I don't know how long it takes to drop 12,000 feet. The scientists can
figure it out. But, believe me, it doesn't take very long. I was in a
sort of a daze from the time I was struck, but it seemed only a couple
of seconds before I saw the ground right under me, and--I couldn't
believe it then--I was right side up and on a decent angle for landing.
I lifted her nose a little bit just before striking, and, so help me,
Bob, I got her on the ground with scarcely a bump.
About a quarter of a mile off were a lot of soldiers in gray uniforms.
They began to run toward me. "Well, I'll give you German beggars a
little row before you stick me in one of your filthy prison camps,"
I said to myself. As soon as I got the old bus to a standstill I
unstrapped myself and jumped out. When the gray-backs got within a
hundred yards of me I let drive at them with my service revolver. I
slammed all seven shots at 'em, but missed.
I must have been a bit balmy in the bean, for I didn't notice that
they weren't firing at me. Then I did a nutty stunt. You know we carry
"light pistols." They're things that you use to shoot colored balls of
fire with at night, for signalling purposes, when you're going to land,
and all that. It happened that I grabbed my light pistol as I jumped
out of the seat, so I thought, "I'll give you this, too, you dirty
Boches!" And I shot half a dozen beautiful balls of fire at them. I was
raging mad.
Then they surrounded me. I'm pretty husky, you see. I've got 180
pounds, and at that time I was hard as nails; so a couple of them, you
can bet, took some good wallops before a dozen or so piled on top of me
and pinned me down. They began shouting things at me in some language
that I didn't understand.
Finally one of them said in English: "We're not your enemies. We're not
Germans. This is Holland and we're Dutchmen."
Only then did I stop scrapping with them. They let me up and stood
around me with their bayonets ready to give me a jab in case I started
anything more. It was some little time before I was able to stop
puffing and give a look around at the scenery. Only fifty yards away
was the border line between Belgium and Holland, marked by a heavy
barbed-wired entanglement and two or three cables through which ran
high powered electric currents.
On the other side of the fence were a hundred or more Boches--patrols
who had hoped to capture me if I alighted on their side of the barbed
wire. But I just beat them to it by a few measly feet. A close shave,
what? And weren't they sore. They yelled over the fence at me, and
shook their fists and guns; but I swore back at them just as hard as
they cussed me.
The Dutch were pretty good to me when I quieted down. They were decent
fellows and were only doing their duty in grabbing me for internment.
They took me up to a fort in Groningen, and there I stuck from Oct.
3 until the first of this year, when I was instructed by the British
Government to give my parole. That meant that I must promise on my word
of honor as an officer and gentleman not to try to escape.
I could have got away, I think. I had all arrangements made to make a
dash from the fort one dark night, have an automobile waiting outside
to rush me to the coast, and I even had a trawler ready to take me and
some other chaps back to England. But before we were quite ready to
make our dash the word came to give our parole, and we had to abandon
the plan.