. Medlicott and Oliphant, as the most experienced prison-breakers, came to the conclusion that it was absolutely necessary to have more accurate knowledge of the numbers, positions, and movements of the sentries on the ramparts and round the moat at night than we already possessed. For this purpose it was decided that one of us must spend a night out. It was no job to be undertaken lightly. It meant a fifteen-hours' wait on a freezing night. For the first three and the last three hours of this time it would be almost impossible to move a muscle without discovery. And discovery meant a very excellent chance of being stuck with a bayonet. Besides this, there were two _Appells_ to be "faked"--the _Appell_ just before sunset and the early morning one. There was no _Appell_ at 9 o'clock in those days. Our rooms were separated from one another by 3-foot thick walls, but in these walls were archways leading from one room to the other. These archways were blocked up by boarding, and formed recesses in each room which were usually employed as hanging-cupboards for clothes, coats, etc. Under cover of these we cut a couple of planks out of the wooden barrier and made a hole so a man could slip through quickly from one room to the other. These planks could be put back quickly, and it would have needed a pretty close examination to have discovered where the board was cut, once pictures had been pasted over the cracks and coats had been hung up in front. There was some difficulty at first in obtaining the necessary tools for the work. The first plank we cut through with a heated table-knife, but for the second one we managed to steal a saw from the German carpenter who was doing some work in one of the rooms, and return it before he missed it. It must not be forgotten that there was absolutely no privacy in the fort, and that a sentry passed the window and probably stared into the room every minute or two. A special watch had to be kept for him, and you had to be prepared at any moment to look as if you were doing something quite innocent. Room 43 was inhabited by Frenchmen, but as usual in Fort 9 they were quite willing to help us. We practiced the trick many times till every one was perfect in his part. The rehearsals were most amusing. One of us pretended to be Abel doing _Appell_. First he tapped at the door of 43 and counted the men in the room, shut the door and walked about 7 paces to the next door, tapped and entered. Between the time Abel shut one door till the time he opened the next, six to eight seconds elapsed. During those seconds it was necessary for the Frenchman to slip through the hole, put on a British warm (we lived in coats in the cold weather), and pretend to be Oliphant. Abel knew every man by sight in every room; but, as long as he saw the requisite number of officers in each room, he did not often bother to examine their faces. After we had done it successfully, several other rooms adopted the method, and the "faking" was done a very large number of times before the Germans discovered it four months later. The early morning _Appell_ was really easier. For several mornings the fellow in the bed nearest the hole made a habit of covering his face with the bed-clothes. Abel soon got used to seeing him like that, and, if he saw him breathing or moving, did not bother to pull the clothes off his face. The Frenchman had simply to run from his bed, bolt through the hole and into the bed in our room, cover up his face, and go through the motions of breathing and moving his legs sufficiently but without overdoing it. All this had been practiced carefully beforehand. We had, of course, enormous fun over these preparations, stealing the saw and cutting the planks, pretending to be Abel doing _Appell_, and all the time dodging the sentry at the window. This sort of amusement may seem childish, but it was the only thing which made life tolerable at Fort 9. We cast lots as to which one of us was to sleep out. It fell to Oliphant. I own I breathed a sigh of relief, as I did not relish the job. The next thing to do was to hide him outside on the ramparts. The place was selected with great care, and was behind one of the traverses up on the ramparts on the south side, for our idea was for some or all of us to hide up there and swim the moat on the south side one dark night. Medlicott and Milne dug a grave for him, whilst Fairweather and I kept watch. Just before the _Appell_ bell went we buried him and covered him with sods and grass. Of course he was very warmly clad, but he had a pretty beastly night in front of him, as it was freezing at the time. It was about 4.30 p.m. when he was covered up, and he would not get back to our room and comparative warmth till 8.15 next morning, when the doors were opened. The evening _Appell_ went off splendidly, but the night was brighter than we had hoped, and we were rather anxious about him. There was some anxiety also about the morning _Appell_, as we could not be quite certain which way Abel would take the _Appell_, up or down the passage: that is to say, which room, 42 or 43, would he come to first? It made all the difference to our arrangements. By careful listening we found out which way he was coming, and when he poked our substitute, who groaned and moved in the oft-rehearsed manner, we nearly killed ourselves with suppressed laughter. About an hour afterwards, just as we were going out to cover his retreat, Oliphant suddenly walked in, very cold and hungry but otherwise cheerful. He had had quite a successful night, and had gained pretty well all the information we wished for. The bright moon had prevented him from crawling about very much, but he had seen enough for us to realize that it would be a pretty difficult job to get through the sentries and swim the moat even on a dark night. Although we temporarily abandoned this scheme, owing in the first place to the difficulties which we only realized after Oliphant's expedition, and secondly because "faking" _Appell_ was a very chancy business for more than two people, we nevertheless made the most careful preparations to escape at the first possible opportunity. Several schemes were broached. One of these schemes I always considered a good one. In the low and flat country in which the fort was situated very thick fogs used to come down quite suddenly. As soon as it became foggy all the prisoners had to come into the fort and the doors of the courtyards were shut. Our idea was either to wait outside carefully hidden when the order was given to come in, or to have some method of getting into the courtyard in foggy weather; in either case we thought it would not have been a difficult business to cross the narrow moat on the north side during a fog in the day time. At night time there were sentries in the courtyards and on the ramparts, as well as three in front of our windows. In the day time there were none in the courtyards or on the ramparts, and only one in front of our windows. The difficulty was to get into the courtyards after we had been locked up. I climbed up a ventilator several times to see if it were not possible to cut our way out there, but the more one went into the details the more difficult it seemed. In the meantime we went on with our preparations: map-copying (which was Fairweather's department), rations and equipment (of which Medlicott and Oliphant were in charge), intelligence department as to movements of sentries and habits of Huns (which was my job). Boots, socks, grease, home-made rücksacks, concentrated food and the correct amount of meat and biscuits for a ten days' march, maps, compasses, the route to follow, and numerous other details were carefully prepared, and the material hidden. We thought that it was unlikely that a larger party than four would be able to go, and Medlicott, Oliphant, Fairweather, and myself were selected to be the first party to try if anything turned up. The next bit of excitement was the escape of Kicq and party. This happened when we had been in the fort about a month. Early on Kicq had left Room 45 and gone into a French room, 41. One afternoon he asked me if I would help him to escape, which I agreed to do. His idea was to dress up as a German N.C.O., and with six Frenchmen and a Belgian named Callens to bluff themselves out of the main gate at about 6.30 in the evening. The scheme seemed to me almost impossible--but Kicq was enthusiastic about it, and persuaded me that it would probably come off, if only because it was so improbable that any one would attempt such a thing. There were three sentries and three gates and a guardhouse to pass, and the real danger was that, if they passed the first sentry and gate and were stopped in front of the second, they would be caught in the outer courtyard at the tender mercy of two angry sentries, and in my opinion would stand an excellent chance of being stuck with a bayonet. However, Kicq realized that as well as I did; and, as it is for every man to judge the risks he cares to take, I promised to do my part, which was quite simple. About 6 p.m. I went into Room 41, and there they were all dressing up and painting their faces, etc., as if for private theatricals. Kicq was excellent as a German Unteroffizier. He had made a very passable pork-pie cap, of which the badge in front is very easy to imitate by painted paper. He had a dark overcoat on to which bright buttons, which would pass in the dark as German buttons, had been sewn, and he had a worn-out pair of German boots which had been given to one of the orderlies by a German. Some of the others had on the typical red trousers--but any sort of nondescript costume will do for a French orderly. They were timed to go as soon after 6.30 p.m. as the road was clear, and it was my job to give the signal. I was pleased to be able to report that I had never seen the sentry, who was on duty at the main gate, before, and it was most unlikely that he knew any of their faces. I stood about opposite the packet office, and Abel came along the passage and went in. Looking through the keyhole I saw that he was busy in there near the door and might come out at any moment. I reported this, and the whole party came and stood in the dark turning of the passage by the bathroom, from where they could watch me peering through the packet office keyhole. At last I saw Abel sit down at his table and begin writing, so I gave the signal. Immediately a whole troop of French orderlies, carrying mattresses, blankets, and bedding on their heads, came clattering down the passage, laughing and talking to one another in French. A German N.C.O. was among them, and as he went along he collided with a German-speaking Russian, a great friend of ours known as Charley, who naturally cursed his eyes out in German. Kicq took no notice, but going just ahead of his orderlies he cursed the sentry at the main gate for not opening the door more quickly for them, and stood aside counting them as they went out. One fellow came running down the passage a bit after the others--Kicq waited for him and then went out after them, and the door closed. I waited most anxiously for any noise which would show that things had gone wrong. But after ten minutes it seemed certain that they had got clear away. After half an hour of subdued rejoicing in the fort, for by that time the story had gone round, we suddenly heard an awful commotion among the Huns. The guards were turning out at the double, clutching their rifles amid a regular pandemonium of shouts and orders, and the roar of the Commandant could be heard above the tumult. We turned out into the passages to see the fun. The C.O. was raving like a maniac. The minute he caught sight of us laughing at him he brandished his fists and shouted at us to go to our rooms. Oliphant and I started to argue that the bell had not gone and therefore we need not go to our rooms, but he told off a sentry, who drove us back at the point of the bayonet, Oliphant protesting in his worst German, "Sie dürfen nicht so sprechen mit ein English Offizier." We cheered like mad and sang the Marseillaise and "On les aura"--in fact, celebrated the occasion to the best of our ability. What happened as soon as the party got outside the first door, Kicq told me afterwards. The second obstacle they had to pass was the gate which barred the roadway over the moat. This the sentry opened for them without a word, whilst Kicq trod on his toes to distract his attention. As they passed the guardhouse in the outer court several men came out and shouted at them, but they were unarmed, and Kicq & Co. paid no attention. The outer gate consists of a double door which they knew would pull open without being unlocked, once the bar was removed. They got the bar off and tore open the gate, and found a sentry waiting for them with a rifle and fixed bayonet outside. "Wer kommt dann hier?" said he. Kicq was out first, and holding up his hand said, "Ruhig, einer ist los!" (Be quiet, a prisoner has got away), and rushed past him into the darkness. Without giving the sentry time to recover his wits, the rest pushed past, throwing their mattresses, etc., on the ground at his feet, and disappeared. Kicq and Decugis went on together for a bit, thinking that the rest must have been held up and expecting to hear shots. Then they saw other figures moving near them in the darkness and thought at first they were Germans searching, but found they were the rest of the party. It was not for some minutes afterwards that the alarm was given; but the whole party, after nearly running into a sentry on a neighboring fort, managed to get away from their pursuers. After a terribly hard eleven days' march they were all caught near the frontier. It was in the middle of winter, and they suffered most dreadfully from cold and bad feet. All of them, with the exception of Kicq and Callens, had gone out (according to English ideas of escaping) very badly prepared for such a journey at that time of year. They had quite insufficient food (though they had opportunities of carrying out any amount), insufficient socks, grease, and numerous other things. They also lost their way rather badly the first two nights. Then Kicq took charge, and the latter part of the journey they went by the same route which Buckley and I afterwards followed. None of them had thought of going into proper training, and to have reached the frontier under such conditions was a wonderful feat of endurance. They were in a terrible condition when they were caught. When within 70 kilometres of the frontier, just north of Stockach, they separated, the Frenchmen going on together and making a forced march of 60 kilometres in one night, and the Belgians coming on in their own time. Both parties were caught on the same day and about the same time; the Frenchmen because they got into a country close to the frontier where they could find no decent place to lie up, and, as there was a light fall of snow, their tracks were traced. The Belgians were caught in a very unlucky manner. Their hiding-place was excellent, but on a Sunday the Germans usually go out shooting, and a shooting party came on them. A dog came up and sniffed at them, and then an old German with a gun stared into the bush and said, "Es ist ein Fuchs" (It's a fox). They soon found it was not a fox, and Kicq and Callens were hauled out. The Würtembergers treated them very well indeed, and said they were almost sorry they had captured them, as they had made such a sporting effort, or words to that effect. They were escorted back to the fort by a very decent Würtemberg officer, who was furious with the Commandant when he laughed and jeered at them for being recaptured. "Well," said Kicq in excellent German to the Commandant, "if you leave all the gates open, how are prisoners to know that they are not allowed to go out that way?" The Würtemberg officer remarked, as he said good-bye to them outside, that "the Prussians were brutes, but the Bavarians were swine." Which remark seems to me very much to the point. All the party, with the exception of a very young Frenchman called La Croix, had painful and swollen feet, and all without exception were ravenously hungry for a week or more after they had been returned to prison. One of them retired to hospital for several weeks, and I believe that there was a danger at one time that he would lose his feet owing to frost-bite. However, they healed in time. As far as I remember they received no special punishment for this escape. They probably got five days' "jug," each, but, as I have explained before, this was a mere farce. Each of the three sentries whom they had passed got three months--and I don't imagine that was any farce at all for the unfortunate sentries. During the spell of fine weather which we had before the winter set in, Medlicott and Buckley joined forces and made an attempt to escape by a method which, in my opinion, was as unpleasant and risky as any which was attempted in Fort 9. With the help of the Commandant de Goys they persuaded some French orderlies to wheel them out concealed in the muck and rubbish boxes. We buried them one afternoon beneath potato peel and muck of every description, heaved the boxes on to a hand-cart, and then from the top of the ramparts watched four orderlies escorted by a sentry wheel them out to the rubbish-heap about 200 yards from the fort. In the boxes they were lying on sacking, so that when the box was upset the sacking would fall over them. We saw the first box upset apparently successfully, but as they were about to deal with the second, which contained Medlicott, there was a pause. The sentry unslung his rifle, and it was obvious to us that they had been discovered. Buckley's account of what happened was as follows:-- "At about 4.45 Medlicott and I proceeded to where the boxes stood, and after some of the rubbish had been taken out we were thrust into its place by the willing hands of Evans, Milne, Fairweather, and Oliphant, and covered up again with rubbish. In due course the orderlies arrived, the boxes were loaded on to the cart, and the 'procession' started. All seemed to be going extremely well as far as I could judge from my uncomfortable position; the sentry was picked up at the guardhouse, and I heard with joy the gate of the fort being unlocked to let the party out. The orderlies stopped the cart at the rubbish-heap (or rather some hundred yards short of it, as we found out afterwards, our combined weight having made farther progress in the snow impossible), and started to unload the box in which I was concealed. As instructed, they unloaded us as far away from the sentry as possible. I felt my box taken off the cart and turned over. I lay still, and seemed to be well covered with rubbish and to be unnoticed. I heard Medlicott's box unloaded alongside of me, but just as this was being completed I felt some one tugging at the Burberry I was wearing, a corner of which was showing from under the rubbish. "It had been arranged previously that if either of us was discovered the one discovered first was to give himself up at once and endeavor to conceal the presence of the other. I lay still for a few seconds, but as the tugging continued, I concluded the game was up and I stood up, literally covered in sackcloth and ashes. I must have looked a fairly awe-inspiring sight, and I evidently caused some alarm in the noble breast of a German civilian who had come to hunt the rubbish heap for scraps of food and clothing, and who evidently thought he had discovered a gold mine in the shape of a Burberry which he had been trying to pull off my back for the last few minutes. Anyway, he retired with some speed to a safe distance! The sentry, who up to the time of my getting up had noticed nothing wrong, at this point began to perform rifle exercise in the close proximity of my person, and generally to behave in an excited and dangerous manner. Then followed for the next few minutes the unpleasant and, alas! far too frequent experience of staring down the muzzle of a German rifle, held as it seemed with remarkable steadiness in spite of the excitement of the man behind it. The guard, whose attention had been attracted by the combined shouts of the civilian and the sentry, next appeared on the scene at the double. They were cold, hungry, and excited, to say the least of it. "Having failed to convince my sentry that I was alone and that there was nobody under the other heap of rubbish, I warned Medlicott of the guard's approach and advised him to get up. This he did, and was at once set upon by the oncoming Landsturm, who really looked as if they meant to do him in. After a considerable show of hate, in which I received a hefty clout over the knee with the butt of a rifle, we were marched back to the fort. A wild and disorderly scene followed between Medlicott, the German Commandant, and myself, of which I have a very vivid recollection. It ended by my being ejected by force from the Commandant's office, but not before both Medlicott and I had either concealed our valuable maps and compasses or had passed them unobserved into the hands of the willing friends who had come to see the fun." Soon after the recapture of Kicq and party, the moat froze over, and though the Germans for several days were able to keep it broken by going round in a boat every day, they at last had to give it up. It was rather hard to get any conclusive proof as to whether the ice would bear or not, but one evening, after testing the ice with stones, we decided that if there was a frost that night we, that is to say, Oliphant, Medlicott, Milne, Fairweather, Wilkin, and myself, would run over the south rampart and across the ice just before the evening _Appell_. We made complete preparations, and every one had ten days' rations and everything else necessary for a march in winter to the frontier. However, it never came off, as at morning _Appell_ next day the Commandant informed us that the doors into the inner courtyards would not be opened again until the moat thawed. This was rather a blow, because I felt sure that if we had only had the courage to try, the ice would have borne us the evening before. About this time, or perhaps rather earlier, there were one or two attempts to escape on the way to the dentist. Du Sellier and another Frenchman and Fairweather were all booked to go one afternoon to the dentist at Ingolstadt. They went under escort, and if they could delay matters so as to return in the darkness it would be the simplest thing in the world to get away. However, they made an awful mess of things, and though they came back in the dark, owing to good procrastination by Fairweather, only Du Sellier got away, and the other Frenchmen knocked up the sentry's rifle as he fired. This was a badly managed business, as all three men ought to have been able to escape from a single sentry in the dark. Du Sellier did not get very far, as the weather was very cold and he was insufficiently prepared. Being alone too was a great handicap. His feet got very bad and he had practically to give himself up, or at any rate to take quite absurd risks after being three or four days out, and was recaptured. The real risks were taken by Fairweather and the other Frenchman, and I don't quite know how they failed to get "done in" by an enraged sentry. Another rather ingenious but still more unsuccessful attempt was made on the way to the dentist by Frenchmen. The idea was to go into one of those large round urinals which are fairly common in French and German towns. Inside they did a very rapid change, put on false beards, spectacles, etc., and walked out at the other end. Unfortunately the sentry recognized them. In what I have written and intend to write it must not be imagined that I am giving an exhaustive account of all that happened at Fort 9. I can give a fairly detailed account of the main incidents of my own prison career, but even this is not chronologically correct. Otherwise, I can only note a certain number of incidents and stories which will help to illustrate the sort of life we led in this prison. Most of these incidents have to do with escaping or attempting to escape. But it must not be imagined that this is the only thing we ever did or thought about. It was our work, so to speak. Just as at the front, whilst fighting is the main business, soldiers nevertheless manage to amuse themselves pretty well behind the line in rest billets by sports, gambling, sing-songs, and dinners, so with us, whilst escaping was the main object in life, a large part of our time was taken up with lessons in languages, most vigorous games of hockey and tennis, poker and bridge, cooking and eating food, dancing and music, reading the German papers and discussing the war news (we were pretty good at reading between the lines), and attending lectures which were given nearly every night on subjects varying from aviation to Victor Hugo. After a week or so of hard frost a thaw set in, the ice melted on the moat, and we were again let out into the courtyards. Hockey started once more, and we had some very good games. Some time before this Oliphant's sentence had come through, and he was sent off to Wesel for six months' imprisonment in a fortress; as a punishment, I believe, for attempting to escape, and for things incidental to escaping, such as cutting wire and having maps and other forbidden articles in his possession. When it started to freeze again, I thought of the last time and determined not to miss another opportunity. One morning after testing the ice by throwing stones from the top of the bank I determined to make the attempt that evening. The _Appell_ bell went about 5 p.m., and about 5.30 it became dark. My idea was to start as the _Appell_ bell went, believing that they would not be able to catch us before the darkness came down. We had to run down a steep bank on to the ice, about 40 yards across the ice, and then 200 yards or so through one or two trees before we could put a cottage between ourselves and the sentries. There was certain to be some shooting, but we reckoned that the sentries' hands would be very cold, as at 5 p.m. they would have been at their posts for just two hours, and they were armed with old French rifles, which they handled very badly. Wilkin agreed to come with me, and Kicq, when he heard what was up, said he would like to come too. He had always a surprising faith in me. He had scarcely recovered from his last escape, but although he was not very fit, he was, or would have been, a great asset to the party, as he knew the way. This was especially valuable as our maps at that time were only copies of copies, and consequently not very accurate. The plan was to carry out rücksacks and other equipment nearly to the top of the south bank and hide behind one of the traverses just under the path. From there we should be hidden from the prying eyes of the sentry on the center "caponnière." The 5 p.m. _Appell_ bell was the signal for two parties, one headed by Major Gaskell and one by Captain Unett,[3] to distract the attention of the two sentries by throwing stones on to the ice. We would then seize our opportunity and rush down the bank, and we hoped to be most of the way across the ice before the firing began. The question which really was causing us some anxiety was, "Would the ice bear?" I felt confident it would. Wilkin said he was beastily frightened, but he had made up his mind to come and he would go through with it. Kicq said that, if I thought it would bear, he was quite content, and I really believe that the matter did not worry him in the least. It would have been a very unpleasant business if the ice had broken, as, with the heavy clothes we had on, I doubt if we could have got out again. Still, any one who lets his mind dwell too much on what may happen will never escape from any prison in Germany. Our equipment was pretty complete. I had very thick underclothes, two sweaters, a thick leather flying coat and a tunic, and socks over my boots so as not to slip when running across the ice. The others were dressed much the same, except that Kicq had a cap which had been stolen by Oliphant from the Commandant. He said it might come in useful in impersonating a German N.C.O. conducting two English prisoners. In our rücksacks we had ample rations for a ten days' march and enough solidified alcohol for at least one hot meal per diem. We managed to get our bags and coats up into the jumping-off place without being seen by the sentry and without much difficulty. I remember walking across the courtyard about 4.30 with Gilliland, picking up stones for him to throw at the ice. I think he was more nervous about it than we were: as is often the case, this sort of thing is more of a strain on the nerves for the onlookers than for those actually taking part. We were all in our places and in our kit, with our sacks on our backs, a few minutes before five. Whilst we were waiting for the bell to go, there were several prisoners walking up and down the path in front of us, along the top of the rampart. Of course they took absolutely no notice of us, except one Frenchman who spoke to us without looking round and assured us that the ice would not bear--a cheerful thing to say under the circumstances. "Mais oui, vous allez voir," we answered. It was a bad five minutes waiting there. Then the bell went, and almost immediately I heard laughter and shouting and the noise of stones falling on the ice. Then we jumped up and bolted over the path and down the slope. I was slightly ahead of the other two, and when I got to the bottom of the steep bank I gave a little jump on to the ice, hoping it would break at the edge rather than in the middle if it were going to break at all. But it bore all right, and I shuffled across at a good speed. About half-way over I heard repeated and furious yells of "Halt!" followed soon afterwards by a fair amount of shooting, but I have no idea how many shots were fired. I was soon up the bank on the far side, through a few scattered trees, and over the frozen stream by a plank bridge. Then I looked back. The others were only just clambering up the bank from the moat and were a good 100 yards behind me. What had happened was this. I had made a small jump on to the ice, thus avoiding the rotten edge. The other two did not, but stepped carefully on to the edge, which broke under their weight and they fell flat on their faces. For the moment they were unable to extricate themselves. Wilkin says he got somehow upside down and his heavy rücksack came over his head so that he was quite unable to move. Then Kicq got himself free and pulled out Wilkin. At first he thought of beating a retreat up the bank again, believing naturally that the ice would not bear, but then he saw me three parts of the way across and heard the sentries shooting apparently at me, so he and Wilkin, keeping a bit separated so as not to offer too large a target, ran across after me. The sentry in the center, who had been well attracted by Gaskell and the stone-throwing party, only caught sight of me when I was well on the ice, but then he started yelling "Halt!" and loading his rifle as fast as possible. He then ran to the edge of his "caponnière" and dropping on one knee fired and missed. Cold fingers, abuse, and perhaps a few stones too, which were hurled at him by the gang on the pathway just above his head, did not help to steady his aim. After one or two shots his rifle jammed. Yells and cheers from the spectators. He tore at the bolt, cursing and swearing, and then put up his rifle at the crowd of jeering prisoners above him. But they could see that the bolt had not gone home and only yelled the more. The other sentry had started firing by this time, but he was out of sight of the prisoners in the fort, and Unett and Milne, who had been distracting his attention (Unett said the sentry nearly shot him once), ran off to prove an alibi. I don't know how many shots were fired altogether. Not a large number, as owing to the appearance of some civilians they stopped firing when once Kicq and Wilkin had got well on to the far bank of the moat. When I was half-way across the space between the moat and the cottage, I saw on the main road on my left a large four-horse wagon with a knot of gesticulating men in civilian clothes. We learnt afterwards that they were carters from a munition factory in the neighborhood, and were fairly strong and healthy fellows. They were only about 150 yards away, and started after us led by a fellow with a cart-whip. The going was very heavy, as there were two or three inches of snow and heavy plough underneath, so we made slow progress, as we were carrying a lot of weight in clothes and food. They quickly overtook me, and the fellow who was leading slashed me across the shoulders with his whip. I turned and rushed at him, but he ran out of my reach. The rest of them then came round and I began to see that the game was up, especially as at that moment I saw some armed soldiers coming on bicycles along the road from the fort. The next thing to do was to avoid being shot on recapture. I stood still, whilst they all snarled round me, and beckoning the smallest man said to him in German, "Come here and I will give myself up to you." The fellow with the whip immediately came forward. "Not to you, you Schweinhund," I said; "you hit me with that whip." The little fellow was quite pleased, as I think there is 100 marks reward for the recapture of an officer, and caught hold of my coat tails, and we started off towards the fort. Wilkin had given himself up to two or three others by this time, but I saw that Kicq was trying to sneak off without being noticed while the mob was occupied with us. However, a few seconds later they saw him. Two or three gave chase, and he was brought in soon after us. We had not gone more than a few steps towards the fort when I saw the _Feldwebel_ running across the snow towards us. He came up in a furious rage, cursing us and brandishing a revolver. We waved him aside and told him not to make such a fuss, as it was all over now, and he soon calmed down. Some soldiers then came up and marched us in, the Frenchmen cheering us as we came through the gate. Before we came to the fort we had to cross a bridge over the stream; and, as we walked along, I tore up my map and dropped it into the stream. I forgot to say that Kicq, when he went off by himself just before being taken, had managed to get rid of the Commandant's hat by stuffing it down a hole. As Kicq crossed the bridge he took out his map to throw it into the water, but was seen by his guard, a horrid little fellow who used to help with the clerical work in the bureau. Kicq dropped the map, and a scuffle ensued. Kicq got much the best of this and kicked the map into the stream. There was quite an amusing scene in the bureau. We all of us had to take off most of our clothes and be searched. I had nothing I could hide, but both Kicq and Wilkin had compasses, which they smuggled through with great skill. Kicq had his hidden in the lining of his greatcoat, and Wilkin kept his in his handkerchief, which he pulled out of his pocket and waved to show there was nothing in it, at the same time holding the compass, and then put it back into his pocket. All our foodstuffs and clothes were returned to us, with the exception of my black flying-coat. I complained about this, and appealed to a German general who come round to inspect the fort a few days later, and it was returned to me, but was eventually confiscated when I tried to escape in it a week or two later. We had several tins of solidified alcohol with us for smokeless cooking purposes. These were taken, though we protested. For all the things taken off us we were given receipts by the Germans and told, rather ironically, that we could have them back at the end of the war. Just as we were going out I saw my tin of solidified alcohol, which was valuable stuff (we used to manufacture it in the fort from paraffin and soap), standing almost within my reach, and very nearly managed to pocket it as I went out. However, I found Decugis outside, and explained to him the position of the tin, and suggested that he should take in one or two pals, have a row in there, and steal it back for me. This is the sort of expedition that the Frenchmen loved and were absolute masters at. Within ten minutes I had my solid alcohol back all right and kept my receipt for it as well. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 3: Captain Unett had been sent to Fort 9 as a punishment for escaping from Clausthal.] CHAPTER XI AN ESCAPE WITH MEDLICOTT For the next six weeks life was rather hard. It froze continuously, even in the day time, in spite of the sun, which showed itself frequently, and at night the thermometer registered as often as not more than 27° of frost. The Germans, who had made many efforts to keep the ice in the moat broken by punting round in a steel boat kept for the purpose, now abandoned the attempt, and in consequence of this and of our escape across the ice we were denied the use of the inner courtyards. For the next six weeks the only place in which we could take exercise was the little outer court where _Appell_ was sometimes held. It was only about 50 yards by 25, and was really an inadequate exercise ground for 150 active men. Still we kept pretty fit. Every morning all the English had an ice-cold shower-bath. Of the Frenchmen, Bellison, who lived in Gaskell's room, and one other, I think, had been used to take a cold bath every morning, but it was really astonishing what a number followed our example at Fort 9. When it was so cold that the water in the tubs above the shower-sprays was frozen solid, thirty or forty officers, by pumping the water from the well, used to take a bath regularly every morning. It was only when coal became so scarce that it was not possible to keep a fire going all day in the living-rooms, and when, if you took a bath cold you would never get warm again the whole day, that attendance dropped to some half-dozen men who, having before them the possibility of a ten days' march to the frontier in the dead of winter, looked upon the bath in the morning more as a method of making themselves hard and fit than as an act of cleanliness. Every day a good many of us took exercise by running round and round the small court, to the astonishment of the sentries. Müller's exercises were introduced, and Medlicott and Gaskell, Buckley and I, and many other Englishmen and Frenchmen, did them regularly every day for the rest of the time we were in Germany. As a result of this strenuous life, though we were often very cold and very hungry, we were, with few exceptions easily traceable to bad tinned food, never sick or sorry for ourselves the whole time. Unett, poor fellow, suffered severely from boils, and Buckley from the same complaint during his two months' solitary confinement. From this onwards, for all the winter months, the coal and light shortage became very serious. We stole wood, coal, and oil freely from the Germans, and before the end nearly all the woodwork in the fort had been torn down and burnt, in spite of the strict orders to the sentries to shoot at sight any one seen taking wood. So long as the Germans continued to use oil lamps in the many dark passages of the fort, it was not very difficult to keep a decent store of oil in hand, but after a month or so the Germans realized they were being robbed, and substituted acetylene for oil. We all wrote home for packets of candles, and considering the amount of oil we were officially allowed, the length of time we managed to keep our lamps burning remained to the end a source of astonishment to the Germans. As it was Christmas time, and as Room 45 was well supplied with food, we decided to give a dinner to the Allies on Christmas night. A rumor had been passed round, with the intention, I have no doubt, that it should come to the ears of the Germans, that a number of prisoners intended to escape on Christmas night. The Germans were consequently in a state of nervous tension, the guards were doubled, and N.C.O.'s made frequent rounds. No one had any intention of escaping on that night as far as I know. A piano which had been hired by a Frenchman was kept in the music-room, a bare underground cell of a place at the far end of the central passage, and we applied to be allowed to bring this into our room. To our huge indignation this was refused, on the grounds that we might use it as a method of attracting the sentries' attention. However, we were determined to have the piano and a dance on Christmas night, so a party was organized to bring it from the music-room in spite of the German orders. I don't know exactly how it was managed, but I think a row of some sort was begun in the other wing of the fort and, when the German N.C.O.'s had been attracted in that direction, the piano was "rushed" along to the "ballroom." The dinner was an undoubted success. Room 45, with Medlicott as chef, spent the whole day cooking, and that evening about twenty of us sat down to dinner--the guests being all of them Frenchmen or Russians. After dinner we all attended a fancy-dress dance which some Frenchmen gave in the adjoining room. They had knocked down a wooden partition between two rooms, and had a dance in one and the piano and a drinking bar in the other. The French are a most ingenious nation, and the costumes were simply amazing. There were double sentries all round the fort that night, and some of them stood outside the windows and enjoyed the dancing and singing. It was an extremely cold night outside, and I am not surprised that some of them felt rather bitter against us. I offered one a bit of cake, but he merely had a jab at me through the bars with his bayonet. About midnight we sang "God Save the King," the "Marseillaise," and "On les aura," with several encores. This turned out the guard, and a dozen of them with fixed bayonets, headed by the _Feldwebel_, crashed up the passage and, after a most amusing scene in which both sides kept their tempers, recaptured the piano. A few days after this, Medlicott and I learnt that four Frenchmen were cutting a bar in the latrine with the object of escaping across the frozen moat. We offered them our assistance in exchange for the right of following them at half an hour's interval if they got away without being detected. They agreed to this, as they needed some extra help in guarding the passage and giving warning of the approach of the sentry whilst the bar was being cut. At the farthest end of his beat the sentry was never more than 40 yards away from the window where the operation was being carried out. Under these circumstances a very high degree of skill was necessary for the successful cutting of an inch-thick bar. Here Moretti was in his element. No handle to the saw was used; he held the saw in gloved hands to deaden the noise, and in four hours made two cuts through the bar. Repeated halts had to be made, as the sentry passed the window every three or four minutes, and, as he was liable to examine the bars at any time, they sealed up the crack between each spell of work with some flour paste colored with ashes for the purpose. This made the cut on the bars invisible. I examined the bars carefully myself after they had been cut, and was quite unable to tell which one was only held in place by a thread of metal at each end. The removal of one bar would leave only a narrow exit through which a man could squeeze and, thinking that this might delay them, the Frenchmen, rather unwisely I consider, decided to cut a second bar. Now whether they were really betrayed, as we believe, by one of the French orderlies who for some time had been under suspicion as a spy, or whether some one on the far bank of the canal had happened to see or hear them, we never knew, but it is certain that the Germans learnt, without getting exact details, that one of the bars in the latrines was being cut. The "Blue Boy" visited the latrines four times in a couple of hours and examined the bars with care, but without finding anything wrong. At last the Commandant and the _Feldwebel_ walked up outside our windows, and the latter taking each bar in turn shook it violently. About the fourth one he shook came off in his hands and he fell down flat on his back. The Germans brought up barbed wire and wound it round and round the bars and across the hole. Besides this, they put an extra sentry to watch the place. It seemed at first hopeless to think of escaping that way. The Frenchmen gave it up, but I kept an eye on it for a week or so, and as a precaution obtained leave from the Frenchmen to use it if I saw an opportunity. One very cold night about a week later I was standing in the latrines and watching the sentry stamping backwards and forwards on his 20-yard beat, when it seemed to me just possible that the thing might be done. I fetched Medlicott and Wilkin, who had some wire-cutters. Medlicott took the cutters and, choosing a favorable moment, cut the tightest strand of wire. It seemed to us to make a very loud "ping," but the sentry took no notice, so Medlicott cut eight more strands rapidly. Leaving Wilkin to guard the hole Medlicott and I rushed off to change in the dark, because if we lighted a lamp any sentry passing our window could see straight into the room. It was half an hour after midnight when we started to change, but by 1.15 a.m. we were ready--our rücksacks, maps, compasses, and all were lying packed and hidden. Over our warm clothes we wore white underclothes, as there were several inches of snow on the ground outside; and over our boots we had socks, as much to deaden the noise as to prevent our slipping as we crossed the frozen moat. Outside, the reflection from the snow made the night seem bright, but there was a slight haze which prevented white objects such as ourselves being seen at a greater distance than about 100 yards. In the latrines it was as dark as pitch, so that, though we stood within a few yards of the sentry, we could watch him in safety. It was only safe to work when the sentry was at the far end of his beat; that is to say, about 15 yards away. Medlicott cut the wire, whilst Wilkin and I watched and gave him signs when the sentry was approaching. Owing to repeated halts, it was a long job. The sentries glanced from time to time at the wire, but all the cuts were on the inside of the bars and invisible to them. Removing the bits of wire when they had all been cut was like a complicated game of spillikins, and it was not till nearly 4.30 a.m. that Medlicott had finished. It was a long and rather nerve-racking business waiting in the cold to make a dash across the moat. Medlicott and I tossed up as to who should go first, and he won. It was not easy to choose the right moment, for almost our only hope of getting across without a shot was when the two sentries were at their beats farthest from us, and one of these sentries was invisible to us, though we could hear him stamping to keep warm as he turned at the near end of his beat. At last a favorable moment came and Medlicott put his head and shoulders through the hole, but stuck half-way. He had too many clothes on. We were only just in time to pull him out of sight as the sentry turned. He took off some clothes and put them in his sack and tried again, though we had to wait some time for an opportunity. Again he found he was too fat--and what was worse got hung up on a piece of barbed wire. We made what seemed to us a fearful noise hauling him in and disentangling him, but the sentry took no notice. Then Wilkin rushed off and got a second sack, into which Medlicott packed several layers of clothes. Another long wait for a suitable moment. We heard the sentry on our left come to the end of the beat, then it sounded as if he had turned and his steps died away. The man on our right was at the far end of his beat. Now was the moment. With a push and a struggle Medlicott was through the hole. I went after him instantly, but stuck. A kick from Wilkin sent me sprawling on to the snow on the far side. In a few seconds we were crossing the moat, I a couple of yards behind Medlicott, as fast as our heavy kit and the snow would let us. We were almost across when "Halt! Halt!! Halt!!" came from the sentry on our left. He had never gone back after all, but had only stamped his feet and then stood still. On the far side of the moat was a steepish bank lined with small trees; we tore up this and hurled ourselves over the far bank just as the first shot rang out. We were safe for the moment--no sentry could see us, but shot after shot was fired. Each sentry in the neighborhood safeguarded himself against punishment by letting off his rifle several times. Milne, who knew we were escaping and was lying in bed listening, told me afterwards that he had felt certain that one of us had been hit and that they were finishing him off. For several hundred yards we went northwards across the fields, only halting a moment to pull off the socks from our boots. Then we turned left-handed, intending to make a big circuit towards the south so as to avoid passing too close to the battery which flanks the fort. When we had gone about 400 yards we saw behind us lights from several moving lanterns and realized that some one was following on our tracks. It was very necessary to throw off our pursuers as soon as possible, because there was little more than a couple of hours before the daylight, so we changed our plan and made towards a large wood which we knew was about a mile and a half northwest of the fort. Just before entering the wood we saw that the lights behind us were still about 300 yards away, but now there seemed to be ten or a dozen lights as well, in a large semicircle to the south of us. The wood proved useless for our purpose. There was scarcely any undergrowth, and it was just as easy to follow our tracks there as in the open field. There was only one thing to be done. We must double back through the lights and gain a village to the south of us. Once on the hard road we might throw them off. Choosing the largest gap in the encircling band of lanterns we walked through crouching low, and unseen owing to our white clothes. Once in the village we felt more hopeful. At any rate they could no longer trace our footsteps, and we believed that all our pursuers were behind us. Choosing at random one of three or four roads which led out of the village in a more or less southerly direction, we marched on at top speed. After walking for a quarter of an hour, we were about to pass a house and a clump of trees at the side of the road when we heard a noise from that direction, and suspecting an ambush we instantly struck off across the fields, putting the house between ourselves and the possible enemy. Then we heard footsteps running in the snow, and then a cry of "Halt! Halt!" from about 15 yards behind us. The position was hopeless; there was no cover, and our pursuer could certainly run as fast as we could in our heavy clothes. "It's no good," said Medlicott; "call out to him." I quite agreed and shouted. "Come here, then," the man answered. "All right, we are coming, so don't shoot." When we got close we saw it was the little N.C.O. who looked after the canteen. His relations with the prisoners had always been comparatively friendly. He was quite a decent fellow, and I think we owe our lives to the fact that it was this man who caught us. He only had a small automatic pistol, and, as we came back on to the road, he said, "Mind now, no nonsense! I am only a moderate shot with this, so I shall have to shoot quick." I said we had surrendered and would do nothing silly. He walked behind us back to the village, on the outskirts of which we met the pursuing party, consisting of the "Blue Boy" with a rifle and a sentry with a lantern. The lantern was held up to our faces. "Ha ha," said the "Blue Boy," "Herr Medlicott and Hauptmann Evans, noch mal." Then we walked back to the fort under escort, about a 4 mile march. As we entered the outer door of the fort the sentry at the entrance cursed us and threatened me violently with a bayonet, but our N.C.O. stopped him just in time. In the main building just outside the bureau we had a very hostile reception from a mob of angry sentries through whom we had to pass. For a few moments things looked very ugly. I was all for conciliation and a whole skin if possible, but it was all I could do to calm Medlicott, who under circumstances of this sort only became more pugnacious and glared round him like a savage animal. Then the _Feldwebel_ appeared and addressed the soldiers, cursing them roundly for bringing us in alive instead of dead. I have treasured up that speech in my memory, and, if ever I meet _Feldwebel_ Bühl again, I shall remind him of it. He is the only German against whom, from personal experience, I have feelings which can be called really bitter. The _Feldwebel_ wished to search us, but we refused to be searched unless an officer was present; so we waited in the bureau for an hour and a half till the Commandant arrived. This time they took my flying-coat away and refused to give it back. They also found on me the same tin of solidified alcohol which had been taken off me before and restolen by the Frenchmen. They recognized it, but of course could not prove it was the same. "I know how you stole this back," said the senior clerk as he searched me. "You shall not have it again." He was a Saxon, and the only German with a sense of humor in the fort. We both laughed over the incident. I laughed last, however, as I got the tin back in about a week's time, as I will tell later. The search being over, we were allowed to go back into our rooms, and had breakfast in bed. Perhaps it may seem rather extraordinary that we were not punished severely for these attempts to escape, but the explanation lies not in the leniency of the German but in the fact that there were no convenient cells in which to punish us. The cells at Fort 9 were all of them always full, and there was a very long waiting list besides. They might have court-martialled us and sent us to a fortress, but our crime, a "simple escape," was a small one. They might have sent us to another camp; but the Germans knew that we would ask nothing better, as no officers' camp was likely to be more uncomfortable or more difficult to escape from. Any way, it would be a change. Sometimes, when there was a vacancy, they sent us to the town jail, but, as had been demonstrated more than once, it was easier to escape from there than from Fort 9. The Germans' main object being to keep us safe, they just put us back into the fort and awarded us a few days' _Bestrafung_, which we did in a few months' time when there was a cell vacant. CHAPTER XII SHORT RATIONS AND MANY RIOTS The weather became colder and colder, and for the next month we seldom had less than 27° of frost at night, and in the day time anything up to 20° in spite of the fairly frequent appearance of the sun. The countryside was covered by a few inches of snow, now in the crisp and powdery condition seldom seen except in Switzerland and the colder countries. After the experience of Medlicott and myself it was generally agreed in the fort that escape was almost impossible, unless a very considerable start could be obtained; so the greater number of us settled down to face the not altogether pleasant domestic problems of Fort 9. Our allowance of coal was found to be quite insufficient to keep the room tolerably warm. It was the same in every room in the fort. Repeated requests for an increased allowance having as usual had no effect, we proceeded to tear down all the available woodwork in the fort and in our rooms and burn it in the stoves. We lived literally in a solid block of ice. Just before the long frost had set in, the ground above and round our rooms had been soaking wet, and the walls and floors had been streaming with moisture. Then came the frost, and everything was frozen solid, and outside in the passage an icy blast blew continually, and in places beneath broken ventilators a few inches of frozen snow lay for weeks unthawed inside the fort. That passage was, without exception, the coldest place I have ever known. Down the walls of each of our rooms ran a flue in the stonework, intended to drain the earth above the rooms. For over six weeks there was a solid block of ice in it from top to bottom, in spite of the fact that the flue was in the common wall of two living-rooms. We lived continually in our great coats and all the warm underclothes we possessed; we ourselves seldom, and our allies never, opened windows, and we pasted up cracks and holes; but still we remained cold, and crouched all day round our miserable stoves. Müller's exercises, skipping, and wood, coal, and oil stealing were recreations and means of keeping warm and keeping up our spirits. On top of this came the famine. For the last few months we had been so well and regularly supplied with food from home that we had never thought of eating the very unpalatable food given us by the Germans, and had at length come to an agreement whereby they gave us full pay--in my case 100 marks per month--and no longer supplied us with food. Up to the time of this agreement they had deducted 42 marks monthly, and this extra money was quite useful. Some time before Christmas we were warned that there would be a ten days' stoppage of our parcels in order to allow of the more rapid delivery of the German Christmas mail to their troops. In consequence we had all written home asking that double parcels should be sent us for the two weeks preceding Christmas. However, Christmas passed and parcels came with almost the same regularity as they had always done. Christmas festivities, and the knowledge that double parcels were on their way, induced us to draw rather heavily on our reserve store. Then came the stoppage. Daily we looked anxiously for the parcel cart which never came. Reduced to our last half-dozen tins of food among six men we went onto quarter rations, helped out from a large supply of stolen potatoes. At length we had nothing whatever to eat but our daily ration of bread and almost unlimited potatoes. No butter, no salt, no pepper. It would not have mattered very much in warm weather, but in those conditions of cold and discomfort in which we were living, hunger was rather hard to bear. A diet consisting entirely of butterless and saltless potatoes in various forms became after three or four days extremely tedious. It is quite impossible to eat enough of them to satisfy one's hunger. After a gorge of potatoes one is distended but still hungry. I forget how long the famine lasted--about ten days, I think, though I remember very well the arrival of a cartload of parcels which relieved the situation just when things began to get serious. It arrived on a Saturday, and the Germans said that they would be given out on Monday, as a certain time was necessary for sorting and registering the parcels. To starving men this delay was quite intolerable, and the prisoners adopted such a threatening attitude that the Commandant considered it wisest to give out a small portion of the parcels to keep us going till Monday. Of course we might have asked the Germans to supply us with food when we were short, but I don't think such a course was contemplated seriously by anybody. Perhaps it may be considered that the kindly Germans, knowing that their prisoners were nearing starvation, should have insisted on supplying us with food. But the Germans of Fort 9 were not accustomed to confer favors on us--if they had offered them we should have refused--and I have no doubt that they considered a little hunger very good for us. So much for the famine; our parcels for the rest of the time I was in Germany arrived in large quantities. About this time, on the strength of the convention agreed to between the English and the German governments, we obtained from the very unwilling Germans the privilege of going on walks for an hour or two a week on parole. For the rest of the time I was at Fort 9 the parties of English and Russian prisoners, but not French, as I believe they had no such convention with the Germans, exercised this privilege once and sometimes twice a week, accompanied by an unarmed German N.C.O., who under these circumstances sometimes became quite human. The walks were very dull indeed, as the country round the fort is very uninteresting. However, it was certainly a relief to get out of the place every now and then. The only other way in which we ever got out of the fort legitimately was when we were sent for from Ingolstadt for preliminary inquiries concerning a court-martial, or to make a statement concerning the vigilance of the sentry past whom we had escaped. We always did our best to defend the unfortunate sentries, but I am afraid that they almost invariably were heavily punished. The next incident of any interest was a turbulent affair which has become known to the one-time inmates of Fort 9 as the Bojah case. As I was not involved to any great extent in this storm in a teacup, I have rather a confused idea of what happened and why it happened. I am not even sure how it started, but I believe the original cause was a very mild and commonplace theft by Medlicott. A German carpenter was putting up some shelves in one of our living-rooms when Medlicott and I entered the room. Quite on the spur of the moment Medlicott picked up the carpenter's pincers when his back was turned and handed them to me. I put them in my pocket and walked out of the room and hid them. Before the pincers were missed Medlicott also followed me out of the room. No one else in the room had noticed the theft, and naturally denied it indignantly when accused by the carpenter. Apparently the carpenter, being very angry, instantly informed the Commandant. About ten minutes later we heard a fearful row in the passage outside, and we all came out of our rooms to see the fun. In the doorway of one of the rooms was a seething, shouting mob consisting of several sentries with fixed bayonets, the _Feldwebel_ and half a dozen prisoners, mostly French, and the Commandant. They were all shouting at the top of their voices and pushing, and the Commandant was brandishing his arms and generally behaving like an enraged maniac. What the Frenchmen were doing in that room I am not quite clear, but I believe they had come into the room in which the carpenter had been after the latter had departed to report the loss of the pincers to the Commandant. When the Commandant arrived with his guard he insulted them and accused them of stealing the pincers and then ordered them back to their rooms. The Frenchmen--Kicq, Derobiere, Bojah, and a few others of the younger and more violent sort--were the last people in the world to take this sort of thing lying down; besides which they loved a row at any time for its own sake, and for once in a way they had right on their side. They denied the accusation and protested against the insults with some violence, and when ordered to their rooms by the Commandant refused to go unless they first had an apology. It is quite impossible to imagine the scene unless you realize the character of the Commandant. The one outstanding feature was his conspicuous lack of dignity and total inability to keep his temper. In his quiet moments he was an incompetent, funny bourgeois shopkeeper; when angry, as at this moment, he was a howling, raving madman. When the Frenchmen refused to move, the Commandant apparently ordered the _Feldwebel_ to arrest them, and confused shouting followed, in the midst of which the Commandant hit the _Feldwebel_ and, I believe, though I did not see it, also hit Bojah. There was a complete block in the doorway, and the passage was also blocked by a hand-cart, which happened to be there, and a large and cheering crowd of spectators. The sentries could not get in, and the _Feldwebel_ and the Commandant, who were blocked in the doorway, could not move, and every one continued to shout. Medlicott, who loved this sort of thing, tried to barge into the scrimmage, and I only just prevented him being struck by a bayonet. Then Kicq managed to get close to the Commandant and call him a "cochon." Two sentries effected his arrest. After that, I really don't know how things got disentangled without bloodshed, but eventually the Germans retreated amidst yells of derision, with Bojah, Kicq, and Derobiere in their midst. The English and French prisoners who had seen this affair decided that, as the Commandant's conduct had been unbecoming that of an officer, we would hold no further communication with him. Most of us were content to act up to this passively, but when Batty Smith was summoned to the office he informed the Commandant of the decision and walked out. Buckley and Medlicott also took the earliest opportunity of doing the same thing. As soon as they entered the office, Buckley delivered the following ultimatum. "Nous n'avons rien à faire avec vous parce que nous ne pouvons pas vous considérer comme un officier." They then right-about turned and marched out in military fashion, leaving the Commandant, as he himself said in his evidence at the trial, "sprachlos" with astonishment. Buckley's reason for speaking in French instead of German was that he did not wish him to be able to call any of the office staff as witness of what he had said. Soon afterwards Batty Smith was called again to the bureau, arrested, and sent to prison in another fort, where he remained in solitary confinement for over two months without any sort of trial. Buckley and Medlicott were kidnapped in exactly the same way and thrown into improvised cells in the fort. Medlicott had only been in his cell for ten seconds, when he began, as usual, to think how to get out of it. Above the door was a glass window by which light entered the cell. The glass was already partially broken, so Medlicott standing on a chair smashed the rest of it and somehow managed to climb out through it. Soon afterwards Buckley also got out, and both returned to their rooms. Five minutes later the Germans placed sentries in front of the cell doors, but it was not till several hours afterwards that they found to their intense surprise that the birds had already flown. We got a good deal of amusement out of this incident; but a few days later Medlicott was sent to another fort and Buckley was shut up in Fort 9. Both remained in close solitary confinement without any sort of trial for over two months. We never saw either Derobiere or Kicq again, though I have heard from the latter since the armistice was signed. He had a series of perfectly amazing adventures and hardships, and eventually escaped successfully, after the sixth or seventh attempt, about the time of the armistice. Of all the unusual happenings in Fort 9, that which I am about to describe is perhaps the most remarkable. To steal a large iron-bound box from the Commandant's bureau would be at any time a difficult feat, but when it is considered that the only opportunity for the theft occurred in the middle of the day, and also that the box contained compasses and maps by the dozen, several cameras, solidified alcohol, censored books, in fact all those things which we were most strictly forbidden to possess, it must be owned that it was an extraordinary performance. It was organized and carried out mainly by Russians with the help of a few Frenchmen. About 11.30 one morning, just after _Appell_, a Russian came into every room along the corridor and informed us that there would be a general search by the Germans at 12.15. We thanked him and hid all our forbidden property, for a hint of this nature was not to be taken lightly at Fort 9. We had no idea what was going to happen, and only heard a detailed account of it afterwards. When a prisoner attempts to escape and is recaptured, he is taken by the Germans into the bureau and searched, and for those articles--maps, compasses, etc.--which are taken off him he is given a receipt and the articles themselves are deposited, carefully ticketed with the owner's name, in a large iron-bound wooden box which is kept in the depot outside the fort. When, however, prisoners are removed from one camp to another, the articles belonging to those prisoners are handed to the N.C.O. in charge of their escort and are deposited in the depot of the new camp. This time two Russians were being sent to another camp, and the iron-bound box in question had been brought into the bureau so that the senior clerk could check the articles as they were handed over. The theft of this box was carried out in the following manner. Just before midday a party of Frenchmen, I believe, went into the bureau and had a violent row with the Commandant--not an unusual occurrence, as I have already explained. As the row became more and more heated, other Frenchmen and Russians crowded into the bureau. A fearful scrimmage and a great deal of shouting ensued, in the midst of which a party specially detailed for the purpose carried the box unobserved out of the bureau and into our "reading room," which was only a few doors away. There men were waiting with hammers and other instruments. The lid was wrenched open and the contents turned out on to the floor. Some then fell on the box and broke and tore it into small pieces which others carried to the different rooms and burnt immediately in the stoves. Others again distributed to their owners or hid in previously prepared places the contents of the box, so that within five minutes the box itself had utterly disappeared and all its incriminating contents were in safe hiding-places. The row, which had been gradually dying down, now dissolved, and very soon afterwards the Germans discovered their loss. The bells went and we were all ordered to our rooms. Then, amid shouts of laughter from every room, two rather sullen and shamefaced Germans searched vainly for an enormous box which had only been stolen five minutes before and for which there was no possible hiding-place in any of the rooms. Most of us got back some valuable belongings. I got a compass and some maps which had been taken off me at my first escape, but the most amusing prize was my box of solidified alcohol, for which I now held two receipts from the Germans as well as the article itself! CHAPTER XIII A TUNNEL SCHEME In the earlier chapters of this book I have mentioned the fact that some months previous to my capture my people at home and I had invented a simple code which would enable us, to a very limited degree, to correspond, if ever I were unlucky enough to fall into the hands of the Germans. This may seem to have been morbid anticipation of a lamentable occurrence, but I assure you it was only a most obvious precaution. Not only did I belong to the R.F.C., in which the chances of capture were unavoidably greater than in any other service, but my brother had been badly wounded and captured at the second battle of Ypres, and for over a year we had received no news of him that had not been most strictly censored. Soon after my arrival at Ingolstadt I wrote home several sentences--it was difficult to write much more--in our prearranged code, and received answers in the same way. But to obtain my mother's efficient coöperation in plans of escape some more detailed instructions than could be compressed into our code were necessary. We desired accurate maps about 1:250,000 of the country between Ingolstadt and the Swiss frontier, a luminous compass, saws for cutting iron bars, cloth which could be made into civilian hats, condensed and concentrated food of all sorts, and in addition detailed instructions must be sent as to how these things were to be hidden in the parcels. As we were only allowed to write one letter a fortnight and one post card a week, to send the information home by my code would have been an almost endless task, so I took the risk of writing a couple of letters in sympathetic ink, merely using my code to say "Heat this letter." The results were successful beyond my wildest hopes, for not only were instructions obeyed, but my family showed very great ingenuity in packing the required articles. In due course two luminous compasses and two complete sets of excellent maps were received safely. Each set of maps consisted of about six sheets each a foot square. The letters came from England quicker than the parcels, so that, at the same time as my mother sent off the parcel containing the maps or compass, she sent me a post card to say in what parcel it was coming and in what article it was concealed. After that it was my job to see that I obtained the article without it being examined by the Germans. Watching a German open a parcel in which you knew there was a concealed compass is quite one of the most amusing things I have ever done. Most of the maps came baked in the middle of cakes which I received weekly from home, and as I was on comparatively good terms with the Germans who searched our parcels, they used to hand these over to me without ever probing them. One of the compasses came in a glass bottle of prunes, and I was not surprised when the Germans handed this to me without searching it, as it looked impossible that anything could be hidden in it. A second compass came in a small jar of anchovy paste, and, as I dared not risk asking for it, I told the German to put it among our reserve store of food and found an opportunity of stealing it about a fortnight later. I remember decoding one post card from my mother, and making out the message to be "Maps in OSWEGO." But what was Oswego? No one had any idea. When the Hun opened my parcel, I was feeling rather nervous. Almost the first thing he picked up was a yellow paper packet. He felt this carefully, but passed it to me without opening it, when I saw with joy that "Oswego" was marked on it. There was a large bundle of maps in the middle of the flour. Another "near thing" was when the whole of the crust on one of my cakes was entirely composed of maps, though the baking had browned the oilpaper in which they were sewn so that it looked exactly like cake. Altogether there is no doubt that I was extraordinarily lucky to get all the things I did without being detected. Many other Frenchmen and Englishmen in the fort had maps and compasses smuggled through to them, though owing to the energy of my people at home, and sheer good luck on my part, I doubt if anyone was more successful than I was. However, in one way or another, by bribery, stealing, and smuggling, I am pretty sure there was an average of at least one compass per man throughout the fort, and traced maps in any quantity, though originals were scarce. There was rather an amusing incident which happened when Moretti was chef in Room 42. Buckley was in the habit of receiving dried fruit from home, which, for purposes of his health, he kept for private use. One day Moretti raided this store, in order to give the mess stewed fruit for dinner, but, when he was cooking them, messages from home were found floating about in the stew. Examination showed that the prunes had been cut open very cleverly and a small roll of paper substituted for the stone. I have given the above description of one of the methods by which maps and compasses were obtained, not only because the possession of the things was of immense importance in our ultimate escape, but because it illustrates a fact, which many people believed with difficulty, namely, that the Germans are extremely inefficient when the use of the imagination is necessary to efficiency. They believed they were searching with the greatest possible thoroughness: every tin, for instance, was opened by them and the contents turned out on to a plate, but it was obviously impossible to examine every small packet in every small parcel, so that a certain discretion had to be used as to what to examine and what to pass, and it was quite extraordinary how they invariably spotted wrong. I have often wished to know whether the German prisoners in England smuggled forbidden goods into their camps with the same ease as we did. One set of maps I cut down and sewed into the cuff of my tunic, and the smallest compass I stowed away in the padding on the shoulder. The rest of the stuff I divided between Moretti and Decugis, both of whom had been very good friends to me. It was from the latter indeed that I received information as to the position of the sentries on the Swiss frontier at Riedheim, where Buckley and I ultimately crossed into Switzerland. Towards the end of our strict confinement in Fort 9, while the moat still remained frozen, the prisoners became very restless and a large number of abortive attempts to escape were made. These mainly consisted of attempts to burrow through the walls or in some way to obtain access to the inner courtyards during the night. Once in the courtyard it was thought that it would be easy to run between the sentries across the moat if the night were only reasonably dark. Three Frenchmen actually did get out, and, owing to successful "faking" of _Appell_, their absence was not discovered, but they were caught in the courtyard before they had crossed the moat. On another occasion some Frenchmen, by piling tables and chairs on top of one another, had managed to get up to one of the ventilators in the passage outside our rooms. Unfortunately they were seen by the sentry on the ramparts, who crept up to the ventilator, without apparently being observed, and fired two shots down through the glass into the crowd below. By some extraordinary chance no one was hit, and before the _Feldwebel_ and about a dozen soldiers with fixed bayonets could arrive, the temporary structure beneath the ventilator had been cleared away and everyone was looking as innocent as possible, especially the culprits. Several men, including myself, who were gambling or walking quietly in the passage, only escaped being bayoneted by displaying considerable activity at the critical moment. Some of the Frenchmen spent three weeks of most skilful labor in making a hole through 4 feet of masonry into the inner courtyard. As these walls were inspected daily by the Germans the stones had to be replaced every day so as to leave no trace of the work. I inspected this place myself several times in the day time, and am prepared to swear that it was impossible to tell which stones were solidly imbedded and which were loosely held together by imitation plaster. Somehow or other this also was discovered when it was almost finished. A sentry was placed outside the hole. In spite of the sentry, however, the Frenchmen removed and threw down the latrine all the stones which they had loosened, leaving in their place a placard on which was written, "Représailles pour le Château de Chauny." In France the Germans had wantonly destroyed, only a few days before this, the beautiful Château de Chauny. Bar-cutting was also attempted by several Frenchmen and Englishmen--Bouzon, Gilliland, and others; but somehow unforeseen circumstances always turned up at the last moment to prevent an attempt to escape being made. On one work, a tunnel,[4] in which Gaskell and I were assisting, an immense deal of labor was spent in vain. In Room 49 the Corsican colonel and Moretti and about four other Frenchmen had sunk a hole in the corner of their room close under the window. This shaft was about 6 feet deep--that is to say, to the water level of the moat. Farther one could not go, as the water came in. From here a gallery was bored through the foundations of the wall--4 or 5 feet of very solid masonry. This alone took them three weeks. For the next few yards the tunnel made better progress until, owing to the nature of the soil, they found it necessary to revet the tunnel with wood as they advanced. The gallery was so small--only 20 by 24 inches as far as I remember--that it was impossible to crawl along it. You had to drag yourself along on your stomach, and soon the conditions under which the work was carried on became so unpleasant that two Frenchmen gave it up. Gaskell and I came in as the new recruits. It was a horrible job. Most of the time one lay in water and worked in pitch darkness, as the air was so bad that no candle would keep alight. Gaskell was so large in the shoulder that he could not work down the tunnel, and I am so long in the arms that I could only do it with the greatest difficulty and exertion. After a time it was found necessary to pump air to the man at work by means of a home-made bellows and a pipe, and this made the work slightly more tolerable. From the window, the ground, starting at about the same level as the floor of our rooms, sloped down to the bank of the moat, dropping about 3 feet 6 inches, and from there there was a sharp drop of about 2 feet 6 inches to the water or, at the time we started the tunnel, to the ice. Our object was to come out in the steep bank of the moat on a level with the ice and crawl across on a dark night. With the ice there I think the idea was an extremely good one, and as nearly certain of success as anything could be in Fort 9, but it is obvious from the dimensions given that the tunnel towards the end must necessarily come within a few inches of the surface of the ground. Actually for the last 3 or 4 yards we were within 6 inches of the surface, and were able to drive a small tube up through which we could breathe. Working in the tunnel was a loathsome task, and one hour per day, in two shifts, was as much as I could stand. You had to lie 12 yards or more under ground, in an extremely confined space, in total darkness and in a pool of water. The atmosphere was almost intolerable, and sometimes one had to come out for a breath of fresh air for fear that one would faint. But we did this unwillingly, as it took quite two minutes to go in and about four minutes to get out, and so wasted much time. By getting into an excruciatingly uncomfortable position, it was possible to shovel earth into a wooden sledge made for the purpose, and when this was full, at a given signal it was dragged back by a man at the pit-head, whose job it was also to work the bellows. To your left wrist was tied a string, and when this was twitched you stopped work and lay still waiting for the sentry to tramp within 6 inches of your head, and wondering when he would put his foot through, and if he did whether you would be suffocated or whether he would stick you with a bayonet. Our safeguard was that the top 8 to 12 inches of ground were frozen solid, and as long as the frost lasted we were fairly safe, and later on we revetted the tunnel very thoroughly with wood. All the earth had to be carried in bags along the passage and emptied down the latrines. This was Gaskell's self-appointed task, and he must have emptied many hundreds of bags in this way. Considering that there was a sentry permanently posted outside the windows of the latrines it needed considerable skill and judgment to avoid being detected. We soon found that we needed more labor, and two more Frenchmen, de Goys being one of them, joined our working party. Moretti was not only chief engineer, but also the most skilful and effective workman in the tunnel, and it was entirely owing to him that it came so near to being a success. I was a mere laborer, and not entrusted with any skilled work. Unfortunately before the work was finished, the thaw came, and we had to make other and much more complicated plans for crossing the moat. It was generally agreed that we could not afford to get our clothes wet through in crossing the moat. Moretti, the Colonel, and the two other Frenchmen in their party decided to wade through the moat naked, carrying two bundles sewn in waterproof cloth, one containing their clothes and the other their food and other necessaries for a ten days' march and life in the open in the middle of winter. Gaskell and I and de Goys and his partner disliked the idea of being chased naked in the middle of winter carrying two bundles, each weighing 20 pounds or more, so we decided to make ourselves diving-suits out of mackintoshes. After waterproofing the worn patches on them with candle grease, and sewing up the front of the neck, where a "soufflet" or extra piece was let in to enable one to enter the garment from the top, and binding the legs and arms with strips of cloth, we felt pretty certain that little or no water would enter during the short passage of the moat. Whether or not this would have been successful I cannot say, for thank Heaven we never tried. As the ground gradually thawed, and as the tunnel approached the moat, the question of revetting became ever of greater importance. In some places the earth fell away and left cavities above the woodwork, which we blocked up to the best of our ability. There still remained a 6-inch layer of frozen earth above us, but for the last week of the work we could never be sure that a heavy-footed sentry would not come through if he trod on a tender spot. Towards the end, the difficulty of obtaining sufficient wood became very acute, for a large part of the woodwork of the fort had already been burnt in our stoves during the winter. We all of us reduced the planks in our beds to the minimum, and Moretti, by means of a false key, entered some unused living-rooms which were kept locked by the Germans, and stole and broke up every bit of wood he could find--beds, furniture, stools, shelves, partitions and all. He was one day occupied in this way in one of the empty rooms when the sentry outside the window saw or heard him, and shot into the room at him from about 3 yards' range but missed, and Moretti retreated with the wood. At last, after three months' work in all, the tunnel was finished, and a night selected for the escape. As the sentry who walked between our windows and the moat was never, even at the far end of his beat, more than 30 yards from the exit of the tunnel, we considered it essential that there should be sufficient wind to ruffle the surface of the moat, and not too bright a moon. To a certain extent by skill, but mainly by good luck, we had come to the exact spot on the bank at which we had aimed. The place was close under a lantern which was always hung at night near the edge of the moat, but owing to the way in which the shadows fell we reckoned that the light would dazzle rather than help the sentry to see the mouth of the hole when it was opened. In the day time the open hole could not fail to attract immediate attention, so that we intended to cut through the last few inches of earth only an hour or so before the escape. The Colonel and Moretti were to go first, and then the two Frenchmen in their room, as these had done five weeks' more work than the rest of us. Gaskell and de Goys played baccarat to decide which team should be the next, and we won. Then Gaskell and I played to decide who should go first of us two, and I won. De Goys and his partner lived in the other wing of the fort, so that it was necessary for them to fake _Appell_ and remain over in our rooms after 9 o'clock at night. This was carried out successfully by help of most lifelike dummies in their beds, which breathed when you pulled a string, and when the German N.C.O. came round on our side de Goys and partner just hid under the beds. We got a great deal of innocent amusement out of this sort of thing. During the afternoon preceding the night on which we intended to go, I had a bad fit of nerves, and for half an hour or more lay on my bed shaking with funk at the thought of it. However, I completely recovered control before the evening. The night was not a particularly favorable one; we should have preferred a good thunderstorm, but considering the thaw which had set in we could not afford to wait. An hour before the time for starting someone went down to open the species of trap-door which we had made at the far end, which would enable us to close the exit after our departure. In the meantime the Colonel and Moretti got ready. I really felt sorry for them. We, the non-naked party, would be reasonably warm, whatever the result might be. The Colonel stripped nude and greased himself from head to foot, and then wound puttees tightly round his stomach, as a "precaution against a chill," as Moretti said. There was good need for precautions, it seemed to me, as there were still large lumps of ice floating in the moat, and it was nearly freezing outside. Moretti just got out of his clothes and picked up his bundles and was apparently looking forward to the business, but I think he was the only one who was. As soon as they were ready to go, Gaskell and I went back to our rooms to put on our diving suits, and in the passage were standing three German soldiers. Close inspection showed that they were Bellison, May, and another Frenchman excellently got up. They felt perfectly certain, and we were inclined to agree, that it was impossible for eight of us to get across the moat without someone being seen and shot at by the sentry. We knew from Buckley, who had special opportunities of observing this whilst in solitary confinement, that when the alarm was given, all the guard turned out at the double from the guardroom inside the fort and rushed in a confused mob to the outer courtyard. These three, dressed as Germans, after having opened all the intervening doors by means of skeleton keys, intended to join the guards and rush out with them. I think the idea was quite excellent, and that their chances of escape were much greater than ours. When we returned to Room 49 we found consternation among our party. The man who had been down to open the trap-door said that it could not be done, owing to unexpected roots and stones, under two hours' work, and by that time the moon would have risen. After a hurried consultation we agreed to abandon it for that night. The next three nights were still and calm and clear without a ripple on the water; an attempt would have meant certain failure. On the fourth morning a pocket about 6 inches deep and a foot in diameter appeared in the ground above the tunnel. All that day the sentry did not notice it, and that night was stiller and clearer than ever. It was impossible to go. The next day the N.C.O. whom we knew as the "Blue Boy" came round to tap the bars of our windows, and the sentry drew his attention to the place where the earth had sunk. He tested it with a bayonet, and later a fatigue party came along with picks and dug the whole thing up, and all our labor was in vain. It was rather sad; but, as I said before, looking back now, I feel rather thankful that we never made the attempt. The only result, as far as I know, was that the members of Room 49 were split up among other rooms in the fort, and a sentry was put on guard over the mouth of the hole. Moretti came into Room 42 and was instantly appointed chef. He also started to dig another tunnel somewhere else, which was also discovered. Personally I had had enough of tunnels, and swore I would never try and escape that way again, so I returned with renewed energy to my Russian lessons. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 4: I have given the story of this tunnel at some length, not because it was in any way exceptional, but rather because it shows the labor and ingenuity involved in attempts to escape of this type, of which there were innumerable examples in Fort 9. A most wonderful tunnel, 80 yards long I believe, was made by the prisoners at Custrin.] CHAPTER XIV. THE BOJAH CASE Soon after the failure of our tunnel scheme several Englishmen, among whom were Gilliland, Unett, and Batty Smith, who had not been convicted by the Germans of any evil deeds during the last four or five months, were warned that they were going to be removed to Crefeld. Great preparations were made for escaping on the way, and Gaskell and de Goys seized the opportunity to try on the basket trick. Officers who have been prisoners for two or three years accumulate quite a considerable amount of luggage, and it was thought to be more than possible that the Germans would not trouble to search all of it as it left the fort, as it was quite certain to be searched carefully before it entered any new camp. Two large clothes-baskets were procured, of which the fastenings were so altered that they could be opened from the inside. Gaskell and de Goys packed themselves into these, and were carried by the orderlies into the parcel office in the fort with the rest of the heavy luggage. Unfortunately a week or two before this someone had been caught entering this room by means of a false key, and since then a sentry had been posted permanently outside the door. When Gaskell and de Goys, who had already spent nearly four hours in an extremely cramped position, attempted to get out of their baskets to stretch their legs, the wickerwork creaked so much that the suspicion of the sentry outside the door was roused. He called an N.C.O., and the culprits were discovered and led, rather ignominiously, back to their rooms. From Fort 9, where the Germans were so very suspicious, this method of escaping would need, I think, more than an average amount of luck to be successful, though from a normal prison camp it was to my knowledge successfully employed on several occasions. The party under orders for another camp left the next day and without further incident, and some weeks later we heard that six or eight of them got out of the train in the neighborhood of Crefeld, and four of them--Gilliland, Briggs, and two others--crossed the Dutch frontier after three or four nights' march and after overcoming considerable difficulties and hardships. Gaskell and I applied personally to the General to be transferred to another camp, and I think most of the remaining Englishmen did the same, but our request was received with derision. The two officers who escaped gave, I think, rather an unnecessarily harrowing description of the life at Fort 9; for if in what I have written I have given a true picture, I think it will be realized that the feeling of bitterness was, under the circumstances, except in particular instances and with certain individuals, remarkably small. Attempts to escape, although thoroughly earnest and whole-hearted, were undertaken with a sort of childish exuberance, in which the comic element was seldom absent for long. However, the feeling between the prisoners and their guard gradually grew worse, and several incidents intensified this bitterness to such an extent that towards the end of my time at Fort 9 it seemed scarcely possible that we could continue for much longer without bloodshed, which up to that time, by pure good fortune, had been avoided. The Germans had been very irritated when we tore down and burnt in our stoves nearly all the woodwork of the fort, and the repeated attempts to escape got on their nerves. In addition to this, a store of blankets and bedding caught fire--or perhaps was set on fire by the prisoners, as the Germans believed. The place burnt for three days, and numerous fire-engines had to be sent out from Ingolstadt. Also a large pile of paper and boxes from our parcels, of considerable commercial value at that time in Germany, was deliberately set on fire by a squib manufactured for that purpose, although the pile was guarded by a sentry. These and other pinpricks undoubtedly led the Germans, as we learnt from one of the sentries, to issue most stringent orders to the guard to use their rifles against us whenever possible. I have already recorded some of the occasions, mostly justifiable, when shots were fired at prisoners in the fort, but now there occurred an incident which roused the most bitter feelings amongst the prisoners. We were allowed to walk on the broad path along the ramparts, but we were not allowed on the grass on the far side. Two Russian officers, newly arrived at the camp I believe and ignorant of this rule (for there were no boundary marks of any sort), lay on the grass one hot afternoon in the forbidden area. Without a moment's hesitation a sentry about 100 yards from them fired two deliberately aimed shots without giving them any warning whatever. Fortunately he missed them, though they presented an enormous target. But the fact that he was an exceedingly bad shot did not in any way detract from the damnableness of this wholly unjustifiable attempt at murder--for that is the way we looked at it. About a month before this last event, Buckley, Medlicott, and Batty Smith finished their spell of "two months' solitary" and were welcomed back to the society and comparative freedom of Fort 9. The Germans said that they had only been under arrest (_Stubenarrest_) pending investigations, and indeed ever since the row which I have called the "Bojah" case the most searching inquiries had been carried out by the Germans. Every one who had been in any way concerned or had been a spectator of the scene was summoned to Ingolstadt to be cross-questioned and his evidence taken down in writing. The Germans took the matter very seriously and did their utmost to establish a charge of organized mutiny against us. We, on the other hand, took the whole business as a joke and laid the blame for the affair on the fact that the Commandant lost his temper; and we brought, or could have brought, if the trial had been a fair one, unlimited evidence to prove that this was not only possible but an everyday occurrence at Fort 9. At last the case was brought before a court-martial at Ingolstadt. As a first-hand account by one of the accused of a German court-martial on prisoners-of-war may be of real interest, I have asked Buckley, who took a leading part, to give an account of it in his own words. THE BOJAH CASE COURT-MARTIAL By Lieut. S. E. Buckley On the day fixed for the court-martial a large party of Allied officers, consisting of witnesses and accused, were paraded and left the fort under a strong escort. The French contingent consisted of about eight officers, and the British, of Medlicott, Batty Smith, and myself. We left the fort at about 8 a.m. and arrived at the Kommandantur, to which was also attached the military prison, at about 9.15. Here we were all shown into a room to await proceedings, and were shortly joined by poor old Bojah, the chief accused, and Kicq, both of whom had been kept in solitary confinement since the day of the row. They both looked awfully "low" and ill, especially Kicq, who had been short of food for some time owing to the confiscation of his parcels. The trial started at 10 a.m., and consisted in the examination of Du Celié and Batty Smith. Unfortunately, only the officers whose cases were being examined at the time were allowed to be present, so that we were only able to judge of the temper of the court by the sentences imposed. Du Celié, a Frenchman, who had been charged with complicity and who conducted his own defense, was acquitted. As a matter of fact all he had done was to translate a letter written by Batty Smith to the Commandant, at the former's request, in which Batty Smith was alleged to have slandered the Commandant. Batty Smith was awarded one and a half year's imprisonment, and appealed against his sentence. Bojah himself and Kicq were next examined, and as far as I can remember they were still before the court when the luncheon interval arrived. We had brought lunch with us, and we had made it as sumptuous as possible in order to impress the Germans with the lack of success of their submarine campaign. After lunch Medlicott and I had a little quiet amusement to ourselves. We had both made fairly elaborate preparations for an escape, should an opportunity arise during the proceedings. We had a large quantity of food in our pockets, and portions of civilian clothing, including mufti hats, concealed on our persons. During lunch the sentries had been withdrawn from the waiting-room and only one remained standing in the doorway. The room was on the ground floor and looked out on to the courtyard of the military prison; it seemed but a simple matter to jump out of the window into the courtyard, whence, by turning a corner round the building, a clear exit could be made on to the main road. We got some French officers to start an animated conversation in the doorway in order to hide us from the sentry, and we had previously arranged with Kicq (who had returned to his cell during lunch and whose window overlooked the room in which we were collected) to give us the signal when all was clear. At the given signal from Kicq, Medlicott jumped on to the window-sill, and was just about to drop into the courtyard below, when to my amazement I saw him scramble back into the room again and burst into fits of laughter. On looking out of the window I discovered the cause. There, leaning up against the wall, immediately below, was "Fritz," the canteen man from the fort--"Fritz," fat and forty, with an ugly leer on his face and brandishing a fearsome looking revolver in his hand. He had apparently been stationed round the corner, where Kicq could not see him, and had only just arrived below the window as Medlicott was about to jump out. I might remark that this was the only occasion during my whole stay in Germany that I ever came across a really intelligently posted guard. The examination of Bojah, Kicq, and later De Robiere, continued till late in the afternoon. Kicq received a sentence of two years, De Robiere one year, and Bojah nine months. As an instance of the gross injustice of the whole affair, during De Robiere's trial the public prosecutor stated that Kicq's action did not receive the support of his brother officers, either British or French. This, of course, was quite untrue, and De Robiere, who tried to protest, was immediately "sat upon" by the president of the court. De Robiere made frantic efforts to get a hearing, and failing in his attempt endeavored to waylay the public prosecutor on his way out of court. This brave functionary was unfortunately able to elude De Robiere's wrath by escaping from a side door. Medlicott and I entered the court-room and stood side by side facing the officers who composed the court and who were seated on a raised platform at the far end of the room. The court consisted of about eight officers presided over by an old colonel covered with a multitude of parti-colored ribbons. Our two cases were taken together. We were accused of insulting the Commandant, escaping from arrest, disobedience to orders, and a few other minor offenses; Medlicott, in addition, was accused of having broken the ventilator over the door of his cell. The proceedings opened in a lively manner by Medlicott, who was in his usual truculent mood, refusing to answer any questions. This immediately brought down the wrath of the president upon him, and he was told that if he persisted in his attitude he would be put in solitary confinement for contempt of court. As this didn't suit Medlicott's book at all (he was at the time planning a fresh escape), I took it upon myself to accuse the interpreter of having falsely interpreted what Medlicott had said. I explained that Medlicott wished to ask if he had the right to refuse to answer questions. This luckily satisfied everybody (except the interpreter, who didn't count). After the Commandant and _Feldwebel_ had given their evidence, the former with some anger and more excitement, I got up and read a long speech in German in Medlicott's and my own defense. It is my greatest regret to-day that I have no copy of this classic document, which had been carefully prepared for me by an Alsatian officer. In it I "let myself go" and accused both the Commandant and the _Feldwebel_ of cowardice and of shirking going to the front. In fact, I thoroughly enjoyed myself at their expense; so also, I think, did Medlicott, who turned round during my speech and grinned openly in the faces of the Commandant and the _Feldwebel_, who were sitting directly behind us. After I had read our defense, the public prosecutor summed up the case against us, and, if I remember rightly, asked that we might be sentenced to two years' solitary confinement each. I think he was rather annoyed at the time because we had been able to get hold of a German military law book in the fort in which I found that we had been accused under the wrong paragraph, and this mistake I had enlarged upon in our defense. We were then marched out of court, and returned a few minutes later to hear the verdict of six weeks' solitary confinement for Medlicott and six and a half months for myself. Against these findings we both naturally appealed. The whole affair had been unjust in the extreme. In the first place, the proceedings had been conducted in German, of which Medlicott understood next to nothing. We were allowed no defending lawyer; and, finally, our request to call witnesses in our defense was disallowed. CHAPTER XV. THE LAST OF FORT 9 One day at the beginning of May 1917 an incident occurred in the fort which ultimately led to the removal of the English and Russian prisoners to other camps and to our escape _en route_. I never saw or knew exactly how it started, as I was playing tennis in the court below. But it appears that some thirty or forty men of mixed nationalities were walking on the pathway which ran round the rampart above us, and everything seemed quite normal and peaceful, when a shot was heard from outside the fort. This was not such an unusual occurrence as to cause us to stop our tennis; but when a few seconds later we heard another shot, and there seemed to be considerable excitement among the other prisoners on the rampart, we left the tennis with one accord and ran up the steep stairway on to the rampart. The first thing I saw was a group of excited Frenchmen, some apparently furiously angry, but all laughing, gesticulating, and cursing in French and German in the direction of the outer courtyard of the fort, which was 30 or 40 feet below them and perhaps 70 yards away. Just as we arrived on the scene, they ducked behind the parapet and a bullet whistled over our heads. They jumped up like Jack-in-the-boxes, and the cursing broke out anew. I had a cautious look over the parapet, and saw the German guard with the _Feldwebel_ drawn up in the outer court. There seemed to be a good deal of excitement and shouting going on, but as they did not appear to be going to shoot again, the Frenchmen and I and several others who had crowded to the parapet, after shouting out to the Germans what we thought of them, moved away. Just at that moment Dessaux, a French artillery lieutenant, strolled up with his hands in his pockets and walked towards the parapet. At the same moment I caught sight of the sentry on the center "caponnière," who was less than 30 yards off and standing on the mound above us, making preparations to shoot. He had his hand on the bolt of his rifle, and glanced towards the courtyard below, whence it seemed he was being urged to fire. Then he came forward a few steps in a sort of crouching attitude and snapped a cartridge into his rifle. I was about 5 yards from Dessaux at the moment, and yelled at him to look out as the fellow ran forward. Dessaux looked up and, seeing the sentry putting up his rifle, crouched behind a traverse of the parapet as the fellow fired. The bullet crashed into a chimney-pot just behind. Dessaux sat there laughing. The sentry reloaded his rifle and glanced about him at a crowd of angry men, who were threatening and cursing him in four languages from every side. For a moment it looked as though the sentry would be rushed, when a German N.C.O. came running up the stairway, amid a hail of curses, and stopped the man from firing again. I remember one Russian pointing his finger and shrieking "Schwein!" "Schwein!" at the N.C.O. as he went by. At that moment a Frenchman, Commandant Collet, rushed up to me and said, "Did you see what happened?" I gave a brief account of it. "Come to the bureau," he said, "and we will tell them what we think of them;" and we ran down to the bureau together. In the bureau there was already a small crowd of excited Frenchmen in front of the barrier. The bureau was a small, narrow room with a barrier like a shop counter about one-half of the way down it. There was only one door to the room, and at the far end, on the clerks' and office side of the barrier, was a huge, heavily barred window, typical of all the windows in the fort. Collet pushed his way to the barrier through the other Frenchmen, and addressed the sergeant-clerk (a Saxon, and the only decent German in the place). At that moment the _Feldwebel_ pushed his way in, white in the face and fingering his revolver; it was no place for him outside, and he was met by a storm of curses and threats. "If one of our officers is touched," said Collet, "if one is wounded, I swear to you that we will come immediately and kill every man in this bureau." Both the sergeant-clerk and the _Feldwebel_ understood him, and he repeated it several times to make sure that they did. The sergeant-clerk tried to pacify him, but we pushed our way out of the bureau. One result of this row was that the bars were taken out of the big window at the back of the bureau to provide a back means of escape for the bureau staff. A second important result was that, when we came to compare notes, we found we had a very good case against the _Feldwebel_, the charge being, "Instigating his men to murder." There was a prisoner in the fort, an Alsatian, Stoll by name, who spoke German perfectly, German being his native language, though I doubt if he would allow that. At the time when the guard was being changed and the row started, he was sitting in our reading-room, of which the window was not more than 40 yards away from where the _Feldwebel_ was making a speech to the guard. The Alsatian overheard and was able to take down nearly every word of the speech, which was something as follows: "The prisoners you have to guard are criminals--you are to lose no opportunity of using your arms against them--be suspicious of everything they do--everything is an attempt to escape; therefore you must shoot to kill whenever possible." At that moment the _Feldwebel_ caught sight of a group of Frenchmen standing on the parapet above, who were laughing among themselves (they swore afterwards that they were offering no provocation whatever). The _Feldwebel_ thought they were mocking the guard, and gave orders to the sentry in the courtyard to fire. The first shot the man fired over their heads without taking careful aim. After that, when the Frenchmen bobbed up again from behind the parapet, both sides cursed and shouted. Two more well-aimed shots followed; then the _Feldwebel_, seeing, I think, that there was small chance of hitting any one when there was a parapet to duck behind, shouted repeatedly to the man on the center "caponnière" to fire, with the result I have already described. Fourteen of us made out accurate affidavits in German of what we had seen, and sent them in to the general in charge of the camp, demanding an inquiry, if there was such a thing as justice in Germany. About a fortnight later, a rumor went round, which was confirmed after a few days, that all the Russian and English prisoners were to be moved to other camps. The news caused a great sensation, as most of us had considered that we were fixtures in Fort 9 till the end of the war, or till we could escape. Some of the Russians and all the English were most suspicious characters, and we could scarcely expect to be insufficiently guarded on our railway journey. Nevertheless, we all went into strict training. Two days before we went, we were informed that we were being sent to Zorndorf. Buckley had been a prisoner there before coming to Fort 9, and said that it was a most intolerable place, and that the change we were making was distinctly for the worse. Nothing would induce him to go back there, he said, without making an effort, however hopeless, to escape _en route_. He and I joined forces, having no very definite plans. The train would take us directly away from the Swiss frontier. It was to our advantage, then, to get off the train as soon as possible; for, besides the extra distance every moment in the train put between us and the frontier, we had no maps of the country north of Ingolstadt. From Ingolstadt to the frontier was about 130 miles, or rather more, and for all that part I not only had excellent maps which had been sent out to me from home, but from other prisoners who had attempted to escape in that direction we had accurate and detailed knowledge of the whole route from Fort 9 to the frontier. Buckley and I decided to get off the train at the first opportunity, and then, if the distance were not too great, to walk. If it was too far to walk, we should have to risk jumping or taking a train. All the details we had to leave to circumstances. We had this in our favor, that we both talked German fairly fluently and well enough, with luck, to pass for Germans if only a few words were needed. Against us was the fact that, as we were going officially by train, we had to be in almost full uniform. By dint of continually wearing grey flannels, the English had induced the Germans to believe that gray flannels was part of the English uniform. I struck a bargain with a Frenchman for a Tyrolese hat, and Buckley very ingeniously made himself a very German-looking hat out of an old straw hat and some cloth. For food, we both stuffed the pockets of our tunics full of chocolate and condensed foods. Besides this I carried a home-made haversack full of biscuits and raw bacon, and Buckley had a small dispatch-case in which he had mainly condensed food--oxo cubes, Horlick's malted milk, meat lozenges, etc. Thus equipped, and with Burberrys to cover our uniforms, we thought we should pass as Germans in the dark. Our outfit was far from being all that could be desired; but it is hard to see how we could have carried more food, or more suitable clothes, even if we had possessed them, without raising suspicion as we left the fort. We were not the only party which was making preparations to escape. Medlicott and Wilkin certainly had something on--I don't know what the scheme was, though I have a sort of idea they intended to try and get off near an aerodrome in the neighborhood of Berlin. Gaskell and May had some ideas of a bolt on the way up from the station at the other end. Buckley and I also intended to bolt there, if we could not get off before. Then there were the Russians. There were several parties among them, good fellows too and reliable, but perfectly certain to make a mess of any scheme they went for. It was most important to see that they did not spoil any good chance that might come along by prematurely doing something absolutely mad. As a general rule, however, they placed great reliance on our superior judgment, and we thought we could keep them in hand. The general opinion was that we should never have the ghost of an opportunity, and when we saw our guard on the morning of May 22nd we almost gave up hope. Our heavy luggage had been sent on early. Wilkin, by the way, had an enormous wooden box with secret hiding-places all over it which were stuffed full of maps and tools for cutting iron bars, etc., all of which latter he had made and tempered himself. He was also an expert locksmith and had a large assortment of skeleton keys. As our names were called, we passed through the iron gate over the moat and stood in the outer courtyard, surrounded by a guard of fifteen efficient-looking Huns who were to escort us. There were only thirty of us going, so we considered fifteen guards and an officer rather excessive. One amusing incident happened before we marched off. One of the Frenchmen took a Russian's place, dressed in Russian uniform, and came out when the Russian's name was called. He was recognized, however, by the sergeant, who was no fool, and pushed back into the fort amid shouts of laughter. After some delay the Russian was found and brought out. We had a 7-mile walk to the station and, as always in Germany, a two hours' wait there. We spent those two hours infuriating the officer in charge of us by taking as little notice as possible of any orders that he gave us, and by talking or shouting to all the French, Russian, or English Tommies who passed us in working parties from the large soldier prisoner-of-war camp at Ingolstadt. At last we were rather tightly packed into quite decent second-class carriages. Six of the English got together in one carriage, and a sentry was put in with us. We edged up and gave him the corner seat next the corridor, and another sentry marched up and down the corridor outside. At the first review the situation seemed rather hopeless. The only chance was a large plate-glass window of the normal type, which we were compelled to keep closed. There was not much chance of our fellow going to sleep, with the sentry in the corridor continually looking in. German sentries always work in pairs like that, and usually one would report the other without hesitation. There was no door in the side of the carriage opposite to the corridor. Just before we started, the officer came in; he had been fussing round a great deal, and was obviously very anxious and nervous. Prisoners from Fort 9 had a bad reputation. He asked if we were comfortable. I answered yes for the party, and told him that we strongly objected to being shouted at, as he had shouted at us in the station. He apologized. It was only his way he said. We had disobeyed orders and he had got angry and then he always shouted. He hoped that now we would have a comfortable quiet journey and no more trouble. I said he would not help matters anyhow by shouting--as it only made us laugh. He took this rebuke quite well and went off. I am afraid he had a good deal of trouble ahead of him, and I have no doubt he shouted at frequent intervals most of that journey. As we got into Nüremberg, the first large town, about 70 miles north of Ingolstadt, it was beginning to get dark. There we waited for two hours or more. Up to that time no incident of any interest had occurred, and the chance of escape had been very small. It was hardly worth it in the daylight, and we were now a devilish long way from the frontier. However, Buckley and I decided that if we got an opportunity any time during the night we would take it. After leaving Nüremberg we went slowly through a fairly dark night. It was not too dark to see that we were traveling through a well-wooded and rather hilly country, and our hopes began to rise. On leaving Nüremberg, Buckley and I took the two corner seats near the window. It had been decided in the carriage that as Buckley and I were best prepared, both in the matter of food and by the fact that we alone talked German, the others should give every assistance in their power to get us away. They were a good lot of fellows in that carriage, and the spirit of self-sacrifice which existed in Fort 9, where three nationalities were crowded together, was beyond anything which one could possibly have anticipated. Escaping came before everything, and was an excuse for any discomforts which one or two members might bring on the rest of the community. If you wished for help, almost any man in the fort would have helped you blindly, regardless of consequences. CHAPTER XVI WE ESCAPE Towards midnight, after we had shut our eyes for an hour to try and induce the sentry to go to sleep, I hit on a plan, which I believe now to have been the only possible solution of the problem. There were six of us and a sentry in a small corridor carriage, so that we were rather crowded; both racks were full of small baggage, and there was a fair litter on the floor. When the train next went slowly, and when I considered the moment had come, I was to give the word by saying to the sentry, in German of course, "Will you have some food? we are going to eat." Then followed five or ten minutes of tense excitement, when we tried to keep up a normal conversation but could think of nothing to say. Medlicott had the happy thought of giving me some medicine out of his case, which came in most useful; but all he could say was, "It's a snip, you'll do it for a certainty." Suddenly the train began to slow up. "Now?" I said to Buckley, and he nodded, so I leant across and said to the sentry, "Wir wollen essen; wollen Sie etwas nehmen?" Then every one in the carriage with one accord stood up and pulled their stuff off the racks. The sentry also stood up, but was almost completely hidden from the window by a confused mass of men and bags. Buckley and I both stood up on our seats. I slipped the strap of my haversack over my shoulder--we both of us already had on our Burberrys--pushed down the window, put my leg over, and jumped into the night. I fell--not very heavily--on the wires at the side of the track, and lay still in the dark shadow. Three seconds later Buckley came flying out of the window, and seemed to take rather a heavy toss. The end of the train was not yet past me, and we knew there was a man with a rifle in the last carriage; so when Buckley came running along the track calling out to me, I caught him and pulled him into the ditch at the side. The train went by, and its tail lights vanished round a corner and apparently no one saw or heard us. Whether the sentry saw us get out, neither Buckley nor I ever knew, but anyhow I think Medlicott had him pretty well wedged up in the corner. There must have been an amusing scene in the carriage after we left, and I am ready to bet that the officer shouted a bit.[5] As soon as the train was ought of sight, Buckley and I walked back down the track for a couple of hundred yards and cut across country in a southwest direction. There was no danger from any pursuit from the train. It was a darkish night, and there were pine forests in all directions. A hundred men chasing us would not have caught us. Besides, if they sent any of our guard after us, more prisoners would escape. Under a convenient hedge we made the few changes which were necessary in our clothes, threw away our military caps, and got out our compasses and a very poor sketch map of Buckley's, which was to serve us as a guide for the next hundred kilometres and more, till we could use our proper maps. We were, we reckoned, between 10 and 15 miles almost due north of Nüremberg. We would have to skirt this town--though we discussed the advisability of walking straight into Nüremberg and doing a short railway journey from there before any alarm or description of us could have reached the place. We had such a long way to go, and so little food considering the distance. But we could not bring ourselves to risk so much so soon after getting our liberty. "It is doubtful anyhow," we said, "whether it would be a judicious move; let's have a week's freedom at any rate before we take so great a risk." Considering the nature of the country, we thought we had an excellent chance of not being caught till our food ran out, if we took every precaution and had no bad luck. It was so extraordinarily pleasant to be free men once more, if only for a short time. _First Night._--This was entirely without incident; we marched by compass, mainly by tracks through pine forests, and frequently caught sight of the lights of Nüremberg on our left. Just before dawn we lay up in a pleasant coppice a hundred yards or so from the edge of a quiet country road. We took the precaution of sprinkling some pepper on our tracks where we entered the wood, and thus, to some extent guarded against stray dogs, we felt pretty secure. The day seemed intolerably long from 4.30 a.m. till 9.30 p.m.--seventeen hours; the sun was very hot and there was very little shade, and we were impatient to get on. Our water-bottles too held insufficient water: we only had about one and a quarter pint between us, Buckley having a small flask and I a watertight tobacco tin. Throughout the journey I think it was the weariness of lying up for seventeen hours, rather than the fatigue of the six to seven hours' march at night, which wore out not only our nerves but our physical strength. At no time of any day could we be free from anxiety. The strain of passing through a village where a few lights still burnt, or crossing a bridge where we expected to be challenged at any moment, never worried me so much, under the friendly cover of night, as a cart passing or men talking near our hiding-place. The general routine which we got into after about the third day out was as follows:--We went into our hiding-place at dawn or shortly after, that is to say, between 4.30 and 5.15, and after taking off our boots and putting on dry socks we both dropped asleep instantly. This may seem a dangerous thing to have done. One of us ought always to have been awake. But the risk we ran in this way was very small indeed, and the benefit we got from that first sound sleep, while we were still warm from walking, was so great that we deliberately took whatever risk there was: it was almost non-existent. Nothing ever seemed to stir in the countryside till after 6.30. During the rest of the day one of us always remained awake. After half an hour's sleep we would wake shivering, for the mornings were very cold, and we were usually wet from the dew up to our waists. Then we had breakfast--the great moment of the day. At the beginning rations were pretty good, as I underestimated the time we should take by about four days. To begin with, I thought we should come within range of our maps on the third night, but we did not get on them till the fifth. Half a pound of chocolate, two small biscuits, a small slice of raw bacon, six oxo cubes and about ten tiny meat lozenges and a few Horlick's malted milk lozenges--this was the full ration for the day. We never had more than this, and very soon had to cut it down a good deal. We varied this diet with compressed raisins, cheese, or raw rice instead of the meat or chocolate. The oxo cubes and half the chocolate we almost always took during the night, dissolving the former in our water-flasks. Later on, when things began to look very serious from the food point of view, we helped things out with raw potatoes, but I will come to that later on. On the first day we took careful stock of our food, which we redistributed and packed; and then decided-- (1) that we had at a guess about 200 miles to walk; (2) that we would make for the German Swiss and not the Austrian Swiss frontier; (3) that we would walk with the utmost precaution and not take a train or try to jump a train till we were at the end of our tether; (4) that by walking round Nüremberg we should be sure to hit a good road taking us south or southwest; (5) that we would not start to walk before 9.30 in the open country, or 9.45 if there were villages in the neighborhood (we broke this rule twice, and it nearly finished the expedition each time); (6) that we would never walk through a village before 11 p.m. if we could help it; (7) last, but not least, that we would always take the counsel of the more cautious of the two at any moment. A very large percentage of the officers in the fort where we had been prisoners for the last six months had made attempts and had marched through Germany towards different frontiers for periods varying from a few hours to three or four weeks, so that we had a great quantity of accumulated experience to help us. For instance--contrary to what one would naturally suppose--it was safest and quickest to walk along railways--especially if you could answer with a word or two of German to any one who shouted to you. And there was the additional advantage that the chance of losing the way along a railway was very small. _Second Night._--We started from our hiding-place about 9.30 p.m. and made our way for a mile or two across country and through woods, going with quite unnecessary caution till we hit a decent road going south, soon after ten o'clock. After walking fast along this for an hour or so we were going up a steepish hill when Buckley complained of feeling very tired. This was a bad start, but after resting a few minutes he was strong enough to go on and gradually got better towards the end of the night. From there onwards it was Buckley who was on the whole the stronger walker, at least he had most spare energy, which showed itself in those little extra exertions which mean so much--such as climbing a few yards down a river bank to get water for both, and being the first to suggest starting again after a rest. Of course we varied, and sometimes I and sometimes he was the stronger--and there is no doubt that between us we made much better progress than either one of us could have done alone. About 11.30 we got rather unexpectedly into a large village and had to walk boldly through the middle of it. There were one or two people about, but no one stopped or questioned us. A little later we crossed a railway which ran slightly south of west, and hesitated whether to take it on the chance of hitting a branch line leading south, but we decided to stick to the road. An hour or so later, however, the road itself turned almost due west, and we were forced to take a poor side road, which gradually developed into a track and then became more and more invisible till it lost itself and us in the heart of a pine forest. We then marched by compass, following rides which led in a south or southwest direction. [Illustration: SKETCH-MAP SHOWING ROUTE OF ESCAPE FROM GERMANY] I afterwards found out by studying the map that there are no main roads or railways leading in a south or southwest direction through that bit of country. Time after time during the first five nights we were compelled to take side roads which led nowhere in particular, and we found ourselves tripping over hop-poles and wires, or in private property, or in the middle of forests. Towards 5 o'clock we were getting to the edge of this piece of forest, and lay up in a thick piece of undergrowth, and heather--a very pleasant spot, though we were rather short of water, not having found any in the forest. The day, a very hot one, passed without incident, though several carts and people passed within 25 yards of our hiding-place. _Third Night._--About 9 o'clock we were absolutely sick of lying still, and very thirsty. As the whole place seemed deserted we decided to start walking. We soon found a stream, and after quenching our thirst walked by compass and hit a main road leading slightly east of south about half a mile farther on. We found ourselves on the northeast side of a valley about a mile broad which had the appearance of a marsh or irrigation meadow covered with rank grass. On either side were hills covered with thick pine woods. The only thing to do was to go along the road, even if it did lead slightly east of south. I may say here that we badly miscalculated the distance the train had brought us north on my maps. We hoped during this third night to see on a sign-post the name of a town mentioned on the map which would tell us where we were, and for this purpose we had learnt by heart the names of all the towns and villages along the northern border of the map. It was all a question of time and food, and progress through pine forests by compass was very slow work. It was therefore essential to hit a main road going south as soon as possible, and we determined to ask our way. As we were filling our water-bottles from a rivulet at the side of the road a man and a boy came by on bicycles. I hailed them and asked what the name of the village was which we could see in the distance. They got off their bicycles and came towards us, and the man answered some name which I did not quite catch. Then he looked curiously at us and said: "Sie sind Ausländer" (You are foreigners). "No, we aren't," I said; "we are North Germans on a walking tour and have lost our way." "Sie sind Ausländer," he answered in a highly suspicious voice. Buckley said he did not care a damn what he thought, and I added that just because we did not speak his filthy Bavarian dialect he took us for foreigners, "Good evening"--and we walked off down the road. He stood looking after us, but we both had thick sticks and he could not have stopped us whatever he may have thought. We walked till we were out of sight round a bend and then, perforce, as the open valley was on our right, turned left-handed and northwards into the pine forest. During the next hour and a half we made a huge left-handed circle, always with the fear upon us of being chased. Several times we thought we heard men and dogs after us, and in several different places we covered our tracks with pepper. It was a thoroughly unpleasant experience, but about 11.30 we felt sure we had thrown off any pursuers and determined to walk in the right direction. We should have done this before, only the valley lay right across our path. We struck a high road leading almost south, and soon afterwards found ourselves entering a village. It was a long, straggling village, and before we were half-way through dogs began to bark. We hurried on and got through without seeing any men. After a mile or two the road turned almost east, and we suddenly found ourselves on the same old spot where we had spoken to the man. We kept on down the road and avoided the next village by an awful detour through thick pine woods and over very rough country, and then hitting the road again we crossed to the southwest side of the valley and made good progress along pathways and tracks in an almost southerly direction. At every sign-post Buckley used to stand on my shoulders, and with the help of a match read out the names and distances whilst I took them down for comparison with my map in the day time. About 2 o'clock we cut at right angles into a main road going east and west. I insisted on taking this, arguing that we had already marched too much east and that our only chance of hitting a south-leading road lay in marching west till we hit one. After a short time the road turned south and we made excellent progress till 5 o'clock, when we passed through a village in which we dared not stop to examine the sign-post, and lay up on a wooded hill on the south of it. Only one incident frightened us a good deal. It was getting towards morning when we saw a man with a gun approaching us along the road. However, he passed with a gruff "Good morning," which we answered. We found ourselves when morning came, in an almost ideal spot for "lying up," and could sit in safety at the edge of our coppice and see the country for miles to the east of us. I was lying there studying the map, hoping, in vain as it proved, to find on it some of the names which we had taken down from sign-posts, when it suddenly occurred to me that the valley at which we were looking fitted in very well with one of the valleys on the northern edge of the map. After prolonged study we were unable to decide for certain--there were some annoying discrepancies; but "the wish is father to the thought," and we thought we were right. The next night's march would decide, anyhow. If we marched southwest through a pine forest for about an hour we would hit a road and a railway and a river all together, and then we would know where we were; and if we did not hit them, we should know we were still lost. _Fourth Night._--We started about 9.45, having learnt our lesson from the previous night, and after walking through a forest for over an hour, without coming across the desired road, river, and railway, we found ourselves falling over things like hop-poles with wires attached, and running up against private enclosures, and still in the middle of an almost trackless forest. Several times we had anxious moments with barking dogs. When we got clear of these my temper gave way and I sat down, being very tired, and cursed everything I could think of--forests, hop-poles, dogs, the roads, and Buckley. Buckley recovered himself first, telling me "not to be a fool," and we struggled on once more. From that night on we swore we would stick to the roads and have no more cross-country walking. I seem to remember that we zigzagged all over the place that night, always keeping to the roads, however, and walking fast. After midnight we came through several villages and started the dogs barking in each one. Once a man came out with a light and called after us; we said "good night" to him and pushed on, but it was most trying to the nerves. My God, how we loathed dogs! Later we came on a valley in which was a river 20 yards, or more broad. Our road passed through a village at a bridge-head, from which came sounds of revelry and lights were showing; so we turned off, and instantly got into the middle of a perfect network of hop-poles. Eventually we found a bridge lower down near an old mill. There was a road running parallel with the river on the far side, and something above it which on investigating turned out to be a railway. The question was, "Is this the valley we are looking for?" It soon turned out that it was not. The direction which the line took after we had followed it eastwards for several miles decided the question, and after going a mile out of our way back to the river to get water, we took a good road leading south. We were both very tired, and struggled on, with great difficulty and several rests, up a steep hill through the longest village I have ever seen. It seemed miles and miles, and dogs barked the whole way. The villages about here had drinking-troughs for horses at the street sides, which were a great boon to us. Soon after dawn we got into an excellent hiding-place without further adventures. We were very exhausted, and were beginning to feel the lack of food. The cross-country marches of the last two nights had been a heavy tax on our strength. We were not yet on our maps, and the most moderate estimate of the distance from the Swiss frontier, when considered in relation to our food supply, made it necessary to cut down our ration very considerably from this time onwards. We were much worried during that day by shooting which went on in the wood round us. It is the German habit to go out shooting for the pot on Sundays, and many escaping prisoners had been recaught in this way. We had to lie consequently most of the day with our boots on, prepared to bolt at any moment. However, our hiding-place was good, and though men and carts passed close to us, I don't think we ran much risk of being found. _Fifth Night._--The first village we came to lay across a stream in the middle of a broad and marshy valley. It was about 11 o'clock, and as we approached we heard sounds of music, singing, and laughter coming from the village. It was Sunday night, and I suppose there was a dance on or something of the sort--it was too much for us at any rate, and as there seemed no way round owing to the river, we sat down in a clump of trees outside the village and waited. About 11.30 the sounds died down and just before 12 o'clock we got through the village without mishap, though we passed two or three people. We were making excellent progress along a good straight road which ran, for a wonder, in the right direction, when suddenly we heard a whistle from the woods on our left and ahead of us--the whistle was answered from our rear. We are fairly caught this time, we thought, but we walked steadily on. We had big sticks and the woods were thick at the sides of the road. There were more whistles from different sides, and then just as we were passing the spot where we had heard the first whistle a line of men came out of the woods in Indian file and made straight for us. There were ten or twelve of them trotting in a crouching attitude. They passed a yard or two behind us, crossed the road, and disappeared into a corn field on the other side. "Boy scouts, begorra," said Buckley. "I wish we were well out of this," I said. "I hope to heaven the little devils won't make it part of the night operations to arrest every one coming down that road. If we have to knock out some of them, the villagers would murder us; and we should never shake them off, once they had an inkling of what we were; I would rather tackle men any day." Buckley agreed heartily, and we walked on fast. Several times afterwards those cursed whistles sounded, but we gradually left them behind. At last we hit a railway, running east and west, of course. Our road here took a right-angle turn and ran beside the railway, and we were compelled to take a much worse road leading uphill among trees. The road gradually got worse. We soon recognized the symptoms. How often in the last few days had we followed roads which degenerated by slow degrees and ended by entangling us in hop-poles and private gardens in a forest! A quarter of an hour later this one proved itself to be no exception to the rule. Buckley was all for pushing on by compass through the forest. I absolutely refused, and after some argument we decided to retrace our steps to the railway and follow it westwards. This we did, and after walking several miles along the railway we took a good road which ran north and south, cutting the railway at right angles. After walking for an hour or more along this road we came to a milestone which, as usual, we inspected carefully. On it were the words: _Gunzenhausen, 8 Kilometres_. We could have shouted for joy. Gunzenhausen was marked on the northern edge of my map. We knew where we were. It is impossible to describe what a difference this knowledge made to us. For the last three days we had been oppressed by the feeling that we were lost, that we were walking aimlessly, that we were continually on the wrong road and using up our food and strength in making detours. For the future we would know that every step we took would be one step nearer the frontier, and during the day we could lie and plan out our route for the following night--we could make fairly accurate calculations with regard to food--in fact, the whole problem of distance and food supplies was now clear and simple, and we had some chocolate to celebrate the occasion. At the next village we saw by a sign-post that the road to Gunzenhausen turned almost due west. I wished to go straight on southwards down a decent road, but Buckley wished to go for Gunzenhausen, the only name which we knew as yet. After a rather heated argument I gave way. Our tempers were rather irritable, but we were never angry with each other for more than five minutes, and as soon as we had recovered our tempers we used to apologize. We almost walked into a sentry in Gunzenhausen before we knew we were in the town. However, we retreated, and making a short detour lay up in a small oak wood about 3 miles south of the town, having accomplished that night a very good march. The place where we were hiding was by no means an ideal spot, as the undergrowth was not very thick. It was rather an anxious day, as we again heard shooting in the woods in the neighborhood, but no one disturbed us. After a careful study of the map we found that, by cutting across in a southwest direction about five miles of flat, low-lying country, we would hit a railway which went due south to Donnauwörth, about 60 miles away. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 5: I have learnt since from Major Gaskell that nearly a minute elapsed before the sentry realized that we had departed. After the discovery there was a good deal of ill-feeling, which was accentuated by two Russians escaping in much the same manner an hour later, but they were recaptured.] CHAPTER XVII THROUGH BAVARIA BY NIGHT _Sixth night._--The walk across the plain took us nearly two hours. Much of it was very marshy, and it was all sopping wet with dew, so that, before reaching the railway, we were wet to the waist. There was also a nasty obstacle in the shape of a canal. The only bridge was almost in a village, and as we approached, all the dogs in the place began to bark, so we tried to cross in an old punt which we found. Getting this afloat, however, made so much noise that we desisted and made for the bridge, which we crossed without mishap in spite of a regular chorus of dogs. Thank Heaven, they appeared to be all chained up. All the rest of the night we walked along the railway. Twice men in signal-boxes or guard-houses called after us. We always answered something in German and then made a short detour round the next building, small station, guardhouse, or signal-box which we came to. In every one of them there was a dog which barked as we passed. The detours wasted much time and were very tiring, so we deliberately took more risks and walked straight on, in spite of the dogs, as long as we neither saw nor heard a human being. That day we lay up in a lonely spot in a thickish wood on one side of a railway cutting overlooking the town of Treuchtlingen. Treuchtlingen was only marked as a small village on our maps, but it turned out to be a huge junction with an enormous amount of rolling stock and many sidings--all quite newly built, we thought--almost certainly since the war started. _Seventh Night._--As we thought we should run less risks, this apparently being a line of military importance and therefore possibly guarded, we decided to take a main road rather than follow the railway. We marched all night without incident and towards morning at the village of Monheim we turned back to the railway in order to reach some woods which were marked on the map. The woods turned out to be most unsuitable for our purpose. They were mostly well-grown oak or pine with no undergrowth whatever. Daylight found us still hunting for a decent hiding-place. At length we decided the best we could do was to lie between the edge of a wood and a barley field, a most exposed position if anyone should come that way. Soon we had no chance of changing our position if we would, as women at a very early hour began to work in the field within 100 yards of us. About 4 o'clock in the afternoon we heard a movement in the woods behind us. We had rigged up a sort of screen of boughs on that side, but we could scarcely hope that anyone would pass without seeing us if they came close. For an hour or more we lay not daring to move, and at length saw an old woman gathering sticks. She came nearer and nearer, and suddenly looked up and saw us. We were pretending to be half-asleep, basking in the sun, so we just nodded to her and said "Good-day." She said something in patois which I did not quite catch, about sheep or shepherds. I said "Ja wohl," and she moved off rather quickly we thought, but it may have been that our guilty consciences made it seem so, and soon afterwards we heard her speaking to someone way off. As soon as she was out of sight we thought it best to move. There was no possible hiding-place to go to, so we walked farther into the wood and selecting the largest tree sat down one each side of the trunk. Our idea was to play hide-and-seek round the tree if anyone came by or if the old woman came back; and if there was a systematic search to trust to our legs. We had over four hours to wait before it would become dark and before we could feel at all safe. I think the old woman came back to the spot where we had been lying, but finding us gone did not trouble to search for us. _Eighth Night._--We got away from the wood about 9.30, and all that night we walked along the railway. I have rather a hazy recollection of the night's march, but as far as I remember it was quite without incident. Just north of Donnauwörth we had to cross an iron bridge over a tributary of the Danube, 100 yards or more long, and thinking it might be guarded we stalked it with the utmost care. There was no one there, however, but when half a mile beyond it, we thought we ought to have taken a branch line farther back; so we crossed the bridge again, each time making noise enough to wake the dead with our nailed boots on the iron. After another prolonged study of the map, I found we had been right after all, and for the third time we crossed that beastly bridge. Studying the map at night was no easy matter. The method was for me to sit down in a convenient ditch or hollow, and for Buckley to put his Burberry over my head. I then did the best I could by match-light. A few miles north of Donnauwörth we turned off to the right and marched at a distance of a few miles parallel to the north bank of the Danube. Just before morning it began to rain and we got into a good hiding-place in thick undergrowth, wet through and very tired. It was a miserable morning, but about 9 the sun came out and dried us and cheered us up. For the last few nights my feet had been gradually getting worse. The backs of both heels seemed to be bruised, and from this night onwards the first half-hour's walk every night caused me intense pain. Once I was warmed up, the pain became less acute, but every step jarred me and sent a shooting pain up my legs. I was wearing boots I had bought in Germany and the heelings had sunk into a hollow, so that the weight of every step came on the very back of the heel. I am sure this made the marching very much more fatiguing for me than it would otherwise have been. We were not disturbed that day, and as we had a lot of bare country to walk over, we started rather earlier the next night. _Ninth Night._--The problem before us was how to cross the Danube, which about here was 200 to 300 yards broad. We thought it was only too probable that all the bridges would be guarded. Fifteen miles or rather more from where we were, the light railway, which we had been following for the last two nights, crossed the Danube. Within a mile of that railway bridge another foot or road bridge was marked on our map, but the insignificance of the roads or rather tracks which appeared to lead to this bridge made us doubt the existence of a 300-yard bridge in such an out-of-the-way bit of country. However, if it did not exist, we could always try by the railway. Some 8 miles from our hiding-place the light railway turned gradually south and crossed the Danube about 7 miles farther on. If we followed the railway and branched off from it when we were within a mile or two of the river it seemed impossible that we could lose our way. The night was a very dark one as there was a thick mist, but we made excellent progress, walking sometimes on the road and sometimes along the railway. About midnight we began to think it was time that the line should take the southerly bend as marked on the sketch map, and every ten minutes or so we took compass bearings of its direction. However, we knew by experience how easy it is for tired men to overrate the distance they have walked. I got into a ditch and looked at my map, and there was no other railway shown on it. At 1 o'clock we found ourselves walking north of west, and realized definitely that we were wrong somehow. Some arc lights showed dimly through the mist on our left. We walked on cautiously, and as so often happens in a thick mist found ourselves with extraordinary suddenness within 150 yards of some huge sheds each surrounded by five or six electric lights. What they were we neither knew at the time nor found out later. I had another look at the map and came to the correct conclusion that we had followed an unmarked branch line. We had just started back, when we caught a glimpse of a man. He was coming from the direction of the sheds, in a crouching attitude, and had a gun in his hands. He was about 100 yards away and it was certain that he could see us very indistinctly, because of the mist. So we ran. Once out of range of the arc lights he had no chance of finding us. From there we cut across country by compass, and half an hour later hit the railway east of Gundelfingel. At one time we had hoped to cross the Danube that night, but losing our way had made this out of the question. It was even doubtful now whether we should reach the woods on this side of the Danube, but we were most anxious to get to them, as it looked from the map as if the country between would be rather bare of hiding-places. For this reason we took rather more risks and walked boldly through the dark stations. At one place two men were about to cross the railway, but when they saw us coming they turned and ran. It was quite comforting to think that we had frightened someone. At dawn we were still on the line, and the country seemed most unpromising for lying up. The mist was still pretty thick, and during the next hour it got thicker. One could see about 100 yards, and we never knew from one moment to another what we might run into. After half-past five, for instance, we suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a village, probably Peterswörth, and as we hurried down a street we had no idea whether we were walking farther into a small town or through a small village. The mist, though it hid us to a certain extent, at the same time made it quite impossible to see what sort of country it was and to select a hiding-place. We knew there were woods ahead, and the only thing to do was to push on till we came to them. The thick mist had the curious effect of making it appear that there were woods on all sides of us. We several times turned off only to find that the imaginary woods retreated as we advanced. The worst of it was that, as can well be imagined, we were quite unfit to be seen, and a single glimpse of us must inevitably arouse suspicion. Clad in filthy khaki, filthy ourselves, limping along with ten days' growth of beard on our faces, and thick sticks in our hands, we were figures such as might well cause anxiety in a quiet neighborhood. It was after 6 o'clock and broad daylight when we reached the woods. The undergrowth was thick and rank, and most of the ground almost a swamp. It was a most unpleasant spot, though pretty safe as a hiding-place. The day was a hot one, and we were pestered all day by stinging insects. Our faces and hands, and, when we took off our boots, our feet too, became swollen and pimpled all over from the bites. The bites on my feet came up in blisters which broke when I put on my boots and left raw places. As the insect bites did not seem to affect Buckley's feet to the same extent, he lent me his slippers. Slippers of some sort are almost an essential part of one's equipment. You can neither rest your feet nor dry your boots if you keep your boots on in the day. In this and every other way Buckley showed himself the most unselfish and cheering companion imaginable. That day we tried boiling some rice, using as fuel some solidified alcohol which we had; but it was not a success, as we had not sufficient fuel and all the wood in the place was wet. After a miserable day we started to hunt for our bridge, with faces, feet, and hands swollen and aching and clothes and boots still damp from the night before. _Tenth Night._--After a two hours' walk we found the bridge. It was a wooden one, with a broad road and a footpath on it. It was the biggest wooden bridge I have ever seen. There seemed to be no guard on it, so we walked across. As we were in the middle we suddenly saw a man coming to meet us, and thought we were fairly collared. Bluff was the only hope, so we walked straight on. The man turned out to be a young peasant, who took no notice of us, and we reached the other bank with a sigh of relief. After passing through Offingen we had to thread our way through a network of country lanes and small villages. We walked straight through them, for we now realized more clearly than ever that, if we were to reach the frontier on the food we had, we could afford very little time for detours. Sometimes we would get half-way through before a dog would bark and start all the rest, but usually we marched through to a chorus of barking dogs. It was a terrible strain on the nerves, but not, I think, so dangerous as one might imagine, as the dogs barked too often and too easily for their masters to be roused at one outburst of barking. Still, it effectually prevented us from ever trying to break into a house to get food. In one village we walked into five or six young men, soldiers on leave perhaps. There was no avoiding them, so we walked straight on through the middle of them, and said good evening as we passed. What they thought we were I don't know, but they did not try to stop us or call after us. At the next village, Goldbach by name, there were sounds of shouting and singing, so we made a long and difficult detour and most unfortunately came back on the wrong road on the far side--a very easy thing to do. We only discovered this an hour later, when the compass bearing of the road was found to be wrong. This necessitated a long and tiring cross-country march to reach the right road; and, very wet and tired, we got into an excellent hiding-place in a small spruce fir wood just after dawn. If ever we had to walk through standing crops--and this was unavoidable in any detour of cross-country march--we were always wet through to the waist from the dew. One notable thing happened just before we got into our hiding-place, which was to prove our salvation. We came across a field of potatoes. The haulm was on the average only 6 to 8 inches high, and no potatoes were as yet formed; but in most cases the old seed potato had not yet gone rotten, so we used to pick these out and replant the haulm. Much cheered by this addition to our rations, Buckley and I tramped on for another mile or so before selecting our hiding-place for the day. We ran little risk, as up the hill to our left were thick woods, on the edge of which we were walking, while on our right the ground sloped away over ploughed fields to a rich valley. Soon after dawn we found an almost ideal place in which to spend the day. It was a thick copse of small pine trees with thickish undergrowth, about a mile northeast of the village of Billenhausen--on the whole, about the pleasantest place we found during the expedition. Here Buckley, who has something of the boy scout in him, started to make a fire without smoke. I went outside to veto the fire if much smoke appeared above the tree-tops. It was most exasperating. On that still morning a thin column of smoke rose perpendicularly high above the trees. Buckley came out and had a look at it and agreed to abandon the fire, and to eat our potatoes raw. It was a warm, sunny day, and we remained quite undisturbed; so, at the usual hour, feeling much fresher and cheerier, and thanking God for the raw potatoes, we started off on our eleventh night's walk. _Eleventh Night._--We had another reason for feeling more hopeful, for the last two nights we had been walking south, and this night we expected to cut into the direct route from Ingolstadt to the frontier--a route which we had studied for months with the greatest care and almost knew by heart. Many other escaping prisoners had passed that way, and those who had been recaught (much the greater part of them, unfortunately) had given us the benefit of their experiences. After a short walk we came to Billenhausen, where many lights were showing, but through which it was necessary to pass, as we wished to cross the stream to the west bank, and the only bridge was in the middle of the village. After a council of war we decided to march boldly through at 10.30. This we did without attracting undue attention. It was always nervous work walking through a village when lights were showing and dogs barking. The risk, however, was not so great as it seemed, so long--and here was the danger--as we did not lose our way in the village and turn into a blind alley. After an hour or more along a good road we came on a light railway and followed that for some time, standing aside, I remember, at one place, to let a train pass. About midnight we saw the town of Krumbach ahead of us. Krumbach was on the route that we knew, so, leaving it on our left, we cut across country to our right, through some extremely wet crops, and hit the main road west of Krumbach. For the rest of the night, after crossing the river at Breitenthal, we made excellent progress, the road leading us through huge pine forests, and it was not until half an hour before dawn that we came out into more open country. It was then somewhat after 4.30. There was a steep hill in front of us with the village of Nordholz on a river at the bottom of it. There was an excellent hiding-place where we were, but on the far side of the village my map showed that there should be extensive woods. A village close in front of your hiding-place means a late start on the next night; but then we might find no suitable hiding-place on the far side--for not only had we little time to spare before people would be about, but also there was a thick mist, which, as we knew from our experience just before crossing the Danube, added greatly to the difficulties of finding a hiding-place. Buckley was for going on. I was for staying where we were, my vote being influenced by the fact that my feet had been more than usually painful that night. However, we went on, and half an hour later saw large woods through the mist on our left. On investigation they proved quite useless for hiding-place purposes. It was now becoming dangerously late, and when we had spent another ten minutes in a futile search we decided that we must return to the first place. At this hour in the morning it would be most dangerous to go back through the village, so we tried to go round it. After getting wet to the waist going through some meadows, we came to a river 5 yards broad, which looked very deep. Swimming was not to be thought of, as it was a very cold morning and we were exhausted, so we went back through the village the way we had come. It was 5.30 when we passed through and several people were about, but we met no one, and the mist hid us to a certain extent. At last, very tired indeed (for an hour we had been walking at high pressure), we threw ourselves down in our hiding-place. [Illustration: SKETCH-MAP SHOWING PLAN OF ESCAPE IN PALESTINE] We were awfully wet and cold, and after we had lain shivering with our teeth chattering for a couple of hours, the sun rose and drove away the mist. No sunlight reached our hiding-place, it was too thick, so we crept out to an open space in the wood and sunned ourselves. A little-used footpath ran close by us, and we soon considered the position we were in to be too dangerous, and retreated to the edge of the wood to a spot which was more or less screened by bushes from the path. I slept and Buckley watched. As we were lying there, a man with a gun, a forester probably, came along the path, and passed without seeing us. He could not have missed us if he had glanced our way. Buckley woke me, and we crept back into the dank wet undergrowth, feeling much annoyed with ourselves for the unnecessary risk we had taken. As the day got warmer we revived, and passed it not unpleasantly, and without further disturbance. Unfortunately, the night before we had been unable to collect potatoes, but we promised ourselves that in future one of our most urgent duties would be to collect a pocketful each. We believed then, but I don't know how true it is, that there were some very savage laws against the stealing of seed potatoes. If we were caught with potatoes on us, we could scarcely expect to be leniently treated, and our reception by the villagers was also doubtful; so we made arrangements to throw our potatoes away immediately if chased. CHAPTER XVIII THROUGH WURTEMBERG TO THE FRONTIER _Twelfth night._--Owing to a village in front of us, we had to make a late start. It was nearly 10.30 before we marched through without incident. Later on that night, between 1 and 2 a.m., we crossed the Iller at the large town of Illertissen, and though there were many street lamps burning, we met no one. This night's march and the next one were very weary marches for me, as my feet hurt me most abominably. Buckley was perfectly splendid, and though he must have been very tired, he was cheerful and encouraging the whole time. He allowed me to grumble, and did nearly all the dirty work, the little extra bits of exertion, which mean so much. We both of us found walking uphill rather a severe strain, even though the gradient was slight; still, we kept at it with very few rests all night. Early in the night we stole some potatoes and peeled and munched them as we marched. About this time we took to singing as we marched. Singing is, perhaps, rather a grandiloquent term for the noise--something between a hum and a moan--which we made. However, it seemed to help us along. Buckley taught me some remarkable nursery rhymes. One was about Jonah in the whale's belly, I remember; and we sang these and a few hymn tunes which we both happened to know. There was no danger in this--the sound of our feet on the road could be heard much farther than the song, and no one could possibly have recognized the words as English. After collecting a good supply of potatoes, we found a comfortable place to hide in some small fir trees and heather at the edge of a wood. For some hours we were made rather miserable by a heavy shower of rain, but when the sun came out towards midday we soon dried ourselves, and then, as usual, lay gasping and panting for the rest of the day. In undergrowth it is hard to find shade from a sun which is almost directly overhead. Our day's ration of water was very small, and I am sure that lying in the sun for eight or ten hours took a lot of strength out of us. I know that we started each night's march parched with thirst. I was, at this time, able to make a fairly accurate calculation of the time it would take us to reach the frontier, and found it necessary to cut down our rations once more. We hoped to make this up by eating largely of potatoes, for it was only too obvious that both of us were becoming weaker for the want of food. Food--that is to say, sausages, eggs, beef, and hot coffee--was a barred subject between us, but I remember thinking of several distinct occasions on which I had refused second helpings in pre-war days, and wondering how I could have been such a fool. We realized now that it would be necessary to lose no time at all if we were to reach the frontier before we starved. _Thirteenth Night._--Accordingly, the next night we walked through the village ahead of us at an earlier hour than that at which we usually entered villages. We saw and were seen by several people, but we walked at a good steady pace, when necessary talking to each other in German, and were past before they had had time to consider whether we looked a queer pair. We must have looked pretty good ruffians, as we had not washed or shaved, and had been in the open for close on a fortnight. About 3.30 a.m. we came to the large town of Biberach, and in the outskirts of the town we climbed down to the embankment from a bridge over the railway, and then followed the railway in a southwest direction till nearly 5 a.m. We lay up in a small copse about 60 by 40 yards, at the side of the railway. It proved to be a damp, midgy, and unpleasant spot, but we were undisturbed all day. _Fourteenth Night._--The next night we made an early start, walking parallel with the railway, on which we considered it dangerous to walk before 10.45, across some bare cultivated land, and thereby gained half an hour. For the rest of the night we followed the railway, passing through Aulendorf and Althausen. This railway runs east and west and is some 30 miles from Lake Constance. From here, for the first time, we caught sight of the mountains of Switzerland on the far side of the lake. A great thunderstorm was going on somewhere over there, and their snowy peaks were lit up continually by summer lightning. I suggested, though I never meant it seriously, that we should cut south and try and cross or get round the east end of the lake. Buckley was all for the Swiss border, and though we argued the pros and cons for a bit, we neither had the slightest doubt that Riedheim, where we eventually crossed, was the place to go for. Along the railway at intervals of 2 or 3 kilometres were small houses, inhabited apparently by guardians of the line, and always by dogs. Sometimes we could steal by without arousing attention, but usually the dogs barked whilst we were passing and for ten minutes after we had passed. I have never really liked dogs since--the brutes. Once a man with a dog, and what looked like a gun, came out after us and chased us for a bit, but it was all in the right direction, and he soon gave it up. Once or twice men called after us--to which we answered "Guten Abend," and marched on. One of these threw open a window as we were passing, and asked us who we were and where we were going--"Nach Pfullendorf? Gerade aus," I called back. "All right," he shouted, "there are so many escaping people (Flülingen) these days that one has to keep a lookout. Guten Abend." "Guten Abend," we shouted, and marched on. Though, unfortunately, we were unable to find potatoes that night, we were so cheered by the sight of Switzerland, the promised land, and by our tactful methods with the watchmen, that we made wonderful progress. Unfortunately a bit of my map of that railway was missing. I thought the gap was about 10 kilometres, but it turned out to be nearer 20. We had hoped to pass Pfullendorf that night, but did not do so. When we got into our excellent hiding-place at the side of the railway, careful measurements on the map showed us that it would be quite impossible to cross the frontier on the next night, as we had at one time hoped to do. We intended to get within 10 or 15 kilometres of the frontier the next night, and cross the night following. We did not wish to lie up close to the frontier, as we knew from other prisoners that the woods close by were searched daily for escaping prisoners. During the day, which was most pleasant, we once more divided our rations to last two more days. It was a pretty small two-day ration for two men already weak from hunger. Our eagerness to get on, and the unpopulated country in which we were, induced us to start walking at a still earlier hour the next night. _Fifteenth Night._--Soon after starting we saw a gang of a dozen or more Russian prisoners escorted by a sentry. They were about 100 yards off and took no notice of us. After walking for about half an hour an incident occurred which was perhaps the most unpleasant one we experienced, and the fact that we extricated ourselves so easily was entirely due to Buckley's presence of mind. Coming round a corner, we saw ahead of us a man in soldier's uniform cutting grass with a scythe at the side of the road. To turn back would rouse suspicion. There was nothing for it but to walk past him. As we were opposite to him he looked up and said something to us which we did not catch. We answered "Good evening," as usual. But he called after us again the same words, in some South German dialect, I think, for neither of us could make out what he said, so we walked on without taking any notice. Then he shouted "Halt! Halt!" and ran down the road after us with the scythe. It was an unpleasant situation, especially as we caught sight at that moment of a man with a gun on his shoulder about 50 yards away from us on our right. There was still half an hour to go before it would be quite dark, and we were both of us too weak to run very fast or far. There was only one thing to do, and we did it. In haughty surprise we turned round and waited for him. When he was only a few yards away, Buckley, speaking in a voice quivering with indignation, asked him what the devil, etc., he meant by calling "Halt!" to us; and I added something about a South German pig dog in an undertone. The man almost let drop his scythe from astonishment, and turning round walked slowly back to the side of the road and started cutting grass again. We turned on our heels and marched off, pleased with being so well out of a great danger, and angry with ourselves that we had ever been such fools as to run into it. We passed one more man in the daylight, but ostentatiously spoke German to each other as we passed him, and he took no notice. Before dark we saw other gangs of Russian prisoners. About 11 p.m. we got on the railway again, and walked without incident for the rest of the night. Owing to the gap in our maps, previously referred to, being longer than we expected, it was not till well after midnight that we passed through Pfullendorf and realized that we still had another two nights' march before we could hope to cross the frontier. It was not so much the walking at night which we minded though we were both weak and weary, it was the long lying up in the day time which had become almost unendurable. For eighteen long hours we had to lie still, and were able to think of little else but food, and realize our intense hunger. When I saw the name Pfullendorf written in huge letters in the station, I felt a very pleasant thrill of satisfied curiosity and anticipated triumph. We had always called this railway the "Pfullendorf railway," and in the past months I had often imagined myself walking along this railway and passing through this station, only a day's march from the frontier. For the last two nights and for the rest of the journey my feet had become numbed, and the pain was very much less acute. This made a vast difference to my energy and cheerfulness. So much so that for the last four nights I did the march with less fatigue than Buckley, who seemed to be suffering more than I was from lack of food. I have already mentioned that we divided up the food, and each carried and ate at his own discretion the food for the last three days. When Buckley opened his last packet of chocolate, it was found to contain less than we had expected. I offered a redivision. Buckley, however, refused. I think myself that the quantity of food in question was too small to have affected in any way our relative powers of endurance. Ever since we found potatoes Buckley had eaten more of them than I had, and when we were unable to find any, he felt the lack of them more than I did. Just before dawn we climbed off the railway embankment to a small stream. Here I insisted on having a wash as well as a drink. Buckley grumbled at the delay, but I think the wash did us both good. Soon afterwards, about 4.30 a.m., we came on an excellent hiding-place. Buckley wanted to push on for another half an hour, but I considered that a good hiding-place so close to the frontier was all-important, and he gave in. As we were just getting comfortable for our before-breakfast sleep I found that I had left my wrist compass behind at the place where we had washed. I determined to walk back and fetch it, as it was an illuminate compass and might be indispensable in the next two nights. That I was able to do this short extra walk with ease and at great speed--I even got into a run at one point--shows how much fitter and stronger I was now that my feet had ceased to hurt me. Our hiding-place was in a very thick plantation of young fir trees, and we were quite undisturbed. The place was so thick that when I crawled off 10 yards from Buckley I was unable to find him again for some time, and did not dare to call to him. _Sixteenth Night._--Starting about 10.15 we followed the railway as it turned south towards Stokach near the west end of Lake Constance. Just before midnight we struck off southwestwards from the railway. We soon found that we had branched off too early, and got entangled in a village where a fierce dog, luckily on a long chain, sprang at us and barked for twenty minutes after we had passed. Later we passed a man smoking a cigarette, and caught a whiff of smoke, which was indescribably delicious, as we had been out of tobacco for more than a fortnight. A couple of hours' walk, steering by compass by small paths in thick woods, brought us into the main road to Engen. Some of the villages, such as Nenzingen, we avoided, walking round them through the crops, a tiring and very wet job, besides wasting much time. At about 4.30 we were confronted with the village of Rigelingen, which, being on a river, was almost impossible to "turn," so we walked through it, gripping our sticks and prepared to run at any moment. However, though there were a few lights showing, we saw no one. About 5 o'clock we got into an excellent and safe hiding-place on a steep bank above the road. A mile or so down the road to the west of us was the village of Aach, and we were less than 15 kilometres from the frontier. We determined to eat the remains of our food and cross that night. I kept, however, about twenty small meat lozenges, for which, as will be seen later on, we were extremely thankful. During our last march we decided that we must walk on the roads as little as possible. Any infantry soldier knows that a cross-country night march on a very dark night over 10 miles of absolutely strange country with the object of coming on a particular village at the end, is an undertaking of great difficulty. We had an illuminated compass, but our only methods of reading a map by night (by the match-light, with the help of a waterproof, as I have previously explained) made it inadvisable to use a map so close to the frontier more often than was absolutely necessary. I therefore learnt the map by heart, and made Buckley, rather against his will, do so too. We had to remember some such rigmarole as: "From cross roads 300 yards--S. W. road, railway, river--S. to solitary hill on left with village ahead, turn village (Weiterdingen) to left--road S. W. 500 yards--E. round base of solitary hill," etc., etc. Our anxieties were increased by two facts--one being that all the sign-posts within 10 miles of the frontier had been removed, so that if once we lost our way there seemed little prospect of finding it again on a dark night; secondly, the moon rose about midnight, and it was therefore most important, though perhaps not essential, to attempt to cross the frontier before that hour. We left behind us our bags, our spare clothes and socks, so as to walk as light as possible, and at about 9.30 left our hiding-place. _Seventeenth Night._--The first part of our walk lay through the thick woods north of Aach, in which there was small chance of meeting anyone. For two hours on a pitch-dark night we made our way across country, finding the way only by compass and memory of the maps. There were moments of anxiety, but these were instantly allayed by the appearance of some expected landmark. Unfortunately the going was very heavy, and in our weak state we made slower progress than we had hoped. When the moon came up we were still 3 to 4 miles from the frontier. Should we lie up where we were and try to get across the next night? The idea of waiting another day entirely without food was intolerable, so we pushed on. The moon was full and very bright, so that, as we walked across the fields it seemed to us that we must be visible for miles. After turning the village of Weiterdingen we were unable to find a road on the far side which had been marked on my map. This necessitated a study of the map under a mackintosh, the result of which was to make me feel doubtful if we really were where I had thought. It is by no means easy to locate oneself at night from a small-scale map, 1:100,000, examined by match-light. However, we adopted the hypothesis that we were where we had thought we were, and disregarding the unpleasant fact that a road was missing, marched on by compass, in a southwest direction, hoping always to hit the village of Riedheim. How we were to distinguish this village from other villages I did not know. Buckley, as always, was an optimist; so on we went, keeping as far as possible under the cover of trees and hedges. Ahead of us was a valley, shrouded in a thick mist. This might well be the frontier, which at that point followed a small stream on either side of which we believed there were water meadows. At length we came on a good road, and walking parallel with it in the fields, we followed it westwards. If our calculations were correct, this should lead us to the village. About 1.30 we came on a village. It was a pretty place nestling at the foot of a steep wood-capped hill, with fruit trees and fields, in which harvesting had already begun, all round it. Was it Riedheim? If it was, we were within half a mile of the frontier, and I knew, or thought I knew, from a large-scale map which I had memorized, the lie of the country between Riedheim and the frontier. We crossed the road and after going about 100 yards came on a single-line railway. I sat down aghast. There was no doubt about it--we were lost. I knew there was no railway near Riedheim. For a moment or two Buckley failed to realize the horrible significance of this railway, but he threw a waterproof over my head whilst I had a prolonged study of the map by match-light. I was quite unable to make out where we were. There were, however, one or two villages, through which railways passed, within range of our night's walk. I explained the situation to Buckley, who instantly agreed that we must lie up for another night and try to make out where we were in the morning. It was impossible that we were far from the frontier. Buckley at this time began to show signs of exhaustion from lack of food; so leaving him to collect potatoes, of which there was a field quite close, I went in search of water. After a long search I was not able to find any. We collected thirty to forty potatoes between us, and towards 3 a.m. made our way up the hill behind the village. The hill was very steep, and in our exhausted condition it was only slowly and with great difficulty that we were able to climb it. Three-quarters of the way up, Buckley almost collapsed, so I left him in some bushes and went on to find a suitable place. I found an excellent spot in a thick wood, in which there were no paths or signs that any one entered it. I then returned and fetched Buckley, and we slept till dawn. At this time I was feeling fitter and stronger than at any time during the previous week. I am unable to explain this, unless it was due to the fact that my feet had quite ceased to hurt me seriously. At dawn we had breakfast on raw potatoes and meat lozenges which I divided out, and then, sitting just inside the edge of the coppice, tried to make out our position from a close study of the map and the surrounding country. In the distance we could see the west end of Lake Constance, and a compass bearing on this showed us that we were very close to the frontier. Through the village in front of us there was a railway. There were several villages close to the frontier through which passed railways, and two or three of them had steep hills to the north of them. We imagined successively that the hill we were sitting on was the hill behind each of these villages, and compared the country we could see before us carefully with the map. That part of the country abounds in solitary hills capped with woods, and the difficulty was to find out which one we were sitting on. There was one village, Gottmadingen, with a railway through it, and behind it a hill from which the map showed that the view would be almost identical with that we saw in front of us. Buckley thought we were there. I did not. There were small but serious discrepancies. Then I had a brain wave. We were in Switzerland already, and the village below us was Thaingen. It explained everything--or very nearly. Buckley pointed out one or two things which did not seem to be quite right. Again then, where were we? I think now that we were slightly insane from hunger and fatigue, otherwise we should have realized without difficulty where we were, without taking the risk which we did. I don't know what time it was, but it was not till after hours of futile attempt to locate ourselves from the map from three sides of the hill, that I took off my tunic, and in a gray sweater and in gray flannel trousers walked down into the fields and asked a girl who was making hay what the name of that village might be. She was a pretty girl in a large sun-bonnet, and after a few preliminary remarks about the weather and the harvest, she told me the name of the village was Riedheim. I must have shown my surprise, for she said, "Why, don't you believe me?" "Naturally, I believe you," I said; "it is better here than in the trenches. I am on leave and have walked over from Engen and lost my way. Good day. Many thanks." She gave me a sly look, and I don't know what she thought, but she only answered "Good day," and went on with her haymaking. I walked away, and getting out of her sight hurried back to Buckley with the good news. "But how could a railway be there?" I thought. "It was made after the map was printed, you fool." On the way back I had a good look at the country. It was all as clear as daylight. How I had failed to recognize it before I can't think, except that it did not look a bit like the country that I had anticipated. There was the Z-shaped stream, which was the guarded frontier, and there, now that I knew where to look for it, I could make out the flash of the sun on a sentry's bayonet. Everything fitted in with my mental picture of the large-scale map. The village opposite to us in Switzerland was Barzheim; the little hut with a red roof was the Swiss Alpine Club hut, and was actually on the border between Switzerland and Germany. Once past the sentries on the river we should still have 500 yards of Germany to cross before we were safe. The thing to do now was to hide, and hide in the thickest part we could find. The girl might have given us away. Anyhow, we knew that the woods near the frontier were usually searched daily. Till 4 o'clock we lay quiet, well hidden in thick undergrowth, half-way up the lower slopes of the Hohenstoffen, and then we heard a man pushing his way through the woods and hitting trees and bushes with a stick. He never saw us, and we were lying much too close to see him, though he seemed to come within 15 yards of us. That danger past, I climbed a tree and took one more look at the lie of the land. Then Buckley and I settled down to get our operation orders for the night. For half an hour we sat on the edge of the wood, waiting for it to become quite dark before we started. _Eighteenth and Last Night._--It was quite dark at 10.15 when we started, and we had one and three-quarter hours in which to cross. Shortly after midnight the moon would rise. "I can hardly believe we are really going to get across," said Buckley. "I know I am, and so are you," I answered. We left our sticks behind, because they would interfere with our crawling, and rolled our Burberrys tightly on our backs with string. A quarter of an hour's walk brought us to the railway and the road, which we crossed with the greatest care. For a short distance in the water-meadow we walked bent double, then we went on our hands and knees, and for the rest of the way we crawled. There was thick long grass in the meadow, and it was quite hard work pushing our way through it on our hands and knees. The night was an absolutely still one, and as we passed through the grass it seemed to us that we made a swishing noise that must be heard for hundreds of yards. There were some very accommodating dry ditches, which for the most part ran in the right direction. By crawling down these we were able to keep our heads below the level of the grass nearly the whole time, only glancing up from time to time to get our direction by the poplars. After what seemed an endless time, but was actually about three-quarters of an hour, we reached a road which we believed was patrolled, as it was here that I had seen the flash of a bayonet in the day time. After looking round cautiously we crossed this, and crawled on--endlessly, it seemed. Buckley relieved me, and took the lead for a bit. Then we changed places again, and the next time I looked up the poplars really did seem a bit nearer. Then Buckley whispered to me, "Hurry up, the moon's rising." I looked back towards the east, and saw the edge of the moon peering over the hills. We were still about 100 yards from the stream. We will get across now, even if we have to fight for it, I thought, and crawled on at top speed. Suddenly I felt a hand on my heel, and stopped and looked back. Buckley pointed ahead, and there, about 15 yards off, was a sentry walking along a footpath on the bank of the stream. He appeared to have no rifle, and had probably just been relieved from his post. He passed without seeing us. One last spurt and we were in the stream (it was only a few feet broad), and up the other bank. "Crawl," said Buckley. "Run," said I, and we ran. After 100 yards we stopped exhausted. "I believe we've done it, old man," I said. "Come on," said Buckley, "we're not there yet." For ten minutes we walked at top speed in a semicircle, and at length hit a road which I knew must lead to Barzheim. On it, there was a big board on a post. On examination this proved to be a boundary post, and we stepped into Switzerland, feeling a happiness and a triumph such, I firmly believe, as few men even in this war have felt, though they may have deserved the feeling many times more. We crossed into Switzerland at about 12.30 a.m. on the morning of June 9th, 1917. CHAPTER XIX FREEDOM The moon had risen by now, and a walk of two or three hundred yards brought us into the village, which we entered without seeing any one. It was quite a small place, and though nearly 1 o'clock there were several houses in which lights were showing. "I suppose we really are in Switzerland," said Buckley. I felt certain about it, and we determined to knock up one of the houses in which we saw lights burning, as food we must and would have without delay. We were standing in a small cobbled square, and just as we were selecting the most likely looking house we caught sight of two men who were standing in a dark spot about 30 yards away. I called out to them in German, "Is this Barzheim?" "Jawohl" was the answer. "Are we in Switzerland?" Again, "Jawohl." "Well, we are escaping prisoners-of-war from Germany and we are very hungry." The two fellows, whom we saw to be boys of sixteen or seventeen, came up. We were very much on our guard and ready for trouble, for we believed then, though I do not know with what justice, that the Germans have agents on the Swiss side of the border who misdirect escaped prisoners so that they walk back into Germany, or even forcibly deliver them to the German sentries. "Escaped prisoners, are you?" said one of the young men. "Yes," I said, "Englishmen." They showed some interest. "We are English officers, and we want food very badly." "Come on," they said, and led us to a house at the corner of the square. Then we sat on a wooden bench, and they lit a candle and had a look at us. We repeated our desire for food, and they cross-questioned us and tried us with a word or two of English. They were much interested in the fact that we were English officers, as no Englishmen had crossed before at that place. Concerning the rest of that night my memory rather fails me, but soon the whole household was roused--father, mother, and daughter. Wine, beer, and milk were produced; also bread, and cold bacon and three fine eggs each. We ate everything there was, and I think cleaned out the family larder, whilst the family sat round and questioned us, and were much surprised to find that two English officers could speak German. They could not possibly have been kinder or more friendly, and absolutely refused to take money from us. They were delighted to be our hosts and show themselves good neutrals, they said. As we had visions of hot baths, sheets, and breakfast in bed, we expressed our intention of going on to Schafhausen that night, but the father rather shocked us by saying that we must be handed over to the Swiss frontier post. The girl, however, tactfully added that, if we went on, we might easily lose our way and walk back into Germany, and that with the Swiss soldiers we should be perfectly safe. That decided us, as we were both beginning to feel very sleepy after the food and wine. Soon afterwards one of the boys took us across to the guardhouse, where soldiers provided us with mattresses and we fell asleep instantly. At an early hour next morning the soldiers brought us hot water and shaved us and bound up my feet. They were extraordinarily good to us, and, after we had had coffee and bread, they filled our pockets with cigars and cigarettes and sent us off with the best wishes and a guide to the station about 2 kilometres away. The road passed quite close to the German frontier, and we felt glad that we had not tried to pass that way the night before. We soon found that our guide was really a plain-clothes police officer, and that, though the fact was tactfully concealed, we were still under arrest. However, "What does it matter?" we said. "Food is the main thing now, and we'll escape from any old prison in Switzerland, if it comes to that." Our "guide" seemed a very decent fellow, and told us that we were about to travel on a German railway. We halted abruptly whilst he explained at some length that, though it was a German-owned railway, the Germans had no rights over the Swiss traffic on the railway, and that under no circumstances could we be arrested by the Germans when on that bit of their railway which ran through Switzerland. More or less satisfied, we went on again. In the village we entered a pub, rather against our guide's will, and had some more coffee and bread. It was wonderful how much stronger we felt owing to the food. Buckley, when he had stripped to wash that morning, had shown himself to be a living skeleton, and I was not much fatter. Whilst in the pub a fat dirty fellow came and congratulated us, and questioned us in bad English. I have no doubt now that he was a German agent, and I think we were rather injudicious in our answers, but we had sense enough to hold our tongues about the important points--when we crossed, and how, etc. The railway journey to Schafhausen was rather amusing. It was so very obvious that we were escaped prisoners, as we still had on service tunics, and, except for that portion of our faces which had been scraped with a razor, we were filthily dirty from head to foot. Our clothes were covered with mud, with thick pads of it on our knees and elbows where we had crawled the night before, and our faces and hands covered with sores and swellings from unhealed scratches and insect bites. Several German railway officials gave us a first glance of surprise and indignation, and thereafter were careful not to look in our direction. Considering the temptations of the situation we behaved on the whole very decently, but even the mildest form of revenge is sweet. At Schafhausen our guide or keeper took us to the police and secret service headquarters and introduced us to a Swiss Lieutenant who spoke alternately German and French, with a preference for the former. He told us that we would be lodged at Hotel something or other, and would be sent down to Berne on Monday, that day being Friday. I thanked him, and said that we wished to get on the telephone to a friend in the English Embassy at Berne, and we should much prefer to go down that afternoon. As for waiting in Schafhausen till Monday, it was out of the question. He had a great struggle to put it with the utmost politeness, but his answer came to this. He did not see how it could be arranged, and we had no option in the matter; we should be extremely comfortable, etc. We answered firmly, but politely, that we had not got out of Germany to be confined in Schafhausen, and that there was a train at 3 o'clock which would suit us. Just at this moment a Swiss major came in. The lieutenant introduced us, and I appealed to him to allow us to go to Berne that day. After some argument he suddenly gave in, and ordered the lieutenant to take us to Berne by the 3 o'clock train. Then turning to us he said, with a charming smile, "Come and lunch with me before you go." We then walked round the town with the lieutenant, bought some things, and Buckley telephoned to H. at the Embassy. We got back late for lunch, only ten minutes before the train started. However, we managed to bolt four courses and half a bottle of champagne apiece, and just as the lieutenant, who had been prophesying for some minutes that we should miss the train, finally stated that it was hopeless to try and catch it now, we got up and ran for it, with him lumbering behind. We just caught it. At Berne we were met by H., who threw up his hands in horror at the sight of us and bundled us into a closed taxi. At one of the most luxurious hotels in the world, we had a most heavenly bath, and changed into beautiful clean clothes lent to us by H. That night H. gave a dinner in our honor. Buckley and I were ravenously hungry, and in fact for the next fortnight were quite unable to satisfy our appetites. But besides the good food the dinner was otherwise most amusing, because the German Embassy inhabited the same hotel and dined a few tables from us, and no secret was made of what we were and where we had come from. The next morning we had the oft-anticipated breakfast in bed. I ordered, by telephone from my bed, the largest breakfast possible, and was disgusted to see the moderate-sized feed which arrived, the waiter explaining that the amount of one breakfast was limited by law. I instantly ordered a second breakfast exactly like the first, and ate all that too. I found out afterwards that Buckley had employed exactly the same ruse for obtaining more food! That day we were invited to lunch by the English Minister, who was extremely kind, but I think rather astonished at our appetites. After lunch, Buckley and I strolled about for a bit, and then by common consent made for a tea-shop, where we had another good feed. In fact, we made pigs of ourselves in the eating line, and for the next fortnight or three weeks ate as much and as often as possible, without ever being satisfied, and, which is still more astonishing, without any ill effects. I suppose we were safeguarded by the fact that we ate good food, and as we were in civilized society it was scarcely possible to eat more than a limited amount at any one meal. H. lent us money, and in Berne we bought expensive watches and ready-made clothes, and then obtained leave to visit my brother and sister at Mürren. This was the same brother to whom I have already referred as a wounded prisoner-of-war. A few months before our escape he had been invalided out of Germany, and my sister, who was a trained masseuse, went out to Switzerland to look after him, and I believe did much useful work among the exchanged prisoners. H. sent us over to Mürren in the embassy car, a most beautiful journey all along the edge of the lake. At one point our car was stopped by a party of exchanged English officers, who, poor fellows, mostly keen regular soldiers, were condemned to spend the rest of the war in Switzerland. They wanted to hear our story, and were full of enthusiasm because we had scored off the Germans. At the foot of the funicular railway we met my brother and sister, and at Mürren itself which I had no idea was a camp for exchanged English soldiers, all the men turned out, and, headed by a wild Irishman with a huge placard "Welcome back from Hun-land" and a bell, gave us a tremendous reception, for which Buckley and I were entirely unprepared. This brings to an end all that is of any interest in my German experiences. After two very pleasant days at Mürren we traveled _via_ Berne to Paris, and then by car to General Headquarters (where I fear we were unable to give much information that was of value), and so home to England. There is one other thing I should like to say before I bring this story to a close. Although Buckley and I are among the few English officers who have escaped from Germany, there were many others who tried to escape more often, who took more risks, who were at least as skilful as we were, but who had not the luck and consequently never tasted the fruits of success. Several died or were murdered in their attempts. In my opinion no prisoner-of-war has ever escaped without more than a fair share of luck, and no one ever will. However hard you try, however skilful you are, luck is an essential element in a successful escape. PART II CHAPTER I ARABS, TURKS, AND GERMANS The interval between my escape from Germany, June 8th, 1917 and March 1918, when I had been for a couple of months in command of a squadron of bombing aeroplanes on the Palestine front, had been taken up with matters of great personal interest, of which I can give here only the barest outline. Things move so fast in modern war that after a year's absence I was as much out of date as Rip Van Winkle after his hundred years' sleep. There were new organizations, new tactics, new theories, and in my own department, new types of aeroplanes, of power and capabilities of which we had only dreamed in 1916. I had to learn to fly once more, and went through a course of artillery observation, for I had every reason to hope that I should be given command of an artillery squadron in France. However, this was forbidden. The powers that be decreed that no escaped prisoner might return to the same front from which he had been captured. This ruling was afterwards altered, but not before I had been captured by the Turks. After some months spent in teaching flying in England and in Egypt at Aboukir, I was sent up to Palestine early in the year in command of a bombing squadron. I hated bombing, and knew nothing about it; and, though I was very pleased with my command, the fact that I had to deal in bombs and not wireless rather took the gilt off the gingerbread. However, after the experiences of a German prison, the spring weather of Palestine, the comparative peacefulness of our warfare, and an almost independent command were very, very pleasant. The story opens on March 19th, 1918 with a flight of aeroplanes flying eastward on a cloudy day, at a height of some 4000 feet, over the Dead Sea. Our objective was the station of Kutrani, on the Hedjaz Railway. There were five or six single-seater aeroplanes, in one of which I was flying, escorted by a couple of Bristol fighters. It was a very unpleasant day for formation flying, for not only was it very bumpy as we came over the mountains, which border the Dead Sea, but the very numerous patches of cloud made it both difficult and dangerous to keep at the right distance from one's neighbor. We lost our way once, but eventually found the station which was our objective. A train was just leaving. So I came down rather low and let off two of my bombs unsuccessfully at it, and in doing so lost the rest of the formation. Close by the station there was a German plane standing on an aerodrome which I had a shot at, and I then unloaded the rest of the cargo on the station itself without, as far as I could see, doing much damage. By this time I was far below the clouds, and could see no signs of the rest of the squadron. After cruising about for a few minutes I headed for home, keeping just below the clouds, and very soon caught a glimpse of a Bristol fighter. He saw me at the same time, and for the next twenty minutes we flew side by side. The country below us was of a greeny-brown color in the sunlight, and had the appearance of a great plain bounded on the west by the mountains of the Dead Sea, which we had to cross. In reality it was far from flat, as could be guessed from the occasional zigzags in the white tracks which connected the widely scattered villages. Here and there were small brown patches which represented plough land, and black mounds, which were the tents of the desert Arabs. I hated these long bomb raids, for the fear of recapture was always on me whilst I was over enemy territory. My nerves had suffered from the events of the previous three years, and it had been only by a great effort of will that I had forced myself to take part in expeditions far over the lines. Perhaps the majority of men are more afraid of being afraid than of anything else--and it may have been partly for this reason, but mainly for another more weighty reason, that I found myself alone in an aeroplane on the wrong side of the Dead Sea. However, in ten minutes we would cross the mountains and the Dead Sea, and be over comparatively friendly territory. I say "comparatively," because it was always a matter of some uncertainty whether the temptation to murder you and steal your kit would overstrain the good wishes of our noble allies. Through the clouds on my left I had just caught a glimpse of the ancient city of El Karak, when my engine sputtered badly, picked up again, and then banged and sputtered once more and half stopped. Owing to the clouds we were flying rather low, and would not cross the hills ahead by more than 1000 feet or so. I checked the instruments and pressure, closed and then slowly opened the throttle, dived with the throttle opened; but all to no purpose, for the engine banged and backfired, and we lost height and revolutions in an alarming way. It was an airlock or water in the petrol, and must be given time to clear itself. How I longed for a little more height. It seemed that the engine might pick up again at any moment, because, for a few seconds, it would give full power and then cut out again completely. Then I found myself a few feet from the ground, and had to land willy-nilly. The place was a ploughed field, almost flat and comparatively free from boulders. We did not sink in very much, but unfortunately the wheels came to rest in a little ditch a few inches deep. For a moment or two I sat in the machine altering the throttle, for the engine had not completely stopped. Then I heard a roar, and the Bristol fighter came by, flying a few feet from the ground, and I could see the observer waving to me. I jumped out and tried to wave them away. It was possible, but risky, for a machine to land and get off from that ground, and, with the hope that my engine would pick up again, I did not think the risk was justifiable. However, they had no intention of leaving me in the lurch, and after another turn round landed on the plough about 50 yards away. I got into my machine once more, and as they ran across towards me my engine started once more to give its full power; but I saw that I should have great difficulty in getting out of the ditch. When they came up I recognized them as two most stout-hearted Australians, Captain Austin and Lieutenant Lee, who had both gained the Military Cross, and made a considerable reputation for themselves on the Palestine front. They hauled on the machine whilst I roared the engine. All in vain, however; we could not shift her. I shouted to them that we must set this plane on fire and try to get away on theirs. "Ours is useless," they answered. "We broke a wheel on a boulder in landing." "Is it quite hopeless?" I said. "Yes, quite." Leaving them to set my machine on fire, I took a revolver and a Verey's pistol and ran over to the Bristol. As I went I saw that, from some rising ground about 100 yards away, thirty or forty Arabs were covering us with rifles. Hoping they would not shoot, I went on and fired first the revolver and then the Verey's right into the petrol tank, and it burst into flame. We soon had the other machine on fire by the same means, and threw into the flames our maps and papers. A brief consultation decided us that escape was quite hopeless. The Arabs could travel over that country much faster than we could. There were very rugged hills between us and the Dead Sea, with possibly or probably an impassable precipice. We thought there was just a chance that the Arabs were friendly as they had not yet fired. At any rate, it was highly probable that they would be open to bribery. If they were definitely hostile it was a bad lookout, and a speedy death was about all we could hope for. It was disturbing to recall, as Lee did, in a grimly humorous tone, that we had dropped bombs on El Karak and done considerable damage there only the week before. However, to run was certain death, so we waved to the Arabs and walked towards them. The Arabs rose with a shout, and brandishing their rifles rushed towards us. Several of them taking hold of us led us or rather dragged us along. Filthy, evil-looking, evil-smelling brutes they were. They were mostly clad in dirty white linen garments, with bandoliers and with belts stuck full of knives and revolvers. Some had German rifles, but most of them had old smooth bores which fire a colossal soft-lead bullet. To be man-handled by these savages was most repulsive. We kept together as far as possible and Lee, who knew a few words of Arabic, tried to make them understand that we could give them large sums of gold if they would take us to the English. Whether they intended to help us and whether they were friendly we could not make out, for they jabbered and shouted and pulled us along, so that we had little opportunity for making ourselves understood, though Lee kept hard at it. He gave a hopeful report, however, based on their constant repetition of the word "Sherif," and the fact that they had not yet cut our throats nor robbed us to any great extent. Lee had his wrist-watch stolen, and I think Austin lost a cigarette case. I produced a very battered old gun-metal case, and after lighting a cigarette handed the rest round to our escort, hoping this would help to create a benevolent atmosphere. After walking a couple of miles in this way, the Arabs keeping up a ceaseless and deafening chatter the whole time, we came to a tumbledown deserted mud and stone village. I found myself separated from the other two, and I and my escort came to a halt before a half-underground mud hovel with a black hole for an entrance, through which it would have been necessary to crawl. It was conveyed to me by signs that I was to enter, and they dragged me forward. I resisted, and heard Lee, who was about 30 yards away with his crowd of ruffians, shouting to me, "Don't let them get you in there, Evans; try and get back to us." The attitude of the brutes round me became very threatening, and one fellow made preparation to encourage me with a bayonet. Suddenly a horseman came galloping over the brow, and the horse putting his foot on one of the large flat stones which abound in this country came down with a crash and horse and rider rolled over and over like shot rabbits. As the horse rose the rider mounted him and again came on at full speed. Whether it was the appearance of this horseman, or whether, as I believe, a report of the approach of the Turks from El Karak, which caused the Arabs to change their tactics, I don't know, but they suddenly ceased trying to force me into the black hole, and we joined the others. I have never been quite sure whether they had intended to murder me for my kit, or to save me for ransom to the English. Lee had no doubts as to what my fate would have been, and thanked God for my escape. After we had walked for another mile or two we were met by two Turks, who had the appearance of military policemen, and another crowd of Arabs. In answer to a question, one of the Turks who spoke French said that we were prisoners of the Turks, and added that we need not now be frightened. From what the Turk said then, and subsequently, we began to realize how lucky we were still to be alive. However, there was still considerable cause for anxiety. All the Arabs and we three sat down in a ring, and one of the Turks addressed the assembly at length. There was a good deal of heckling, but at last they arrived at some decision, though by no means unanimously. We were mounted on horses, and, with the two Turks also mounted and a bodyguard of some thirty Arab horsemen, proceeded towards El Karak. All around were a mob of unpleasantly excited Arabs yelling and shouting and letting off their rifles. The Turk who spoke French told us to keep close to him, and hinted that we were not yet out of the wood. El Karak is built on a pinnacle of rock which rises abruptly from the bottom of a deep gorge. To reach the town from any side it is necessary to descend nearly 400 feet into the gorge down a most precipitous path of loose stones, and then climb by a track even steeper and stonier in which there are seven zigzags to the citadel, which is almost on a level with the rim of the gorge. In the valley, at the foot of the pinnacle, there was a very heated dispute between the Turks and the Arabs. For ten minutes or more, whilst our fate hung in the balance, we sat on a boulder and watched. Once more the decision appeared to be in our favor; and, after a further dispute, this time rather to our dismay, between the two Turks, we climbed the path in the midst of a strong bodyguard of the least excitable of the Arabs. At the gates of the town we were met by a dense and hostile crowd and, at the bidding of one of the Turks, linked our arms and pushed our way through. One fellow clutched me and but for our linked arms would have pulled me into the mob, but with the help of Lee and Austin I got free from him, and with a push and a scramble we got into the citadel--the only solidly built building in the place. Here the two Turks heaved sighs of relief, mopped their brows, and congratulated us heartily on being in safety. It had been a very close thing they said. To my astonishment we were treated with the greatest consideration. Food and coffee and cigarettes were brought to us, and shortly afterwards we were brought into the presence of Ismail Kemal Bey, the Turkish commandant and military governor of El Karak. In my life I have met with few people with whom, on so short an acquaintance, I have been so favorably impressed as I was with Ismail Kemal Bey. He was a finely built man, with a most intelligent face and a charming smile. He had been wounded thirteen times he told us, seven times in the Balkan wars and six times in this war, and had been a prisoner in the hands of the Greeks, by whom he had been disgracefully maltreated. His right arm was completely paralyzed. As had been agreed between us, I gave my name as Everard, for I feared that, if it was discovered that I had escaped from a German prison, a closer guard would be kept upon me, and life otherwise made more intolerable. I realized that this would lead to certain difficulties with regard to informing my people that I was still alive, and obtaining money by cheque or otherwise, as I selected a new name quite on the spur of the moment; but I had to take that risk, and henceforth for the rest of my captivity I was known as Everard. Whilst we were Kemal Bey's prisoners we were his honored guests, and he treated us with the tactful courtesy of a well-educated gentleman. That evening we dined with him, and were given under the circumstances a most remarkably good dinner. He spoke both German and French fluently, and I talked with him for two hours or more on a great variety of topics. He told us we owed our lives to two things. Firstly, a reward of 50 gold pieces which was offered by the Turkish Government to the Arabs for live English officers, and secondly, to the fact that the Arabs knew that he (Kemal Bey) would certainly have hung half a dozen of them if they had murdered us. Even so, although he had sent his men with all speed he had scarcely hoped to bring us in alive. That afternoon we watched two of our aeroplanes searching for us. Kemal Bey was much impressed by the loyalty of the Flying Corps to one another, especially when I told him that Lee and Austin had been captured only because they had descended, most gallantly, to rescue me. Next morning we left El Karak with a small escort and rode to Kutrani, the town which we had bombed the day before. The distance is about 45 kilometres. It was a most tedious and boring journey, and we were very tired when we got in. We slept that night in a tent, and next day departed by train for Aman. We were traveling in a closed cattle truck, and, as it was a hot night, our guards left the door open a foot or two. From the time it was dusk till midnight, when the opportunity had passed, I waited in a state of the highest tension for a reasonable chance to jump from the train and make my way to our forces in the neighborhood of Jericho. Though several times I was on the point of going, a real chance never came. Although I pretended to sleep, one or other of my guards, usually only one, was always awake and watching me. We reached Aman in the early morning. During the day we were cross-questioned by a German Intelligence officer. I had told Austin and Lee what to expect, and I don't think he got much change out of any of us. I was surprised at his knowledge of our forces, and especially when he showed that he knew or guessed of the presence of two divisions which had lately come from Mesopotamia. That night the Turks took special precautions to prevent us from escaping, but nevertheless treated us quite well, giving us overcoats and at our request a pack of cards. At Aman we learnt that we were to be sent to the German aerodrome at El Afule. The journey lasted, as far as I remember, four or five days, as the route is a most circuitous one and brought us across the Jordan to within about 40 miles from our lines and the same distance from the coast. As soon as we learnt where we were going we made up our minds that it must be from Afule we would make our attempt to escape. We left Aman in a comparatively clean cattle truck, but the conditions gradually became worse, and we finished the journey in a truck filled to the roof, all but 2 feet, with vermin-infested maize. We were consequently covered with lice. The food consisted of a very small portion of poor bread, olives, and semi-raw meat which the Turkish N.C.O. who was in charge of us tore in pieces for us with his dirty hands. Owing to the food and to lack of exercise we suffered severely from indigestion and diarrhoea, so that when we arrived at El Afule we were a pretty miserable trio. In the red crescent tent, where we were deposited with a sentry to guard us, there were 6 inches of liquid mud on the floor, for there had been heavy rain lately, and it started to rain again once more. So we sat on the beds to keep out of the mud; and in that dripping tent, for it leaked in innumerable places, cursed the Turks and their damnable inefficiency. We had been sitting there half an hour or so, very miserable, when several German flying officers entered the tent. After rather formal salutations we told them what we thought of their allies the Turks, and of our treatment by them. One of the Germans then told me that they were going to try and rescue us from the Turks and take us up to their mess for a feed and a bath, and we felt much cheered at the thought. Through an interpreter they tackled the Turkish sentry; but, as he had had his orders that we were not to move, arguing with him was just waste of time. The next move amused us a great deal. One of the Germans wrote a note and, without the sentry noticing, gave it to his orderly, who departed. Ten minutes later the orderly reappeared and, saluting violently, handed the note to our would-be rescuers. The note purported to come from the German Headquarters, I think, and was an order for us to be handed over to the Germans. This was explained at great length to the sentry, but made no impression on him whatever. Quite rightly he refused to let us go. However, the Germans motioned us to come too, and we all moved out of the tent in a body. The sentry was in two minds as to whether to shoot or not, but he could not hit us without shooting a German, so he just followed after. From the station we walked about 2 miles up to a farmhouse, and were introduced into the mess, the faithful sentry taking up his watch outside the door, disregarding the jeers of the German orderlies and hints that his presence was undesirable. I still feel a great admiration for that sentry. His blind adherence to the letter of his orders under most testing circumstances is typical of the best breed of Turkish soldier. In the mess, the Germans, who were mostly quite young and seemed a very nice lot of fellows, were extremely hospitable and kind. We begged for a bath, but they said a bath would be no use to us. We were "verloust," and would be introduced to a de-lousing machine the next day. The commander of the squadron was Hauptmann Franz Walz, who for a long time had been a fighting pilot on the West front and had been O.C. Boelche's circus after the latter's death. He had a great admiration for the R.F.C., but thought that we had lost a great many machines from recklessness, and owing to mad expeditions on bad machines. In answer to a question as to which was the most dangerous front on which to fight, he said that the English front was vastly more dangerous than any other. The English and French were alone worth consideration as enemies in the air. The French fought well, with many tricks, but it was seldom that a Frenchman would fight if outnumbered or at a disadvantage, or over German lines. For an Englishman to refuse a fight, however, was almost unknown. If a German wished for a fight he had only to approach the British lines, when he would be attacked by any and every British pilot who happened to catch sight of him. At dinner that night Walz asked us whether we would mind giving our parole not to escape for so long as we were actually guests of his mess, as, if we would do so, it would be much more comfortable both for them and for us. We agreed to this, and consequently were not guarded in any way whatever. As we were having dinner an orderly told Walz that the Turkish officer who had brought us from Aman, and from whom we had been stolen, was waiting outside for us. Walz, to our great amusement, told the orderly to give the Turk a glass of wine and a seat in the corner. After dinner Walz spoke to him and refused to give us up; so the Turk retired, taking the faithful sentry with him. As we had given our parole, I asked the Germans as a matter of courtesy not to try and "pump" us on military subjects, and on the whole they were very decent about this. They left me alone, but put a certain number of leading questions to Lee and Austin. These two, however, either referred the question to me for interpretation, or drew without stint on exceptionally fertile imaginations. They found there were several of the Germans with whom Lee or Austin had had encounters in the air during the preceding twelve months, and this led to some most interesting and friendly discussion of these fights. The next day was spent in bathing and having our clothes completely disinfected. Lee and Austin were suffering from stomach trouble and were rather weak, and it was many days before they recovered. Two days of good food and rest with the Germans put me quite right again, and when on the afternoon of the third day we left the German mess and became once more wretched prisoners in the hands of the Turks, I felt quite fit for anything and made up my mind to escape on the first opportunity. Whilst in the German mess we had written notes which the Germans promised to drop over the lines for us. In them we merely stated that we were safe and well, and asked that small kits might be dropped over to us, and signed them Lee, Austin, and Everard. Some months later, while prisoners at Afion-Kara-Hissar, we all three received bundles of clothes and necessaries, which were dropped from British planes and they forwarded to us. How valuable those clothes were to us when they came, only those who have been prisoners in Turkish hands can understand. The night after leaving the German mess we were imprisoned in one room of a wooden hut, in which were three beds, a table, and a couple of rickety chairs. The window was barred, and outside the door three Turkish sentries squatted over a small fire and smoked cigarettes. Our hut was one of several which stood in a large compound bordered with prickly pears. There were several tents dotted about, and here and there little groups of men sitting or sleeping round fires. Around us was that untidiness and irregularity which is characteristic of a Turkish encampment. Austin, Lee, and I had already discussed the direction in which to escape, and we decided that it would be best to make for the coast in a southwest direction. Once on the coast we believed there would be little difficulty in making our way either through the lines or round them by means of wading or swimming. If we went by the more direct route south it would be necessary to cross several very precipitous ranges of hills, and the going would be very bad. Towards the coast there was only one range to cross, if we hit the right route, and after that it would be more or less flat walking--a great consideration for tired men. CHAPTER II ONE MORE RUN The night after we had left the German mess, both Lee and Austin were so ill from stomach trouble that it was impossible for them to think of escaping. It was, however, in all probability the last night on which we should be within walking distance of our lines, so I determined to make the attempt by myself. Owing to the nature of their illness, both Lee and Austin were compelled to make frequent visits to the latrines, which were little wooden huts about 50 yards away in the middle of the compound. I also pretended to be ill, and went out each time accompanied by a sentry, who usually came with us the whole way; but Austin reported that one sentry had allowed him to get 20 yards ahead, so I made what preparations I could to escape. We had no map, no compass, and very little food between us, but it was a starlight night, and I thought I could scarcely fail to hit the coast. The first three times I went, the sentry kept too close to me to permit me to escape without considerable risk of an immediate alarm, and as I hoped with luck and by a skilful manoeuvre to be past the outside sentries, if there were any, before my escape was noticed, after due delay I returned each time. The fourth time I went out, the more careless of the three sentries came with me, and as he stopped for a moment to say something to his mates, I walked on quickly and got 20 yards ahead of him. When I came to the latrine, I pretended to enter the door but actually stepped behind the hut, and walked rapidly away, keeping the hut between the sentry and myself. However, I had not gone 30 yards when he saw me. I heard him shout, so I ran. I think he threw a stone after me, but he did not fire. As a matter of fact, I must have been a very dim target in that light by the time he had unslung and cocked his rifle. I passed through a gap in the prickly pear hedge, and just outside saw a small tent near which several men were sitting round a fire. One of the camp pickets I thought; but I passed without being seen and struck out, walking and running alternately, across the marshy valley of the Kishon, making to hit the coast somewhat south of Cæsarea. At times I thought that the alarm had been raised behind me, and twice the barking of dogs made me think that I was being followed. Imagination plays one strange tricks under circumstances of this sort when one's nerves and senses are strung to the very highest pitch, for this escape had been by far the greatest strain on my nerves that I had ever experienced. It was so much worse than any escape in Germany, because of the long, tense hours while I waited for an opportunity, because I had to go alone, and because the risks were greater and the dangers and chances less calculable than in any previous adventure. "Omne ignotum pro magnifico est." It had been just about midnight when I left the camp, and it was very little after 1 o'clock when I reached the rising ground on the west side of the valley, near the valley of Megiddo, after over 6 miles of very bad going. All that night I pressed on at top speed, avoiding the villages and meeting no one in that wild and desolate country. Though I had to cross several small valleys, most of the time I was climbing, and dawn found me on rather a bare exposed part on the top of the ridge from which, when day came, I saw the sea. It had been most difficult to pick a good hiding-place, as there were no trees and very few bushes; and some thickish heather behind a small boulder was the best cover I could find. The country had appeared so desolate at night that I hoped to find it quite uninhabited in the day time, but I soon saw my mistake. From about 6 o'clock onwards shepherds with their flocks wandered on many of the distant hills, and a quarter of a mile away down in the valley there were many small patches of cultivation, where men were working. I made up my mind that if chased by Arabs in that country in daylight the chances of escape were nil, so I took off my boots and went to sleep. About 8 o'clock I woke up and saw an Arab with a rifle standing about 10 yards off looking at me. His appearance in every sense was most unexceptionally unpleasant. I nodded to him as he came up, and said _Guten Tag_, and motioned to him to sit down beside me. He sat down and made some unintelligible remarks to me, to which I answered in German, and offered him a cigarette. He smoked for a bit, and things seemed to me to be going rather well. Then he started talking again, and kept on repeating some words which I suddenly recognized as Jenin, the name of the German aerodrome about 4 miles away. I jumped at that and said, "Ja ja, Deitscher--Jenin tiara (Turkish for aeroplane) boom, boom," and pointed to myself, by which he was supposed to understand that I was a German flying man from Jenin aerodrome, and my natural habits were bomb dropping. He seemed to grasp this, and after smoking another cigarette went away over the brow of the hill, to my great relief. Soon after his departure I selected another hiding-place, about 100 yards away, and crawled into it on my hands and knees. Even if he had come back to look for me (for I thought he might put two and two together if he learnt during the day that a prisoner had escaped), I doubt if he would have found me without the help of a dog. All that day--and the day seemed endless--I lay in the broiling sun and suffered very greatly from thirst; for I had had nothing to drink since about 2 o'clock on the previous night. The only food I had with me was half a pound of bread and about the same amount of dried greengages, a food much eaten by the Turkish soldiers and quite nourishing. However, I was far too thirsty to eat. During the day I saw some German aeroplanes flying low over the countryside, and thought that perhaps they were looking for me, as I found out afterwards was the case. Being an airman myself, I knew that their chance of finding me if I lay still was just nil, and watching them helped to pass the time. During the day I almost changed my mind and decided to go due south to our lines, but the sight of the sea was so attractive that I determined to keep on in that direction. The next night's walk was the most terrible experience that I have ever had. All night, till 4.30 the next morning, I found no water, and without water I could scarcely eat. Towards morning I could only breathe with difficulty, my tongue and throat seemed to have swollen, and I made a harsh whistling noise when I breathed. I tried sucking various herbs, and eventually tried the leaves of the cactus, which seemed to give momentary relief, so I put some bits of it in my pocket. The loneliness was oppressive past all belief and I longed for a companion, but the only noises were the occasional bark of a dog from an Arab village and the almost continual wailing of the jackals. The going was for the most part very bad, always up or down hill, and was made more difficult by the clouds which obscured the moon for a good part of the night. In one valley which I had to cross, the ground, for a mile or more, was strewn thickly with loose boulders, varying in size from a football to a grand piano. The boulders lay on loose shingle so that they slipped or moved if you stepped on them, and in the cracks and crevices between the boulders were thick thorn bushes. In my exhausted state and in the dim light, it was a nightmare getting through this place. I fell repeatedly trying to jump from one boulder to another, and my clothes were much torn and my face and hands were bleeding freely before I got out of that dreadful place. Once I collapsed, and as I lay on the ground I fell asleep. Half an hour later I woke and, feeling rather better, pushed on again. About 3.30 a.m. I got through the hills and on to the flat country which borders the coast. If I could have found water earlier I believe I should have reached the coast that night, but it was not till about 4.30 a.m. that I found a square hole in a rock half full of water. I drank that dry. A few hundred yards farther on I heard men talking, and going forward cautiously saw Turkish soldiers seated round a small fire. Making a detour, I marched on for half a mile and then heard a man call out on my right. There was only a dim light, as the moon was half hidden by clouds, and I could not see the man. Another man answered him on the left, and I realized that I was passing through a line of sentries. But if I could not see them they could not see me, so I pushed on till I suddenly saw a troop of cavalry advancing on me. I dropped to the ground and curled myself round a small bush about 2 feet high and lay quite still--it was the only possible thing to do. The cavalry came straight towards me, and it was not till they were 10 yards off that I saw that there was only one horseman and that he was driving half a dozen cattle before him. The cattle passed a yard or two to my right and left, but the horse actually stepped over my head without touching me. I felt most thankful when they had disappeared from sight, and realized that I must now be in the middle of a Turkish military area. However, as there was no hiding-place of any sort to be seen, I walked on once more, keeping a very careful lookout both for the Turks and for a hiding-place. I soon found the latter. It was a patch of corn about an acre in size, so I crawled into it and lay down in the middle, feeling fairly secure. It was a great pity to lose half an hour of darkness, but I knew that an hour or two's walk would bring me to the coast, and it might be difficult to find a better hiding-place in that flat country. Once more I suffered a great deal from heat and thirst, for I found to my surprise that corn stalks give no shade from a sun which beats almost straight down. That evening it began to rain, and as soon as the sun set it became pitch dark. When it was so dark that a man could not be seen at 5 yards' distance I left my cornfield and marched due west. I had taken my bearings from the sun during the day, so that even if there were no stars I should know by landmarks in which direction I was walking. Soon all landmarks were blotted out by the inky darkness and pelting rain, and I began to realize that it might be possible to lose my way even when within one hour's walk of the sea. Owing to the rain the going was rather heavy, being mostly over cultivated land, and when I had been walking for half an hour I began to feel fearfully tired. I staggered rather than walked, and could scarcely put one clay-laden foot before the other. Quite suddenly I collapsed, and lay on the ground totally unable to move. I managed to put my hand over my heart and could feel that it was running most irregularly and misfiring in the most extraordinary way. After about a quarter of an hour it got much better, so I had a few mouthfuls of bread and went on again. Before long I came on a field of things that looked like beans. I tried eating them, but they seemed to clog up my throat and made me feel worse than before. For the next hour I guided myself by the croaking of the frogs in the marshes, which I knew ran parallel to the sea and only a few miles away from it. When I reached the marshes it had stopped raining, but the clouds were so dense that I could see no moon or stars. I had rather a struggle crossing the marshes, and in some places was up to my waist in mud and water. Once my feet almost stuck, and as I dragged them out the soles of both my shoes tore off the uppers. I bound them on again as well as I could, and then walked on again in the direction I thought was right. For the next four hours I pushed on at a good pace, hoping against hope that every step would show me the sea. But it was not to be. My shoes were so uncomfortable that much of the time I went barefooted, but there were many stones and thistles about and I hurt my feet and made poor progress. At about 3 a.m. I got a glimpse of the moon and saw that I was walking northeast instead of west. Heaven knows where I was or for how long I had been walking in a totally wrong direction. For all I knew I might have walked 10 miles from the sea in the last four hours. Then the moon went in again and the rain came on. Soon after that I ran into an encampment of some sort and was chased by dogs; they followed me some way barking, but did not attack me. Then I got tangled up in more marshes, and in the darkness lost my direction again hopelessly. As it began to get light I found myself near some quite nice-looking stone buildings, and sitting down in an orchard in the pouring rain I debated what to do. I was very exhausted, and most dejected at my ill luck. Our lines could not be less than 18 miles away, so that even if I hit the coast very early the following night I should not cross the lines without two more nights' marching and still worse two more days of lying hid. I was desperately hungry and my food was almost exhausted. If recaptured I could only expect very rough treatment, and I wished to keep a little strength in hand to stand that. Added to this, my feet were in such a condition that walking was most painful. But that which finally made me decide to give myself up was that for the last two hours I had come across no spot which would serve as a hiding-place. How I longed to have Buckley with me! If he had been there I think we should have encouraged each other to carry on for one more night at any rate. However, I can't blame myself too much, as I was in a pretty hopeless position. The remembrance of the whole adventure annoys me beyond words. I was so near success. That last night is to me a tragedy. What is to come is sheer comedy. The house where I had made up my mind to give myself up was a square stone two-storied building with a wooden veranda along one side. It was surrounded by a high wall in which there was an iron gate. Finding the gate shut, I turned my attention to a wooden outbuilding, in one of the windows a faint light was showing. I banged on the door, and after a minute or two it was opened by a small dark man in trousers and shirt and bare feet. He appeared rather frightened, and said some words which I did not understand. I tried him in German, saying that I wanted shelter and food. As I had had practically nothing to eat for sixty hours, and was drenched to the skin, he had no difficulty in guessing what I wanted, if he did not understand. He went back into the room and put on some boots and a coat. The room seemed almost completely bare except for a number of people who were sleeping, rolled in blankets, on the floor or on very low beds. Soon the man came out again and shouted towards the house in a language which I guessed to be Hebrew, as there was no mistaking his nationality. After much shouting a man of a most pronounced Jewish type came to the gate. We had some difficulty in understanding each other, as he spoke a thick and almost incomprehensible German. He wanted to know who I was and what I wanted, and when he learnt, much to his surprise, was most unwilling to have anything to do with me. The prospect of immediate food and shelter made me quite callous about the more remote future, so I said he could send for the Turks in the morning if he would only take me in for the night. At that he opened the gate and beckoned to me to follow him. After mounting some wooden steps outside the house to the balcony he brought me into a room which stank most horribly of stale humanity and garlic. The room was quite bare except for two beds and a sort of couch, on which men were lying rolled in blankets. They gave me some incredibly disgusting cold rissoles, mainly made of garlic, which nearly made me sick; but I managed to eat two or three of them. In this extraordinary household they all appeared to go to bed in their day clothes, and looked and smelt as if they had never washed from the day they were born. I think they meant to be kind to me, but they were very frightened and miserably poor in food and utensils of every sort. They made signs to me to lie on a bed which one of them vacated, so I took off most of my wet clothes and fell asleep instantly. * * * * * I was awakened from my sleep abruptly by the blankets being torn off my bed. A nasty-looking Arab, in a uniform of a Turkish officer, was standing close to me brandishing a revolver. A few feet away was a Turkish sentry, and in the background the Jews huddled together in the corner. The Arab took hold of my wrist and tried to pull me out of bed. That made me mad with anger, so I shook him off and damned his eyes, whereupon he presented the revolver at my head. So I took hold of myself and, obeying signs from him, got out of bed and began to dress into my wet things. Seeing me more docile he lowered the revolver and, seizing his opportunity, patted me on the head to show there was no ill feeling. My resentment at this was so obvious that he produced the revolver again, but thereafter kept his distance. My feet and my shoes were in such a condition that it was clear that I should have great difficulty in walking. I pointed this out to him and, whether at his order or out of kindness--the latter, I think--one of the Jews brought me a pair of old boots. Though the Jews had immediately sent word to the Turks, I feel no violent resentment towards them, as they were obviously frightened out of their skins at my presence in the house. In other ways I think they did their best for me, and were sorry for me; owing to their extreme poverty they could not do much. I suppose they just had licence to live from the Turks, and that's about all. Even at the time most men would have preferred infinitely to take my chances of life and treatment rather than live under the conditions in which these Jews were living. Poor brutes! But then I had the same feeling about every Turkish soldier. Perhaps that is why the Turks are so callous of life. They live so close to the borderland where life becomes intolerable that it can mean little to them to die. Just before we marched off the Jews gave me some more of their disgusting meat, and, when I reproached them for sending for the Turks so soon, they answered that they were terrified and could not help it. When we had gone a few hundred yards from the house I saw suddenly that my wrist-watch was missing. I made the Arab understand this by signs, and let him know that I wanted to go back and fetch it. He refused, and when I showed signs of obstinacy began to finger his revolver. So we continued the march. I made sure then that the brute had stolen it. It was a beautifully fine morning, very fresh and pleasant after the rain, and though my feet hurt me I was much refreshed by the food and sleep. As I knew from experience, alas! it was not till later that I should feel the full bitterness of failure. When we had gone about a mile we came on a sentry standing beside the path. The Arab called to him and he came up, a poor miserable underfed brute, and stood stiffly to attention. Apparently the soldier had failed to arrive in time to assist in my arrest. A few words passed, and then the Arab hit him half a dozen blows in the face with his hand. The man winced at each blow but remained at attention, and then fell in behind. To see an unresisting man hit in this way is a horrible and demoralizing sight, and I felt quite literally sick with rage. A little farther on a second sentry was treated in exactly similar fashion. A walk of a little over half an hour, through comparatively well-cultivated country, brought us to the Jewish colony, the village of Hedéra. There were many evidences that this colony had been a flourishing and pleasant little place in times of peace. The houses were of wood or stone, pretty and well built, and most of them stood in their own gardens and there were many signs that a more civilized race than the Turks or Arabs had been in occupation. In an airy bungalow I was introduced to Ahmed Hakki Bey, Turkish commandant of the place. He gave me a seat as well as coffee, brandy, and unlimited cigarettes. A Turk, who spoke French, acted as interpreter, and seemed particularly anxious to impress upon me that the Turks were not barbarians. First of all, I had to be identified. There was some difficulty about this, as the description of me which apparently had been circulated did not tally in the slightest degree with the original. However, they had little difficulty in accepting me as the "wanted" man, though the commandant said he felt a little aggrieved that I had no points of resemblance whatever to my official description. I was treated by him with great consideration and, after he had questioned me, more from curiosity than for official reasons, he asked me if I wanted anything. I answered that I wished to sleep and then to eat. I was led by the interpreter to a very small room in which there was a bed and blankets. He was most anxious to impress me with the generous and civilized way in which I was being treated. "And yet," he said, "all Englishmen say that Turks are barbarians, don't they?" "Ah no," I answered, "only those who have not come into close contact with the Turks may have a false opinion of them." "Then you do not now think the Turks barbarians?" "Since I have been a prisoner in their hands I have completely changed my mind." As a matter of fact, in pre-war days I always imagined the Turks to be rather good fellows. I had already changed my mind, and I was soon to be quite converted. The Turkish official is as corrupt, cruel, unscrupulous, and ignorant as any class on earth. That some of them have a thin or even fairly thick coating of European civilization only makes them in my opinion the more odious. I came across a few--a very few--who seemed notable exceptions, but that may have been because I did not have time or opportunity to penetrate the outer coating of decency. During this conversation I took off most of my clothes, which were still very wet, and got into bed and soon fell asleep. When I awoke the room was crammed with people, who had come to look at me. I counted sixteen at one time in that tiny room. Women came as well as men, and I was subjected to a hail of questions, either through the interpreter or by those who could speak German or French. One of the Jews who had been my host a few hours before came in and, seizing an opportunity, whispered to me in German, "We did not take it; he did," indicating the Turkish officer who had captured me. I knew he was referring to my watch, and determined to complain to the commandant. The whole position was most undignified, but I did not see how I could help it. After all, I was being treated with a crude and barbarous generosity which was rather astonishing. About midday I was given food, and then brought once more before the commandant. He was standing outside his bungalow surrounded by a number of Turks and half the population of the village, and made a speech to me, which appeared to be most pleasant, and I gathered that he was complimenting both himself and me on the signal proof that had been afforded me that the Turks were not barbarians. Both he and his interpreter had "barbarian" on the brain. When he had finished I took the opportunity of stating that someone had stolen my watch, and added, very unwisely as I soon discovered, that I rather suspected his officer. This was something of an anti-climax. However, he soon recovered himself, and gave me a hasty promise that he would investigate the matter. I abandoned all hope of seeing my watch again. * * * * * The journey from Hedéra to Tulkeram was made on horseback. To my disgust I found that the same Turk who had arrested me, and whom I had just accused publicly of stealing my watch, was to be my escort. The officer and I were mounted, but we were accompanied by two Turkish soldiers on foot, and I was astonished at the way these men kept up with us. In spite of rifles and ammunition and heavy clothes, and in spite of the heat, these men kept up a speed of quite six or seven miles an hour for the first six miles of the journey. After that the Turk deliberately left them behind; keeping just behind me he urged my horse into a canter, which we kept up till we were well out of sight. By this time I had made absolutely certain that the brute intended to murder me, and my anxiety was not lessened when he drew a large revolver and had pot shots at various objects by the wayside. Of course he would have a simple and satisfactory excuse for shooting me, by saying that I had attempted to escape. About half a mile ahead, in the otherwise flat plain, were two very low ridges which hid the path we were following from almost all sides, and I felt that it would be here that the deed would be done, and I began to think out a plan for attacking him first and then escaping in earnest. At the best, however, the situation seemed to me pretty serious. Of course I may have misjudged him, but I still believe he intended to murder me. Just as we were crossing the first low ridge a small caravan came round the corner. I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, and my Turk put away his revolver and drew his horse up alongside of mine. For the rest of the way we were, to my great relief, and as luck would have it, never out of sight of human beings for more than a few minutes at a time. However, as I said before, I may have misjudged the fellow. At a village a few miles north of Tulkeram we halted to water our horses, and while we were sitting there eating some food we had brought with us a German officer and his orderly rode by. The German caught sight of me, and coming across asked me in German if I was the English flying captain who had attempted to escape. When I answered in the affirmative he told me that I should not be long a prisoner as the war would be over in three months. "Why do you say that?" I asked. "Because," said he, "our armies have been completely victorious in France." At my request he gave me some details of the places that had been captured, and added that to all intents and purposes the war was over, and asked me what I thought of it. I said that I did not put any reliance on German _communiqués_, but that if it was true it looked as if the war would last another four years. He left me feeling rather miserable at the way things might be going in France. I hated that German, so damned condescending and superior. No man with any instincts of a gentleman would have gloried over an unfortunate prisoner as he had done. About the rest of the journey to Tulkeram there is nothing to add. I was received there by the very worst and most unpleasant type of superficially civilized Turk, and by a gruff and, I should think, efficient German intelligence officer. After some questioning, I was put into the charge of a Turkish officer of the intolerably stupid type, with whom I very soon lost my temper completely. He deposited me in a cell in what I imagine was the civil prison. A sentry was left in the cell with me, whose presence and dirty habits annoyed me beyond words. By one of those amazing incongruities, possible where the Turk rules and nowhere else, I found in a corner of the cell three very fine new eiderdowns, and with these made myself a comfortable bed and went to sleep. I was awakened some hours later by three English Tommies being brought into the cell. One of them was badly wounded in the arm just above the elbow. The wound obviously needed dressing, so after five exasperating minutes I managed to convey to the sentry that I insisted on seeing an officer immediately. When the same fool of an officer turned up, his dense, imperturbable stupidity nearly drove me mad. At length I turned my back on him and lay down once more in my corner. When a man has been starving he cannot satisfy his hunger at one meal, and I was now desperately hungry. The strain through which I had lately passed was as much nervous as physical, and it had left me so irritable that I sometimes think that I could not have been quite sane during that intolerable never-to-be-forgotten three weeks' train journey to Constantinople. I lost my temper daily, and several times a day. But then the Turks are an irritating nation to a prisoner with a spark of pride left in him. Even now it makes me hot and angry when I think of the Turk, and the hatred of Turkish officialdom is branded on my soul. That night we, the three Tommies and I, left in a cattle truck on the first stage of our long journey. They gave me some food before we started, but no doctor came for the unfortunate wounded man. I protested whenever I saw anyone who could speak a Christian lingo, and promises were given by superficially civilized barbarians that it should be attended to. But result there was none. The journey to Constantinople, with breaks of a few days at Damascus and Aleppo, lasted, as near as I can reckon now, for about three weeks. Many of the details of time and place, I am almost thankful to say, I have forgotten; but in any case I would not tell of the journey in detail, not only for fear of boring anyone who has been kind enough to read so far, but also because the memory of the journey is abhorrent to me. I found out afterwards that my heart had been considerably displaced by my late exertions. I was tired, irritable, disappointed, and ill; continually subjected to small indignities, which are more unbearable than open insults; covered with lice; unable to lie down for days on end; herded with Jews and civil prisoners, and ordered about by a Turkish gendarme or "dog collar" man, whose impenetrable stupidity nearly drove me mad. In reality I suppose the hardships of this journey were not very great, and many times in the past had I suffered much greater privations and discomforts, but never have I experienced anything so hard to bear, or of which the memories are so unpleasant. The first or pleasantest stage of the journey, as far as Damascus, was made by the three Tommies and myself in a closed horse wagon. At any rate I had the companionship of some stout-hearted Englishmen, who bore their troubles nobly and showed that unselfishness and cheerfulness in adversity which is perhaps the greatest asset of the British Tommy. The nights were very cold, and we slept huddled together for warmth on the bare boards of the filthy truck. I begged a log from the engine-driver as a pillow, and managed to get a good deal of sleep in spite of the cold. The days were pleasantly warm, and to a certain extent I was able to forget my troubles in the struggle to get food and to obtain medical aid for our wounded man. It was only after several days that I got a doctor to attend to him. I managed it at last by hailing some German soldiers whilst we were halted at a station. They promised to do their best for us, and also brought us good food. A little later a Turkish or Armenian doctor turned up and dressed the man's arm, fairly skilfully it seemed to me. He told me that the arm was in a bad condition, and that the man should go to a hospital at the earliest opportunity. I kept on trying to get medical attention for the poor fellow, but with little result, until we left him behind at some wayside hospital at a place the name of which I have forgotten. I have never heard whether his arm or his life was saved. Throughout that journey the Germans without exception were good to us and did all they could for us, and meeting them was like meeting civilized men in a savage land. The German privates several times--whenever they had an opportunity, in fact--brought us food, good hot stew, and expressed their contempt for the Turk in no measured terms. Our escort and the other occupants of the horse truck were rather a grotesque crew. An Arab in full Arab costume seemed to be in command. He was extremely suspicious of me, and objected strongly when I talked to the Germans, which I did at every opportunity. In the day time, when it was futile to think of escaping, he watched my every movement, and at night slept peacefully, often with the door a few inches open, so that a night seldom passed when I could not have escaped if I had wished. It was grudgingly that I was allowed sometimes to sit in the sun or walk up and down for exercise at the numerous and prolonged halts. When I pointed out that my feet hurt me and that I had no boots on, he explained by signs that he suspected me the more for having taken off my boots, and made movements with his hands to show that a man could run all the faster without boots. That made me so angry that I nearly hit him, and a little later I managed to get hold of an interpreter to tell him that, as I could escape any night I wished to while he slept, he might give me a little more liberty in the day time when escape was hopeless. Our relations remained, to the end, rather strained. Then there was a big lout of a Turkish sergeant, a kindly sort of fellow, whose main diet seemed to be raw onions, lemons, raisins, and almonds. There was also a particularly dirty Turkish soldier who was seen and smelt but not heard. The most curious member of the party was a filthy, ragged Arab beggar. He possessed only two garments, both unbelievably dirty. One was a coarse linen nightshirt, and the other a large irregular-shaped piece of black cloth, which he wore over his shoulders in the day time, while at night, sitting huddled up into a small ball, he covered himself completely with it. He had no hat, boots, stockings, money, or possessions of any sort. I was under the impression that he had been arrested as a spy by the Turks, but never found out for certain. He seemed to be on very friendly terms with my escort, and appeared to enjoy the journey, depending for food on bits that other people did not want. The Arab gave him all the liberty he wished for, and he was most useful in fetching water and buying food for us. He was just a cheeky, cheerful, ragged street-arab, who seemed to know how and where to beg, borrow, or steal the cruder necessities of life. He seemed to take a special interest in me, and sometimes used to brush down the place where I slept with his outer garment. He also liked sleeping close to me, but I could not stand that, and, though I felt rather ungracious about it, insisted on him removing himself to a decent distance. For some time I thought he might be one of our spies who wished to communicate with me; but I don't think that was the case, as he could have found endless opportunities of speaking to me in private if he had wished to. I was very curious at the time to know who he was and where he was going, and always had a feeling that he was not quite what he seemed. I never found out anything about him; I wish I could, as I am still curious. After a couple of days' journey from Tulkeram we reached Afule, the place from which I had escaped. Rather an angry crowd collected round the carriage when it became known that I was there, and one or two Turkish soldiers put their heads in at the door and cursed me; for I believe the sentries from whom I had escaped had received rather severe punishment. I have little doubt that they had been cruelly bastinadoed, poor brutes. Some German flying men and also some Turks came to see me; the former from curiosity, and the latter to question me about my escape. Had I bribed the sentry? "Of course not," I said, "why spend money unnecessarily? Any fool can get away from a Turkish sentry whenever he wants to. I had had heaps of opportunities since my recapture, but my feet were sore and I could not walk." This statement gave them something to think about, the more especially because it coincided with statements which had been made by Austin and Lee when they had been questioned. Their statements and the belief that Austin, Lee, and I would repeat our opinions as to the incompetence of all Turks, and especially of those at Afule, alone prevented, as I now feel sure, any word of my escape being forwarded to Headquarters. I received no special punishment for my escape, which is perhaps just as well, as I much doubt if I should have lived through it. Of the rest of that tedious journey to Damascus I remember only a few incidents, of which the following is an example. At Deraah, the junction of the Damascus and the Mecca lines, the train halted for about ten hours and I was put in charge of the station-master. He was a dirty-looking blackguard but not so stupid as most Turks, and gave me to understand that he was very friendly. He invited me to share his lunch and we ate together, dipping our fingers into the same dish and fishing out lumps of meat. There is nothing like real true hunger to tide over a little squeamishness. When we had finished, he asked me to write him a note to say that he had been kind to British prisoners. He was convinced, he said, that the British would soon be in Damascus, and that perhaps he would be taken prisoner. I wrote on a piece of paper, "This fellow, Station-master at Deraah, gave me food when I was hungry--A. J. EVERARD," and gave it to him: I had been his guest, and was grateful for the meal. I should like to know if he ever used my chit. We arrived at Damascus very early one morning, and were marched through the streets to the courtyard of a hotel. They pushed the Tommies into a room absolutely packed with stinking, filthy, crawling human beings. They were mostly Turkish soldiers, military criminals I should think, and only once in my life, at the main jail at Constantinople, have I ever seen such a miserable, famished, filthy crowd. I absolutely refused to enter the room in spite of all threats, and at length they gave in, and put a guard over me in the courtyard. Later in the day all four of us were marched up to the main barracks and I was lodged in a room with barred windows--I call it a room, because it was on the second floor and had a wooden bedstead and a mattress in one corner, but no other furniture. The place was comparatively clean, and I might have been much worse off. I asked that the Tommies should be put into my room, but this was refused, though I obtained permission to visit them. They were in a long, narrow stone cell. The walls had at one time been whitewashed, but now the whole place was filthy. From the long side-wall boards sloped down to the center of the room, leaving a narrow gangway. The boards and the stone floor were filthy, and all over the room a thick crowd of still filthier Turks slept or played cards. What the place was I don't know, but it is just possible that it was the Turkish guardroom, though it is hard to credit it unless you have spent a little time in Turkey as a prisoner. I did what I could for our poor fellows, who were wonderfully cheerful; but it was little I could do to make their existence a little more tolerable. Twice every day I was conducted by George, a miserable little Armenian with the fear of death on him, to a hotel in the town, where I had my meals with Turkish officers, and paid at reduced and very reasonable rates. The meals were quite good and satisfying. I also found a small library in the hotel in which there were several English books which I borrowed from mine host--an Armenian, of course. All business men of any description seem to be Armenians in Damascus, and they one and all seemed to be praying for and expecting daily and hourly the coming of the English. After a couple of days in Damascus, I felt so much better that I began to turn my attention once more to escaping. I broached the matter first to some Armenians in the hotel, but soon saw that they were too frightened to be any use. Next I tested my conductor, George, and found that for years he had had the desire, but never the courage, to escape. I cheered him on with promises of prosperity if we succeeded, and two days later he told me that he had got into touch with some men who would guide us to friendly Arabs outside the town. We were to escape disguised in two days' time; but, when questioned, George was unable to produce any details or any connected scheme of escape. I continued to press for details, but when the day came he went dead lame, and was so obviously in a blue funk that I called the matter off. I don't believe for a moment that he had ever made any arrangements for escaping. In any case I feel sure I was right not to trust myself blindly to this miserable little cur of an Armenian. Before I had time to discover any more suitable conspirator--the next day, in fact--I was moved off by train together with the Tommies in a cattle truck, with about thirty other human beings, all as dirty and smelly as possible, and all, I have no doubt, covered with vermin, as I was by that time. Whilst at Damascus I had a good opportunity of looking round the town, with George as my conductor. The Arab thinks of Damascus and the waters of Damascus as a sort of heaven upon earth. Although it does not quite accord with my idea of heaven, the place has for me a certain fascination. The sight of water in plenty in a thirsty land is in itself a pleasant sight. The shops too are exceptionally good for that part of the world. Altogether, making due allowances for the circumstances, I have quite pleasant recollections of Damascus. The last day I was there I tried to change some money, for curious as it may seem, I had never been robbed of my money. I was unable to come to an agreement with a robber of an Armenian about the rate of exchange. George came in, in the midst of the argument, and told me that he could arrange things better for me. He led me by side streets to an insignificant-looking little shop and introduced me to an old man in rich clothing, who spoke French. This old man was an Armenian, with French blood in his veins, I should think, and offered to give me gold for my Egyptian notes. He refused my thanks, saying it was a small thing to do to help one who had risked his life on the side of the Allies against the Turks. Of the journey from Damascus to Aleppo I am pleased to say I remember absolutely nothing. We made a particularly bad start, as I have said, being crowded at night with from thirty to forty nondescript human beings into a dirty cattle truck, so that I have no doubt it was as unpleasant as the rest. At Aleppo the Tommies and I were marched through the town to a big white stone fort or barracks which stands on a hill above it. Here we were separated, and it was not till some months afterwards when one of them came as my orderly at Afion that I heard of those good fellows again. They had had an awful time, but I believe survived to the end, being strong men. Of the fate of the wounded man they knew nothing. I was brought up to the Commandant's private room. After the polite formalities of introduction, together with cigarettes and coffee, I was given a seat on a divan whilst the Commandant submitted himself to be shaved. When this operation was concluded, he politely offered me the services of his barber, which I gratefully accepted. Feeling much refreshed, I was led away and deposited in a very bare and unpleasant cell. Just as I was preparing to kick up a fearful row and give my celebrated imitation of an indignant demi-god by kicking at the door and cursing the sentry, the only method I found to be of the slightest use in getting food or washing materials out of the Turks, an officer appeared who conducted me back into the town. After sundry intensely irritating vicissitudes, and after losing my temper intentionally and unintentionally a number of times, I slept that night in a passable imitation of a hotel, and in a bed which was the cleanest thing I had seen for weeks. CHAPTER III TO AFION VIA CONSTANTINOPLE From this point onwards I don't intend to attempt to give a day-to-day account of my sojourn in Turkey. I will try to recall only those few events which seem to me of special interest, and confine myself, as I have done with few exceptions throughout this book, to those events of which I was an eye-witness. For there never was such a country for rumors and stories as Turkey, where few can read and news is passed from mouth to mouth. I stayed for two or three nights in the hotel at Aleppo, and while there was visited by a representative of an embassy--Dutch, I think--which had charge of British interests in those parts. I asked for shoes, socks, vest, pants, and a bath--particularly for a bath. He sent me some nondescript but most welcome articles of clothing, together with bright red Turkish slippers of the genuine Aleppo brand, which I still treasure. The bath was a much more difficult business. He advised me most strongly against the public baths, in which, he said, one was much more likely to catch typhoid than get clean, and as for a bath in the hotel, such a thing simply wasn't done. He was a Greek, I think, and seemed to find it difficult to sympathize with my desire. I stuck to my point, however, with obstinacy, although I knew I was already beyond the stage when a bath could cleanse me. When he left me he gave instructions in the hotel that I was to have a tub of warm water. What a request! The hotel was shocked, and most properly refused to countenance such an outrage on its premises. I waited for an hour or two in my dormitory, for there were half a dozen beds in the room, and Turkish officers used to drop in at odd hours for a sleep; but as no bath appeared, I started to forage for one. There was no sentry to be seen, and I made my way into the backyard, commandeered a bucket, and amidst universal protest went back with a pail of water to my room. Then, in the middle of the floor, watched the while through the half-open door by the outraged members of the hotel staff, I proceeded to wash myself section by section. It was as I had suspected. A bath in cold water was precious little use to me. But how could it be otherwise, since for the last fortnight I had been in close contact with people who live year in and year out covered with lice? It is disgusting to have to refer to these things, but it is not possible to appreciate life in Turkey unless one realizes that ninety-nine out of every hundred people one meets are crawling with these loathsome vermin. I was told one very good tip, which is to "keep them on the move." The louse lives and multiplies inside the shirt or vest and next the skin. The scheme is to put on your shirt inside out. Then he has to make his way back again to the inside, and just before he has got comfortably settled down you turn your shirt back again and "keep him on the move." Of course it is considered rather eccentric to change your shirt inside out every day or two instead of every month or two, but I disregarded this and, I must own, found the method most efficacious. They were lean, owing to too much exercise and too little nourishment, and it certainly interfered to some extent with breeding. I apologize for the foregoing, and will try to keep off the subject in future. When one is condemned to be unclean with these pests, one can either shudder with disgust and shame, or try to laugh. The journey from Aleppo to Constantinople lasted a fortnight or more, and I traveled the whole way in company with Jews. Just before this, orders had been issued for the arrest of all the Jews in Palestine, whatever position they might hold. This was a result, I believe, of our declaration that after the war Palestine should once more be the national home of the Jewish race. Very many of the best doctors in the Turkish army are Jews; many of these posts in the censor's office and in the commissariat department where efficiency is necessary, but the hope of honor small, were held by Jews. They were all arrested, on no charge whatsoever, and dispatched under armed guards to Constantinople, being treated, in some cases, on the same footing as prisoners-of-war--in other cases as spies or rebels. There was one officer who traveled part of the way with me. He was filled with shame and bitterness at his treatment. He had fought at Gallipoli and most of the battles in Palestine. He had been twice wounded, twice decorated by the Turks, and once by the Germans with the Iron Cross, and now he was returning as a suspect, with a sentry with a fixed bayonet at his heels whenever he moved. They had made a rebel of an efficient servant, for he prayed night and day for the downfall of the Turks. The Jew with whom I traveled most of the time had been for some years in the censor's office at Haifa on the Palestine coast. He was an inoffensive, clever, and kind little fellow, and I last caught sight of him in the most unpleasant section of the Constantinople jail. Poor fellow! I am afraid he found me a bad traveling companion. He was all for conciliation, and advocated judicious bribery to increase our comforts, while I was as irritable and unreasonable as only a tired, ill, and disappointed man can be. In the early days of the war there was only one bad road, which zigzagged through the Taurus Mountains. Later, the Germans organized an efficient motor lorry service with German drivers and mechanics, for machinery of any sort is quite beyond Turkish intelligence. When we passed through, the narrow gauge railway had been working for some time and they were making good progress with the broad gauge line, which would improve enormously the Turkish efficiency on the Mesopotamia and Palestine fronts. Thousands of men were working in the cuttings and widening the tunnels. In particular, I remember one great bridge, with four huge stone pillars rising 200 to 300 feet from a gorge below. It seemed a marvel of engineering in that wild land. It was three parts finished, and I believe the whole line was completed just about the time of the Armistice. It must have been not the least of the many bitter blows this war has brought to Germany, that after so much labor, ingenuity, and money expended on the Bagdad line, they abandoned the work to their enemies at the moment of its successful conclusion. We traveled through the Taurus in open trucks on the narrow gauge line, and on the passengers an incessant shower of sparks descended from the engine, which burnt wood, as do nearly all engines between Mecca and Constantinople. The scenery is wild and wonderful. Great peaks, grim and ragged with straggling pine trees, tower to the clouds, while the train crawls round the edge of precipices where a stone dropped from the carriage window would fall a sheer thousand feet or more into the gorge below. At one point on the journey over the Taurus the line passes through an extremely long tunnel, where all passengers would inevitably have been asphyxiated by our wood-burning engine. Owing no doubt to the fact that Germans and not Turks were in charge, this had been foreseen, and steam-containing engines, much on the principle of the thermos flask, had been substituted. They had no boilers or furnaces, but were filled up with sufficient steam before each journey. I met many of our men on the way through. They were wonderfully cheerful and optimistic, and many had an amused and pitying tolerance for the inefficiencies of the Turk, though when one had heard their tales, one realized that they were just survivors and that 75 per cent. had died under the treatment. To live with the Turk one must laugh at him, for otherwise one would go mad with rage. They complained of malaria and lack of food. Incredible as it may seem, many of them occupied posts of considerable responsibility, being in charge of power stations and repair depots on the route. On the whole, the Germans whom they had met had treated them well. There were certain damnable exceptions: no mitigating circumstance could here be pleaded, for calculated and intentional brutality and not national inefficiency was here the cause. A moderately civilized Turk was once accused by an English officer of allowing English prisoners under him to die in thousands. "We treated your men," answered the Turk, "exactly as we treated our own soldiers." Exactly! The food and treatment that will kill Turkish peasants by tens will kill Europeans by thousands. As well expect a bulldog to thrive on a jackal's fare. With the German rank and file, the motor drivers and mechanics, our men made friends quickly. They had a common bond of friendship--hatred and contempt for the Turk. At one station where our train was standing after dark a man entered my carriage. I was alone for the moment; for my guard, who irritated me beyond endurance, being stupid even for a Turk, and who only kept strict watch on me every other day and never at night, had gone in search of food. The man had on a very dirty but German-looking uniform, and surprised me when he addressed me in good English. He was an English Tommy and asked me if I would like some food in his mess. He was spare man on one of the German lorries, and his fellows would be delighted to see me. It was only a couple of hundred yards away. In a small dark hut, by the light of a candle, four German motor drivers and an English Tommy offered me hospitality, and I have never met more generous or cheery hosts. Our Tommy seemed on excellent terms with them, and swore to me that they were topping good fellows. We cursed the Turks together, swopped yarns, whilst partaking of most excellent German rations--tea, soup, German army bread, cheese, and butter. I went back to my carriage feeling much cheered and once more in possession of my temper. Only for a moment, however, for my blithering fool of a Turkish guard, who was hunting wildly for me under the seat, grabbed me as I entered with a cry of triumph. From the Taurus to Constantinople, about a ten days' journey, we traveled in very dirty and extremely crowded second-class carriages, and all that time we had to sleep sitting up while I longed above anything in this world to lie down, for I was very tired, and my bones ached with sitting. The coach next to ours was occupied by a German general and his retinue. Some of the smart young A.D.C.'s condescended to speak to me once or twice; and once, when we had been traveling a week together, the general sent one of them to me with food. I thanked him, but refused it, saying I had sufficient money to buy what I needed. The haughty and insolent attitude of those Germans towards their Turkish allies gave me the greatest pleasure from every point of view. I was no longer surprised that the Turks hated the Germans. Success and efficiency was the Germans' only claim to respect, and when the _débâcle_ came small mercy was shown by the Turks to starving and beaten German battalions and none to stragglers. After the victory of Allenby in Palestine, trains full of starving Germans came through Afion Hissar, with hundreds clinging to the roofs and buffers and not daring to get down to beg or buy food, for fear either of being murdered or of losing their places on the train. They actually sent a message to the English prisoners-of-war in the town of Afion, asking for safe conduct to buy food. I had left the prison camp by that time, but I believe the Germans were told that if a good party came they would be quite safe. Of course by that time, October 1918, English officers took no further notice of their Turkish sentries and wandered about where they would. The whole position was Gilbertian beyond the wildest dreams of that genius. During the four years that the Teuton was lord in Asia Minor, whenever a German saw a Turk in close proximity he kicked him, either metaphorically or actually, usually the latter, and the Turk submitted--partly because he admired the German efficiency and fighting powers, but chiefly because he had to. "He who would sup with the devil needs a long spoon," and it's precious little soup the Turk got out of that unholy alliance. The Turk cannot understand how a man by shutting himself in an office and writing on pieces of paper can cause all the trains to run to time and armies to be equipped or fed. It is beyond his intelligence, and he can but wonder. The English, French, Germans, and Americans not only have these wonderful powers, but in a scrap they fight like the devil. In the Greek and the Armenian the Turk recognizes this same power of organization, at closer quarters this time, for the Greek and Armenian rob and out-manoeuvre him in his own bazaar. This is intolerable to him, for he knows he is a better man than they are in a fight. If he meets them in the open with a sword instead of a pen they will go on their knees to him and squeal for mercy. This strikes me as pretty reasonable from a Turkish point of view. The Turks' commercial methods are rather crude: "Let some one else make money, then murder him and take it." If we stop them from murdering Armenians, the Turks will starve. On arriving at Constantinople we crossed to the European side. Our escort, as I might have expected, then spent several hours, to my intense annoyance, wandering about the streets, not having the faintest idea of where to go or what to do. At length, after many weary waits, and after an interview with Enver's chief executioner and torturer, who looked a real devil, I parted company with my escort (I think the relief was mutual) and found myself in the great military prison. I was put into a room with two flying men from the Mesopotamia front and an Italian count, who expected to be hanged every day for spying, but was most cheerful nevertheless. The room was about 9 feet square, but as it had four beds in it, there was not much room to walk about. However, as far as I am concerned, I have no complaint to make of my treatment at Constantinople. It was a blessed relief to be left in peace after that train journey, and we were quite decently fed. The Dutch embassy sent me in clean clothes and bedding, for which may they ever be blessed! Also I had a Turkish bath in the town, and by burning my old clothes got rid of the lice. But if we, considering that we were prisoners-of-war, were tolerably comfortable in that place, there were many poor devils who were not. Every day we were allowed an hour's exercise in the prison yard, a not unpleasant sunny place where there was ample room for walking exercise. From here there was a perfectly gorgeous view of Pera and the Golden Horn. Our room was on the second floor, and, as we passed through the lower portions to reach the yard, starving, ragged, lice-covered wretches yammered at us from behind bars. Turkish military criminals, we believed they were. Poor devils! A friend of mine, an officer and usually a truthful man, who had been imprisoned in a different part of this building, swore to me that Thursday was torture day, and every Thursday he used to hear the shrieks of the victims. I believe him myself. After a week in this prison nearly all the British prisoners were moved to Psamatia. I was very pleased to come across Lee and Austin once more. They gave an amusing account of the court of inquiry which was held at Afule after my escape. They had made the journey in comparative comfort, having come across Kemal Bey, the military governor of El Karak, who had been so good to us when we were first captured. He was once more extremely good to them, but took a gloomy view of what would happen to me if I were recaptured. Why I was not punished for my escape I have never found out for certain. At Psamatia I found means to send a private and uncensored letter to my people. Even in these days I think it as well to draw a veil over the methods employed to this end. It was not a route by which military information could be sent. To this letter I added a note to my bankers telling them to cash my cheques drawn under my assumed name of A. J. Everard. If I had known the Turks as I know them now, I should have realized that such a precaution was unnecessary. They usually recorded our names phonetically, in Turkish characters, and to the last expressed surprise and incredulity when a prisoner stated that his name was the same as his father's name. Of course the difference between Christian names and surnames was quite beyond them, and it was useless to attempt to explain. During the ten rather interesting days which we spent at Psamatia we visited St. Sophia and explored the old town. A small bribe enabled one to wander with the sentry almost where one would on the European side, and to buy in the bazaars a number of small things which greatly added to the comfort of our lives. At the end of that time nearly all of us were moved to camps in the interior. Half a dozen other officers and myself, after a three days' train journey, arrived once more at Afion-Kara-Hissar, which I had passed through three weeks before on the way up to Constantinople. It is here that the Smyrna line joins the Constantinople-Bagdad railway, and it was here that I remained for the next six months, till about a fortnight before the Armistice. Others have already written of the life in prison camps in Turkey, and I shall not attempt any description. We lived in houses which once had belonged to Armenians. The Armenians had been "removed"--in nine cases out of ten a Turkish euphemism for murdered. The houses were quite bare of all furniture, most of them were in an advanced state of dilapidation, and they were all very dirty and overrun with bugs. The first thing that every prisoner must do is to buy himself tools and wood and string, and make himself a suite of furniture, and then open the first battle in an almost ceaseless warfare against the bugs. One officer of the merchant service in former days said that he was too hard an old sea dog to be worried by bugs--he would just disregard them. After a few weeks he was very weak and pale. His bed was brought out of doors, and boiling water poured into the crevices, and a vast quantity of well-fed bugs were discovered who had been draining him of blood. We bought our food in the bazaar, and our menu was very simple and monotonous. However much I ate I never seemed to get any nourishment out of it, and all the time felt weak and ill. For money we cashed cheques at the rate of 13 lira for £10. As a lira was worth about two shillings at pre-war prices, living, in spite of its simplicity, was most expensive. To help us out, officers were given an allowance from the Dutch Embassy of 18 lira a month. We passed our time, like all prisoners-of-war, working, reading (for there was a good library), carpentering, writing and acting plays, and towards the end, when we had matters more our own way, playing hockey or cricket. It is hard to compare my Turkish with my German experiences as a prisoner. The whole position was so very different. It must be remembered that I only speak of a Turkish prison camp as I saw it--that is to say, during the seven months which preceded the Armistice. If we compare Afion with Clausthal, which in 1916 was one of the best camps in Germany, I think there is no doubt whatever that any man would have preferred to be a prisoner in the German camp. We had more freedom in Afion, but that was more than counterbalanced by the fact that we lived in Germany in close proximity to civilization. Our letters and parcels came regularly and quickly, and only those who have been prisoners can understand what that means. When, however, I think of Fort 9, Ingolstadt, in comparison with Afion, I find that I look back on the German prison almost with pleasure--certainly with pride--while I loathe to write or think of the Turkish camp where there were no real hardships, at any rate whilst I was there. Those who had been prisoners for a long time had suffered much; and we later prisoners had some difficulty in appreciating the attitude which was adopted by most of the camp towards certain things. When I first came to the camp, escaping was looked upon almost as a crime against your fellow-prisoners. One officer stated openly that he would go to considerable lengths to prevent an attempt to escape, and there were many who held he was right. There is much to be said on the side of those who took this view. Though it was childishly simple to escape from the camp, to get out of the country was considered next to impossible. On the face of it, it did seem pretty difficult. An attempt to escape brought great hardship and even danger on the rest of the camp; for the Turks had made a habit of strafing, with horrible severity, the officers of the camp from which a prisoner had escaped. This point of view, to one who had been a prisoner in Fort 9, Ingolstadt, where we lived but to escape, was hard to tolerate, and I am now convinced that this anti-escaping attitude was wrong. It seems to me to take too narrow a view of the question; quite apart from the fact, generally accepted I believe, that prisoners-of-war are inclined to deteriorate mentally and morally when they settle down to wait, in as great comfort as possible, but with a feeling of helplessness, for a peace which weekly seemed farther off. It seems to me that we owed it to our self-respect and to our position as British officers to attempt to escape, and to go on attempting to escape, in spite of all hardships. It used to amuse me sometimes to think what would have happened if the prisoners of Fort 9 could have been set down as prisoners in Afion-Kara-Hissar. They would certainly have marched out in a body and taken pot luck with the brigands. There would have been nothing to prevent them. To recapture them would have been a next to impossible task. Many brigands and deserters would have joined them. In fact, I think this would have been quite a nice little diversion in Asia Minor. A hundred armed, determined, and disciplined men could have gone almost where they would and done what they chose in Asia Minor. About the time I came to Afion, a number of young lately captured officers, mainly flying men, were also brought in. Many of the older prisoners, who had suppressed their wish to escape in deference to the opinion of the majority of the camp, joined hands with the later prisoners and made preparation to escape. I know of at least twenty officers who had every intention of departing in the spring of 1918. Most of the plans were to my mind rather crude, and consisted of walking over 250 miles of almost impossible country and hoping for a boat. We were sent from England, concealed most cunningly in post cards, maps of the route to Smyrna and a method of getting out of the country from the neighborhood. Tempted by this, three stout-hearted fellows tried to walk to Smyrna--a most terrible undertaking. They met brigands, and one of them was shot, probably in the leg, and left wounded on the hills. The other two were stripped, driven from their wounded comrade with rifles, and returned to the camp in a semi-nude condition. Nothing has since been heard of the third, and to the best of my belief the Turks made no effort whatever to save him. His two companions and the senior officers of the camp did their utmost to induce the Turks to send a few men to the place where he had last been seen alive. To take a little trouble on the off-chance of saving a human life is not the sort of thing that appeals to a Turk; so several prisoners offered to go on parole to the place at their own risk, which to unarmed men would have been considerable. But this was forbidden. Bribery seemed to me the one method which had a real chance of success in Turkey. An officer, whom I will call David, and I first of all opened negotiations with a Greek to be allowed to take the place of the stokers on the Smyrna train. The Greek's courage failed, however, and that fell through. Then we got into touch with the Arabs who wished to desert. They agreed to produce horses and arms; and four armed men on horseback would have had no difficulty in going anywhere. When the whole thing had been settled and it was only a question of final details and deciding the day to go, the second commission came to the camp in order to select sick officers for exchange. As there were very few, if any, sick officers left in the camp, and as the examination was a pure farce, David and I thought we should get a more comfortable journey to Smyrna by bribing the doctor. This was completely successful, and cost me £15. On the whole, I think if you went the right way about it, it was less difficult to escape successfully from Afion than from most of the German camps. _N.B._--For a description of the life in the prison camps of Afion-Kara-Hissar, I can recommend _A Prisoner in Turkey_, by John Still (published by John Lane The Bodley Head Ltd.). CHAPTER IV THE ROUND TOUR CONCLUDED There is one incident in our otherwise uneventful journey to Smyrna which seems to me worthy of record. We were passing through a particularly wild and uninhabited stretch of country, when the train halted just after it had passed a small bridge over a ravine. I and a friend who spoke Turkish descended to stretch our legs, and saw standing on the bridge a very ragged sentry, so we walked back to question him. He had been there, the solitary guardian of that bridge, for four years. Two years before this he had somehow seen or heard from his wife, and had learnt that three of his four sons were dead and the other was fighting. Since then he had had no news of his family. The only food he received were two loaves of bread thrown out of the train twice a week, and during these four years he had lived and slept in the clothes, now ragged and rotten, which he was wearing. He scarcely spoke to any one from year's end to year's end, and lived perpetually on the border of starvation. He only prayed God to blast Enver's eyes, because he was a year and a half in arrears with his pay of 1/4d. a day or so. Thank God I was not born to be a Turkish territorial. In the Turkish army, I suppose, this fellow would be envied, as having a nice quiet job on the lines of communication. On arriving at Smyrna we were told, to our great astonishment, for we had given no parole of any sort, that we were free to go where we would and do what we liked. By the kindness of the American School Missionaries the mission school buildings had been thrown open to the officers and Tommies. The place was beautifully clean but rather crowded, and as I desired solitude above all things, I packed a rücksack and set out to test how far our freedom extended. There was no one to stop me at the station, so I took the train to a small village in the hills above Smyrna and spent two most enjoyable days in a country hotel. The population of Smyrna seems to be the result of inter-marriage between all the nations under the sun. Perhaps there is rather more Greek blood about than any other. They speak no language well, and usually five or six badly. They are a timorous, effeminate community, very immoral and untrustworthy, and seem to live in a perpetual and perhaps justifiable fear of being massacred. They all hated the Turk much but feared him more, and were very friendly to us. Once I had discovered that I was really free to go where I would, it seemed to me that I was in rather a false position. The fact that we were not guarded in any way made me no less anxious to get out of Turkey; and the fact that the Turks had not asked for our parole, which most of us would have refused, in no way relieved us of the duty of escaping if we could. There were other considerations, however. A small minority of the British officers and men now collected at Smyrna for exchange were really sick men; and several of us, who were ardent escapers, did not consider that we were justified in bringing possible punishment on these men by escaping. We therefore decided to wait for the exchange ship and to go by that, so long as it was not necessary to give any sort of parole not to fight against the Germans. In the meantime we prepared a method of escape by which we could clear out of Asia Minor if ever the Turks changed their mind and attempted to send us back to camps in the interior. It was not so easy to find a method of getting away as one might have expected. Nearly every one in the place would take a bribe without hesitation; but they were more likely to betray you at the last moment than do any job in which there was the slightest taint of danger. That is the worst of these half-breeds; they have no morals of any sort. The Turk has his own peculiar morals, and whatever he may be he is not a coward. If you go the right way about it I believe all Turks can be bribed. A good deal of intrigue and preparation is sometimes necessary; but once he has accepted money he seems to consider it dishonest to fail to carry out his part of the bargain. Eventually one of us got into touch with our secret intelligence system and made arrangements for three or four of us to get away if it became necessary. However, the exchange ship was expected any day, so we settled down to wait for it. When we had been there about ten days David came to me with an extraordinary story. He said that a Turk had approached him and suggested that there should be a revolution in Smyrna. Apparently there were a number of Turks in Smyrna who believed that the Turkish empire was completely done, and that the sooner peace was made with the Entente the better. By a revolution in Smyrna they hoped to force the hands of the Government in Constantinople. They hoped, by handing over the place to the English, that Smyrna would be left, when peace came, as an independent state. Above all, I think they feared that it should go to Greece. However, I am not sure that these were the real motives, or all the motives, of the proposed revolution. The motives were a small matter to us. What we had to consider was--(_a_) Was it possible? (_b_) Was it desirable from a military or political point of view? We decided to make all preparation, but to refuse active participation till we had information that a revolution in Smyrna was desired by the British. The Turks who brought this proposal to David said the job the Turkish revolutionaries would undertake would be to tie up or murder the commander of the garrison, the military governor, the chief of police, and a few other important personages. David was to select a party of men from amongst the British and hold the railway with a couple of machine guns, incidentally cutting all the telephone and telegraph wires. My job was to capture the Austrian aerodrome just above the town, and then to fly one of their machines to Mitylene and report events to the English. "What about the garrison?" David had asked. "That is all right," said the Turk; "we have a Mullah who will preach a holy war against the Germans, and the garrison will all come over to us." The scheme seemed pretty mad at first, but the more we considered it the more possible did it seem. David felt certain he could do his part, and I went up and inspected the aerodrome, and made a number of inquiries about the personnel and the guard. It seemed that with about a dozen men there would be absolutely no difficulty in capturing the aerodrome, probably without bloodshed. We considered that if the Turks could do their part--and they were perfectly confident they could--we could capture the town and hold it for at least a fortnight. If the wires were cut we could more or less rely on the fact that for a week or so it would be considered only a normal breakdown of the line. The Turk said that the nearest troops were ten days' march away, and there was no rolling stock to bring many troops by train. Such was the rough outline of the scheme, though I may not have got all the details quite correct. We now refused to move any further in the matter till we got into touch with the British and learnt that a revolution was desirable, and that there were ships and troops to take over the town when and if we were successful. To disarm criticism and indicate that I am now more or less sane, I am prepared to admit now that we must have been perfectly mad to entertain the idea for a moment. About this time a certain English colonel turned up in Smyrna and put up at the best hotel. He had nothing whatever to do with the exchange of prisoners; and in order to explain his presence I must digress here to give some account, probably rather inaccurate, of his previous adventures in Turkey. A month or two before the Armistice the colonel had been a prisoner-of-war in a Turkish prison camp about 100 miles from Constantinople. From there he had escaped by means of a judicious mixture of bribery and audacity and made his way to Constantinople. For over a month he lay hid in the town, and at the end of that time had prepared a complete plan of escape. The details of where and how he was going is not part of this story. On the night on which he had made all preparations to depart he received a note from the Minister of the Interior of the Turkish Empire saying that he, the Minister, had heard that the colonel was about to escape, and would be much obliged if he would call on him before departing. As I said before, it is no use being surprised at anything in Turkey; but that it should be possible that, while one department was searching high and low for an escaped prisoner, another department not only knew where he was but when he intended to escape, throws an interesting sidelight on Turkish methods of government. The only explanation seems to be that each department has an entirely independent secret service of its own. The colonel decided that he would go and see the Minister, as he had really not much choice in the matter. This interview between a prisoner-of-war in the middle of an attempt to escape and a Minister of an enemy country must be almost unique, dealing, as I believe it did, with the probable attitude of the Entente towards certain aspects of the coming armistice. At the end of two hours the Minister thanked the colonel courteously and intimated that he would not hinder him further in his attempt to escape. "That won't do at all," said the colonel, "you have already spoilt my plans, and it is now up to you to get me out of the country." "I will send you out by aeroplane," said the Minister, and went to the telephone. In a short time he returned and stated that, to his great regret, it was impossible to obtain an aeroplane for the purpose, as they were all in the hands of the Germans. The Turks are notoriously incompetent as aviators, and this was only to be expected. As an aeroplane was out of the question, the Minister did the next best thing and wrote out for the colonel an official "passe-partout," stamped all over and signed by the highest powers in the land. Armed with this document the colonel was no longer a poor prisoner-of-war. He was more than free; he was a power in the land of Turkey. All officialdom would bow down before him. So he took the train to Smyrna and put up in the best hotel. Soon after his arrival David and I determined to seek his advice in the matter of the revolution, so we introduced him to the spokesman of the Turkish conspirators, and the three of us met one night in the colonel's private sitting-room and discussed the question from every point of view. The colonel viewed the proposed revolution in the same light as we had done, as a wild but not impossible scheme, only to be put into practice if we received definite information that such a thing was desired by the British. We spent the next day or two in futile attempts to find a boatman (they were nearly all Greeks) sufficiently honest, courageous, or patriotic to be worth bribing. Quite suddenly it was announced that the Turkish armistice commissioners had arrived in Smyrna, whence they would leave to go either to Mitylene or to a British battleship, in order to undertake negotiations. The colonel and David, with the help of the colonel's all-powerful pass, made their way to the presence of the commissioners, and somehow or other persuaded them that it would be a good thing to take the colonel with them when they went. They left early one morning in a large motor boat, the colonel promising to send us back word if a revolution was desirable. No word came through to that effect, and less than a week later the arrival of the exchange ship was announced. On board the ship we were once more assailed with doubts on the question of parole. Should we be eligible to fight against the Germans? We nearly got off the ship at Mitylene with the idea of taking a sailing boat back to Smyrna, surrendering to the Turks, and escaping in a legitimate way the same night, as I think we probably could have done. We decided against it, however, after consultation with a distinguished general and the captain of the ship. Our advisers pointed out, firstly, that as far as they knew we had given no parole not to fight against the Germans; and, secondly, that there seemed every prospect that the war with Germany as well as with Turkey would be over before we could return to Europe. We left Smyrna on November 1st, 1918, when I had been a prisoner in Turkey for seven and a half months, so that, in Germany and Turkey together, I had been a prisoner-of-war for under eighteen months. Quite enough. Technically, I think I may claim to have escaped from Turkey as well as from Germany, but I am not particularly proud of the Turkish escape. There is one further incident which happened after I had been enjoying the luxuries of Cairo and Alexandria for a fortnight, and then I have finished. It occurred to me that it would be interesting to visit the officer prisoners-of-war camp between Alexandria and Cairo. I got on the telephone and asked for permission, and as I was speaking something prompted me to ask if by any chance there was a German flying captain by name of Franz Walz in the camp. Yes, there was. This struck me as most humorous, and also a unique opportunity of repaying some of Hauptmann Walz's kindness to me when I had been a prisoner in his power. My visit to the camp was extraordinarily interesting. The place was a high wire enclosure on bare and very sandy soil. It was clean and well ordered, and most of the wooden huts had been made to look quite pretty by small gardens round them. For all that, it was not a place in which I should have cared to have been a prisoner. Not that there seemed much to complain about, except that it must have been pretty dull. The wooden huts were well built and of the right type for the climate and the country: the prisoners seemed to have a reasonable amount of liberty outside the camp, with the possibilities of bathing from time to time, and they could purchase books and clothes with few restrictions, but discipline was a bit too strict for my liking. Quite right from the point of view of the commandant, but I can't help looking at it from a prisoner's point of view. When I asked Walz, he told me some of their causes for complaint, but they seemed to me pretty insignificant, compared at any rate with those things we had to complain about at Ingolstadt; and I told him so. I was told that Walz had been rather truculent when first captured, and I respected him for it. No decent man takes kindly to being a prisoner-of-war. However, he was very friendly to me, and gave me tea in his mess and introduced me to a number of German officers, many of whom had been captured off the _Konigsberg_, and three or four had been among my hosts in the German flying corps mess at Afule. They seemed a particularly nice lot of fellows, though there were one or two about the place to whom I was not introduced whose looks I did not like, and the feeling was obviously reciprocated. Walz was not unnaturally very depressed both at his own and his country's position. The terms of the Armistice had just been published, and the prisoners ridiculed the idea that Germany would accept them. They only saw our newspapers and did not believe them--prisoners-of-war are the same all the world over--and had no conception of Germany's desperate condition. I did not attempt to enlighten them much, as it seemed to me tactful and generous, remembering my own experiences to keep off the subject as much as possible. Germany accepted the terms the next day. Poor fellows! It must have come to them as a terrible shock. I found that Walz had been told, when first captured, of my own experiences as a prisoner in Germany, and just before I left, he took me aside and said, "Can I possibly escape from a place like this? What would you do here? and if you got out, where would you escape to?" I said that it seemed a most difficult camp to get out of, and if a prisoner got out there were thousands of miles to cross before reaching a friendly country. As a matter of fact, as I told the commandant afterwards, it looked to me as if any prisoner who could learn a few words of English could bluff himself out of the camp any day in broad daylight. A man in English officer's uniform had only to call to the sentry to open one of the many gates and I think it would have been opened. I may be wrong. There would have been no harm done and ample time to retreat, change clothes, and prove an alibi if the bluff were unsuccessful. The second difficulty--the distance, and where to go--was much more serious. The Aboukir aerodrome was within a couple of miles of the camp, and Walz's thoughts as an airman naturally turned in that direction. I was compelled to prevaricate and tell him that the aeroplanes there were all training machines and seldom had more than one hour's petrol on board, and also that the place was well guarded. At this discouraging news, I hope and believe he gave up all attempts to escape. He told me that two German airmen, who had been captured by the English shortly after my own capture, had reported that I had broken my parole when escaping. On hearing this Walz had taken considerable trouble in denying it, and I am most grateful to him for that, quite apart from the other kind things already referred to in this book which he did for me. I count Hauptmann Walz among the many nice fellows whom I met in this war. For his sake, and for the sake of the many kind acts done by Germans to our prisoners-of-war in Turkey, I can never agree to class all Germans together as brutes. Surely it will be better for the peace of the world if we admit that the majority of Germans in this war only did their duty and did it well. This attitude need in no wise lessen our dislike for the German national ideals of "Might is Right," "Deutschland über Alles," or our loathing for the inhuman and unforgivable way in which these ideals were pushed to their logical conclusion. If wars are to cease, future generations must find a "modus vivendi" with the Germans; and surely, having beaten them, we can afford to encourage their good points by recognition of them. The Turk, however, still remains to me the "unspeakable Turk." * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Hyphen removed: look[-]out (pages 216, 245), country[-]side (pages 185,260). Page 6: "hold" changed to "holding" (holding her off). Page 9: "It" changed to "In" (In Cambrai station). Page 12: "aslym" changed to "asylum" (lunatic asylum). Page 25: "dèjá" changed to "déjà" (Ils sont déjà partis). Page 25: "captin" changed to "captain" (the captain fell on his neck). Page 30: "Unter Offizier" changed to "Unteroffizier" (sent by an Unteroffizier). Page 31: "whol es ghet" changed to "wohl, es geht" (ja wohl es geht nicht so schlimm). Pages 37, 216: "grade" changed to "gerade" (gerade aus). Page 44: "on" changed to "of" (till one of them). Page 45: "place" changed to "placed" (placed a loaded revolver). Page 54: Missing word "asked" was added to "We just banged on the wall and asked the people next door". Page 54: "bady" changed to "badly" (badly wounded). Page 64: "my" changed to "me" (which had been given me). Page 64: "temoin" changed (twice) to "témoin" (je suis témoin). Page 66: "Nisson" changed to "Nissen" (the shape and size of a Nissen hut). Page 82: "prisioniers" changed to "prisonniers" (combien de prisonniers). Page 86: "proceed" changed to "proceeded" (proceeded to read). Page 108: "rucksacks" change to "rücksacks" (home-made rücksacks). Page 111: "durfen" changed to "dürfen" (Sie dürfen nicht). Page 111: "Marceillaise" changed to "Marseillaise". Page 117: "senrty" changed to "sentry" (a single sentry). Page 120: "equiment" changed to "equipment" (rücksacks and other equipment). Page 133: "Medlicatt" changed to "Medlicott" (Medlicott had finished). Page 145: "Batty-Smith" changed (twice) to "Batty Smith". Page 145: Errors in French corrected in the sentence: "Nous n'avons ... un officier". Page 147: "brueau" changed to "bureau" (into the bureau). Page 151: "or" changed to "of" (of anchovy paste). Page 154: "skillful" changed to "skilfull" (most skilful labor). Page 154: "Reprêsailles" changed to "Représailles". Page 157: "souflet" changed to "soufflet" (where a "soufflet"). Page 160: "Frenchmen" changed to "Frenchman" (Frenchman excellently got up). Page 164: "a" changed to "an" (He called an N.C.O.). Page 175: "were" changed to "was" (the guard was being changed). Page 183: "ought" changed to "out" (train was out of sight). Pages 183-184: The last line in the scan of page 183 "caps, and got out our compasses and a very poor sketch" was moved to between the 3rd and 4th lines of page 184. Page 184: "rish" changed to "risk" (to risk so much). Page 200: "yeards" changed to "yards" (within 100 yards of us). Page 201: "rtouble" changed to "trouble" (did not trouble to search). Page 202: "parellel" changed to "parallel" (a few miles parallel). Page 210: The map on this page refers to Chapter II of Part II but has not been moved so as not to change the list of Illustrations. Page 212: "immeditely" changed to "immediately" (immediately if chased). Page 249: "Ismali" changed to "Ismail" (Ismail Kemal Bey). Pages 255, 294, 297, 299 (footnote): "Afion-Karah-Hissar" changed to "Afion-Kara-Hisar". Page 256: "encompment" changed to "encampment" (Turkish encampment). Page 269, 271: "Hèdéra" changed to "Hedéra" (village of Hedéra). Page 269: "Haky" changed to "Hakki" (Ahmed Hakki Bey). Page 269: "slighest" changed to "slightest" (in the for slightest degree). Page 275: "imprenetrable" changed to "impenetrable" (impenetrable stupidity). Page 276: "skillfully" changed to "skilfully" (fairly skilfully it seemed to me). Page 278: "anrgy" changed to "angry" (an angry crowd). Page 283: "founded" changed to "wounded" (the wounded man) Page 284: "sojurn" changed to "sojourn" (my sojourn in Turkey). Page 295: Missing "an" added (an advanced state of dilapidation). Pages 299, 300, 304, 306: Misspellings of "Smyrna" corrected. Page 301: "langauge" changed to "language" (speak no language well). Page 306: "demtermined" changed to "determined" (determined to seek).