CHAPTER XIV

PRISON LIFE AND OFFICIALS

Not long before I arrived in prison, a change had taken place in its

official personnel. Formerly, the internment side and the military side

had been under different commanders.

What I heard from my friends about the character of the man in charge

of the interned, previous to my coming, caused me to congratulate

myself upon my good luck in not having to encounter him. He had been an

out-and-out bully. He was transferred to Ruhleben camp later on, where

he went under the name of “Stadtvogtei Billy.”

The officer in command of the prison after “Stadtvogtei Billy”

had gone, had charge of the interned and military prisoners. This

_Oberleutnant_, to give him his German title, was a schoolmaster in

civil life. As such he was a government official and duly imbued with

the prescribed attitude of mind.

Officially we had not much to do with him. Occasionally we had to

approach him for some small request or other, and found him courteous

enough then. When he took the initiative, something disagreeable

usually happened, or was going to happen.

Often he called upon some of us for a chat. That was always something

of a trial. He never could get rid of his _ex cathedra_ manners; he

knew only the approved official version of whatever he was talking

about, and mostly chose rather unfortunate themes for his discourses.

“Prussian superiority in everything, but particularly in war,” “the

eminent qualities of the Prussian rulers,” “Prussian strategy in

war favorably compared with that of other nations, particularly the

British,” “Jewish treason and wickedness”--such were his favorite

topics. Quite frankly he ran down everything British and American. The

United States in particular was sighing under the absolute rule of two

wicked autocrats, one called the “President,” the other the “Almighty

Dollar.” They were inhabited partly by Germans and partly by a mass

of ignorant and unteachable fools and cowards, who, unable to grasp

the intellectual and moral righteousness of the German nation, spouted

against them, but were afraid to act. He used to bore us to tears, and

his departure was always followed by sighs of relief.

Of middle size, he was well built, and kept himself superbly fit. He

knew a little about boxing, and often commanded one of the Englishmen

to be his sparring partner in one of the big empty cells of the

military part. His tactics were to strike blows as hard as he could.

Once or twice this was discouraged by his opponent.

The sergeant-major came officially into contact with us every day when

he made his rounds. He was a handsome fellow, stout, with almost white

hair and a fresh complexion, much younger than he looked, and an old

army man. With the mannerism of a German N.C.O., he was a kindly fellow

at heart, and easy to get on with. Although his voice could be heard

thundering somewhere in the prison at any hour of the day, his bark was

ever so much worse than his bite.

The N.C.O.’s acting as warders in our section were always considerate

to us and the other plutocrats, though in different degrees and for

different reasons. One or two treated us decently, quite spontaneously,

and strictly within the limits of their duty. As for the rest, a _quid

pro quo_ was the more or less openly confessed basis of their behavior

toward us.

The scarcity of food in Germany made it inexpensive and easy for us

to keep the wheels oiled. A tin of herring or of dripping, or a few

biscuits went a very long way. I think we were perfectly justified in

making these small donations.

The doctor visited the prison only for an hour or two every morning,

except Sundays. Any one who was foolish enough to be taken suddenly and

seriously ill after he had gone, had to wait until the next day, and,

if he carried his stupidity so far as to do it on a Saturday, he could

not hope for medical attention until Monday morning.

Dr. Béland always helped as far as he could in such cases. Many a night

he was fetched out of bed to give first aid. He was handicapped in this

work of charity by his lack of drugs and stimulants.

There was a chapel in the prison, whose parson was supposed to look

after our spiritual welfare. Personally, I never spoke to him, nor did

I approach his shop. The expression fits, as I shall try to demonstrate.

Among us we had an engineer, M., who felt it necessary to observe his

religious duties, and wished to take part in the services held in the

chapel. He went to the parson to proffer his request.

“The Lord God is not for the English,” were the words in which he

refused it.

The unchanging routine of our prison day was as follows: the doors of

the cells, locked during the night, were opened again at half-past

seven o’clock in the morning. While the Kalfacters cleaned the cells,

we prepared breakfast in the kitchen. The meal over, some went into the

courtyard for a walk, while others employed themselves in whatever way

they felt most inclined. The canteen was open from ten o’clock until

half-past ten. At eleven o’clock the midday soup was distributed. It

did not concern us Englishmen, for we never took our share. The kitchen

was opened again now for the preparation of the midday meal, and there

was usually a rush to secure one or more of the gas-rings. The cleaning

of vegetables, peeling of potatoes, and other preparations had been

previously undertaken in the cells by all hands. The cooking itself

was attended to by the cook of the mess and day. Soon after eleven

the distribution of parcels from England was to be expected. On their

arrival an N.C.O. went into the yard and shouted the names of the lucky

ones, generally mispronouncing them. Leaving everything to take care of

itself, their owners went helter-skelter down to the office to take

possession of their packages. From half-past three o’clock till five it

was again possible to brew tea and cook, and from four to six to be in

the yard. At seven o’clock we were locked up for the night. In summer,

artificial light was not permitted in the cells; in winter, the current

was switched off at nine o’clock.

The most important question for us was that of the food-supply. If,

accidentally, a week or two was barren of parcels, the man who missed

them was apt to become a nuisance to his companions by his constant

expressions of grieved astonishment about this “absolutely inexplicable

stoppage.” This was the case regardless of whether he had a month’s

supply in hand or not.

It did not mean that we were gluttons. Apart from the absolute

necessity of receiving a sufficient amount of English food, parcels

and letters were the links connecting us with the Old Country. When a

link was broken we felt lost and forsaken. A cessation of letters had

a similar effect. Our correspondence was limited to four post-cards

and two letters a month. Communication between prisoners of war in

different places of internment was prohibited. We were not informed of

this, however, until the summer of 1917. A great light dawned on me

then, for I could understand at last why my friends in camp had not

written to me.

While in “solitary” and for two months afterward, I had a struggle to

make both ends meet as far as food was concerned. Only a modicum of my

letters and parcels from England arrived. I was absolutely ignorant of

the fact that friends were helping me with a generosity for which I can

never be sufficiently grateful. Having no relatives who could send me

food, I applied at last to one of the organizations sending parcels to

prisoners of war and was adopted by a generous lady in Southampton.

About that time I joined a mess of four. The pooling of our resources

made them rather more than merely sufficient for us. I debated whether

I should stop the last-named parcels. But there was always so much

opportunity of helping others, and so much doubt whether our parcels

would continue, that I said nothing.

Among a section of the British community it had always been considered

an obvious duty to help their less fortunate compatriots with food,

when they could afford it and the latter were in need. All new-comers

required help until their parcels began arriving. Those who were

placed in solitary confinement had to be looked after during the term

of their punishment, for they were not permitted to have their parcels.

At first this was all done without method and with resulting hardships

to individuals. When coöperation among the greater number of the

British prisoners was finally brought about, every man “behind the

gate” received tea for breakfast, a hot dinner of canned meat and

vegetables, and a substantial supper at five o’clock.

Occasionally we received cases of food from the Relief in Kind

Committee at Ruhleben to be distributed among the British. Here

again little method was observed at first. But in course of time the

organization was perfected.

Up to the beginning of May, 1916, the prisoners had to heat their food

on spirit stoves as best they might. Then fuel for these stoves became

unobtainable, and the prison authorities turned one of the large cells

on the top floor into a kitchen, installing a number of gas-rings at

the private expense of the British colony. For a charge the equivalent

of a cent, one could obtain a pint of boiling water or use one of the

rings for half an hour.

As long as vegetables were obtainable, we fared very well. On our

declaring that we could not take the prison food, the authorities

issued potatoes to us by way of compensation. During the winter

of 1916-17 the scarcity of this vegetable became so great in the

“Fatherland” that mangel-wurzels were generally used instead, of which

we got our scanty share. It was a severe tax upon our culinary skill to

disguise them sufficiently to make them eatable. Palatable they could

not be made. I was cook at the time for a small mess and the sauces I

manufactured with the help of curry-powder, pepper, salt, vinegar, and

mustard, would haunt a professional cook to the end of his days.

I am afraid I have dwelt a long time upon this question of food. But

then, it was the most important one for us. We never could escape it.

Three times a day at least we were reminded of it by the necessity

of preparing a meal. Our attitude toward food and eating was largely

influenced by a feeling of insecurity. “How long will it be before our

parcels stop arriving?” was a question ever present in our minds.

It must be admitted that we seldom lost our appetites, despite the

fact that we could take little exercise. Officially, the only place

to get this was the yard. Paved with granite blocks, it did not offer

altogether ideal facilities. The sun reached the bottom of this well

in one corner only during the three best months of the year. In fine,

mild weather it was always so packed with humanity--and that not of

the cleanest kind--that the air was worse than in the cells. Except

in rainy or cold weather it stagnated, and engendered a feeling of

lassitude which often was the precursor of a headache.

Generally speaking, the prison was badly ventilated, although seemingly

ample provision had been made for a change of air in the building.

At certain hours of the day smells of the worst kind pervaded the

corridors. In the broken light of the evening, the pall of fetid and

evil air surrounding the whole place became visible to any one looking

from an upper window across the yard toward the bright western sky.

In spite of all, however, Swedish drill at night, occasional fierce

romps with our friends, or a few rounds with the gloves in a space

which permitted only a stand-up ding-dong way of sparring, kept us in

tolerable health.

We were fortunate in having a considerable number of private books.

In addition to these, the Ruhleben camp library sent us consignments

which we returned for others. From serious and instructive books to the

lightest kind of literature, we were plentifully supplied with reading

matter.

Sometimes we managed to get hold of an English newspaper. They were on

sale in Berlin but strictly forbidden to us prisoners. The reason for

this prohibition has always been to me one of the inexplicable vagaries

of the German mind. The “Daily Telegraph” and the “Daily Mail” were

read on the sly, mostly after lock-up time, by one after the other,

until they fell to pieces.

The royal game of chess was a great consolation. It was played to

excess, often resulting in staleness.

* * * * *

The first two escapers to arrive after me were C. and L., a happy

combination of Scotland and Ulster. They had gotten away from camp

in a very adventurous fashion, to be caught three days later by an

unfortunate combination of love and flowers.

At dawn, one morning, they had found excellent cover in a clump of

lilac bushes growing close to an unfrequented road. In the course

of the morning a German soldier, fully armed, was passing their

hiding-place, when he caught sight of the lilacs in bloom. Some

flaxen-haired maiden must have been in his thoughts, for he started to

gather a bunch of them. Only the best flowers would do, of course, but

they were inside the thicket, away from the chance passerby. With his

eyes lifted in search of the blooms, the soldier did not see the two

fugitives until he trod on them. Before they had time to do anything,

he had them covered with his rifle.

When C. and L. came out of “solitary,” they and Wallace and I soon

became good friends. Naturally, we discussed the chances of another

attempt to escape from prison. If possible, we would make that attempt

together. For this purpose it would be desirable to be in one cell.

There were four big cells on each landing at the three corners of the

courtyard. They were by far the most desirable, with good company to

share them with you. They had a water-tap and a private lavatory, and

their cubic capacity per man was considerably greater than that of the

single cells. When one of these on the fourth floor became temporarily

empty at the beginning of July, the four of us asked for and obtained

permission to take it.

We all felt a little doubtful about the experiment at first, but it

turned out magnificently; and for all purposes we were a very strong

combination.

As far as I was concerned, the happiest time of the whole of my three

years as a prisoner of war was spent in that cell. I slept well again,

and I lost the restless feeling which had obsessed me while in a cell

by myself, for I had gone through a time of great spiritual loneliness

before C. and L. arrived. Now I simply basked and expanded in this

circle of congenial companionship. I seldom cared to leave the cell,

and almost ceased visiting my other friends in theirs.

* * * * *

Generally speaking, the internment in the Stadtvogtei was no worse

than the internment in Ruhleben camp. The latter was healthier, and

there were ever so many more distractions, with opportunities for sport

and serious work. The camp could be almost pleasant in summer, but it

was terrible in wet or cold weather. The prison was always the same,

neither hot nor cold. Climatic conditions, the changes of the seasons,

did not affect us at all. Ruhleben was one of the dirtiest places in

the world; Stadtvogtei was always clean and dry.

We worked hard, nevertheless, to bring about our return to Ruhleben.

Whether any of us preferred the life in camp or that in prison, on one

point we were all agreed: the camp was much easier to escape from.

So we sent periodical petitions to the Kommandantur in Berlin for

transfer to Ruhleben, and on the rare occasions when a representative

from the American Embassy or, later on, from the Dutch Legation, paid

us an unexpected visit we never failed to complain bitterly about

the injustice of being kept in prison. But these complaints did not

avail. It was probably due to the comparative charm of the life in a

big cell that no actual attempt was made by us four between June and

October, 1916. Discussions of ways and means were frequent, of course,

in secret meetings throughout the house. For a long time the plans

under consideration always involved the destruction of iron bars in

front of our windows and the erection of a light scaffolding made from

table boards and legs. This scaffolding was to help us gain the roof,

and less perilously than the method favored by our friend Wallace. But

Wallace was a crag-climber in civil life. We understood perfectly that

his hobby had affected his brain and would not allow him to climb to

any high point unless he could, by stealth or cunning, do it in the

most dangerous way. Under pressure, however, he was still sane enough

to relinquish his idea--for this once. We applied the pressure. Once on

the flat roof of our portion of the prison we were to traverse it for

some distance, and then drop down the face of a blank wall, sixty feet

high, by means of a rope we had plaited from strings saved from our

parcels. I doubt whether the rope was quite long enough.

We finally hit upon another plan. Its attractions were very tempting in

comparison with the first one, and we tried to put it into execution.

If we could get out of our cell at night and open a window on the first

floor, we could easily drop into the street. As I have mentioned in an

earlier chapter, the windows of the prison overlooking the street were

not barred on the outside except on the ground floor. These were made

impassable by iron gratings on the inside which opened like a door, and

were unlocked by the same key that fitted the locks of our cell doors.

The windows themselves were opened by a hollow square key. A pair of

small strong pliers would do as well.

The corridors were almost incessantly patrolled at night. The necessity

of trying to dodge the patrol would be not only disturbing but somewhat

difficult.

Next the stairs, on each landing, was a room used for various purposes.

These rooms were not patrolled. The one on the first floor which was

naturally the most attractive to us was labeled “CLERK.” This too

had the same lock as the cell doors. In there we should be quite

undisturbed while attending strictly to duty.

We made a key out of a piece of thick wire and the tin lid of a

priceless beer-glass. The lid was beautifully and appropriately

engraved. So was the glass, which had a considerable sentimental

value. Wallace, the rightful owner, sacrificed the lid on the altar

of the common weal. With the wire as a core we cast the key in a

plaster-of-Paris mold and filed it to fit. C. filed it. He would not

let anybody else touch it. He now holds it as his most treasured

souvenir of the war.

It was not at all difficult to obtain the plaster of Paris for the

mold. The making of the key was an extremely simple affair altogether,

though it sounds extremely romantic.

The opening of the cell door was an outside job, for the lock was quite

inaccessible from the inside with any of the instruments we possessed.

One of us had to get himself locked out by mistake, hide somewhere

in the prison, and release the others at the proper time. Wallace

volunteered to do this. He got the job.

On the top floor of the building, in a sort of blind corner, was the

prison library. It was separated from the rest of the corridor by a

wood-and-glass partition. Above its door was an opening large enough to

offer an easy passage for Wallace’s small but athletic frame. As the

library would hardly be used after lock-up, Wallace would be more than

reasonably safe there during his vigil.

We intended to walk from Berlin to the Baltic Sea and make the passage

to the nearest Danish island in any kind of craft we could dishonestly

come by.

* * * * *

“All there?” asked the N.C.O. in charge of our corridor at seven

o’clock of the evening fixed for the new venture.

C. and I were sitting opposite each other at chess. L. was bending with

knitted brows over another chess board. The stool opposite him was

empty.

“Yes,” I answered absently, without lifting my eyes from the board.

“Where’s Ellison?” using Wallace’s surname.

I looked up and made a motion toward the privy our cell boasted.

“All right. _Gute Nacht._”

“Good night, Herr Unterofficier!”

The door swung closed and the bolt shot home. L. continued playing

chess with himself, still with that concentrated look of his. C. was

mean enough to take an unfair advantage of my inattention and declared

“mate” after ten or twelve more moves.

Then we talked disjointedly with long pauses after each remark. “Wace

must have managed all right.” “Seems so.” “Too early to do anything

yet.” “Oh, I don’t know. If they come in here again to-night, the

game will be up anyway.” “Not necessarily; we might have luck.” “We

certainly need it for the next ten days or so.” “Oh,” with the long

yawn of nervousness, “let’s eat.” “All right, let’s eat.” We ate. Then

we started dressing. Double sets of underwear in my case, and also

collar and tie. I had almost finished, though my two friends still

looked pretty much as usual, when we heard footsteps approach our door

and the rattle of the key in the lock. With a white stiff collar around

my neck, albeit without coat or waistcoat, I took a flying leap toward

the door and into such a position that the whole of my person except my

face would be concealed by one of our two-storied bed structures. It

was our N.C.O. who appeared through the opening door. Without coming

farther than half a step into the cell he handed me, who was nearest

to him, a bundle of letters from “Blighty” and disappeared again.

We completed our preparations and then lay down on our bunks in order

to get as much sleep as possible while there was a chance. We did not

get much during the next five hours. We were under the nervous stress

of having to wait for somebody else to act. The hours seemed to be of

Jupiterian size. Occasionally one of us would turn over and mutter

something, mostly commenting upon the situation we were in, expressing

his views briefly and forcibly. Now and then I lost consciousness in

brief spells of slumber. I think our emotions were not very different

from those experienced by men who are waiting for the zero hour to go

over the top. As my brief fighting experience was in the artillery, I

cannot speak with authority.

At two o’clock, with a tremendous noise and without warning, a key

turned in the lock and Wallace came into the room in his stocking-feet,

carefully fastening the door on the inside by a little wooden latch.

The latch was a strictly unofficial attachment of our own making.

We were up and around him before he had done with the door. “No use.

We’re up against it,” he whispered.

We were not absolutely unprepared for this. We had been alarmed at

something during the afternoon of that day. I forget now precisely

what it was. It had been somewhat intangible. Yet it had puzzled us a

good deal. As Wallace had needed some assistance in getting into the

library, we had been forced to take one or two of our comrades into the

secret. We felt, of course, as sure of their trustworthiness as we were

of our own, but it is always possible to make a mistake.

“I’m certain they have a suspicion that something is afoot,” Wallace

explained, “and are merely lying low in order to catch us in the act.

They may not know who it is. When I came out of the library I passed

X.’s cell. The door was a quarter open. There was a light inside and

they were talking. That pig Doran [one of the N.C.O.’s] was in there.

I then sneaked down to the clerk’s room in order to open the door. I

couldn’t. Has none of you noticed that there is a countersunk screw

through the bolt? Has any one of you ever seen that door used? Now,

what are we to do?”

We decided not to go that night. We were unanimous. Briefly, Wallace

told us the rest of his adventures while we crept between our blankets.

I personally felt of a sudden very, very tired. But before I fell

asleep I reasoned with mixed feelings that we might have pushed the

attempt a little further.

We were up at an unusually early hour in order to remove all traces of

our fell intent. We unpacked the two small grips we had wanted to take

with us and put our extra clothes away. The cell, to appear as usual,

required general tidying up.

Hoch, our N.C.O., thrust a startled face in upon us when he came to

unlock the door at seven o’clock. As usual, L., wrapped in blankets up

to his chin and over his ears, was placidly puffing clouds of smoke

toward the ceiling. As usual, C. and I were performing our morning

ablutions in front of the sink. As usual, Wallace was watching us

sleepily from his elevated bunk next the door, waiting for his turn,

and hoping that it might be long in coming.

Hoch, after his first swift survey while still in the corridor, had

quickly advanced to the center of the room and looked immensely

relieved when he had counted his chickens.

“Why, your door was unlocked!” he exclaimed. Wallace nodded sleepily.

“Yes, one of your fellows came in and disturbed us at six o’clock.”

“Who was it?”

“Don’t know. We were asleep and he woke us up. Very rude of him. He

just looked in and walked away, and forgot to lock the door.”

Hoch laughed loud and long, like a man who has had a bad jolt and finds

himself unhurt. He was an Alsatian and as such was always more or less

suspected of disloyalty. In order to shield him as much as possible we

had chosen a night when he would not be on duty, but even so, he would

have found himself in difficulties had we got away.

Friend Hoch was a smart man, however. Nothing further was said about

the open door, but he didn’t believe us; of that I’m certain. Nothing

had happened, so he let sleeping dogs lie, but he made up his mind that

nothing should happen. He was uncomfortably vigilant from then on. He

never locked up, after that, until he had made sure that we were all in

our cell.

PART II

CHAPTER XV

A FRESH ATTEMPT

The failure of our attempt had a stimulating effect upon us. Wallace,

always ready to do anything at any time and under any circumstances,

the more romantic and adventurous the better, nosed around on his own

hook. C. and L. said little, but would have required no persuasion

to do things which a person like me would have called foolhardy. I,

myself, had been only too well aware of the many flaws in our previous

plan to take its failure to heart. The biggest of these flaws was our

intended procedure after we had broken prison. In the absence of a good

opening I cogitated mainly upon the best way of action, once the start

lay behind us. I will give here some of my reflections, because they

shed light upon our subsequent proceedings.

To escape from the prison, a small amount of help from outside was more

than desirable. To break out was not impossible; to do so carrying

the necessary food and equipment meant minimizing our chances very

considerably, and they were slender indeed, at the best. Once outside,

what were we to do? Was it possible to walk through the streets of

Berlin at night carrying bundles and hand-bags? It must be remembered

that crime was rife in Germany, and the police as inquisitive as

monkeys. Could one go to a hotel and wait there for an early train on

which to get away? To walk out of the capital appeared impossible, for

we had heard that a considerable number of military police, with power

to stop anybody, were always about, looking for deserters and watching

the roads to the country. None of us knew a friendly soul in Germany

of whom we could ask assistance, nor had we a knowledge of the capital

and its seamy side, which would have enabled us to disappear in the

under-world of criminals and to purchase assistance there.

In August, two Englishmen, who had escaped from Ruhleben and who had

managed to live in different towns of Germany for several weeks,

had joined our band of prisoners. They had had false passports, an

absolute knowledge of the German language, and had been caught only

through their own carelessness. Both were awaiting trial on a charge

of traveling with false papers, and on one other count. G., a tall,

distinguished-looking man with a drawling voice and stately manners,

had nothing to lose and everything to gain by another attempt. C. was

approaching his forty-fifth birthday, and hoped for an exchange.

In September, S., another man from Ruhleben, had turned up. He said

he was an escaper, but I had my doubts. I don’t think he was British,

even technically speaking, although the Germans considered him so. He

was daring and clever, however, and had friends in Berlin, and there

was no doubting his sincerity when he swore that he would not stay in

the Stadtvogtei at the pleasure of the Germans, even if an attempt to

escape cost him his life.

G. and S. chummed up with each other. A German with an English name, of

doubtful calling in civil life but of powerful physique, joined them.

Toward the end of October, Wallace found out definitely that something

was afoot, S. being the leading spirit.

Without conceit I believe I can say that my friends and I were regarded

by all who knew us as “dead safe.” Nothing on earth, not excepting

faithlessness on the part of those we trusted, or had to trust, would

have made us squeal. We must naturally have appeared an easy prey for

any unscrupulous man, since he would have nothing to fear. Private

vengeance would have been far too costly for us.

This being so, Wallace’s questions received ready answers. S. was about

to obtain a key for the main gate of the prison. A blank was being

filed right then by one of his friends outside, to an approximate fit,

according to a rough drawing he (S.) had made after a chance inspection

of the key in the hands of the gatekeeper. When the rough key was

delivered he would have to file it to a working fit. This done he and

his party would wait for an opportune moment on a dark evening and walk

out of the prison by the front door.

The scheme was an excellent one, as far as it went, and S. had no

objections to our joining his party. On the contrary, he seemed to my

liking far too pleased. Why should he receive us with open arms, when

it was patent that the danger of discovery increased with numbers?

Without promising definitely to join his party we agreed to help him

in fitting his key and getting away. Almost three weeks went by before

everything was ready, and this brought us into the middle of November.

This was another serious drawback. For a long tramp the weather was

decidedly too cold. We could not hope to be able to take along even

an inadequate equipment. Under these circumstances the hardships would

be such as to make sleeping in the open for a week, or a fortnight,

impossible. The use of the railway would be imperative, which was

against C. and L.’s chances. Neither of them spoke a word of German,

and both were so striking in appearance as to make their arrest almost

a foregone conclusion. C. was about six feet tall, broad out of

proportion, and the picture of well-nourished health; while L., with

black hair, black bushy eyebrows on overhanging bone ridges, a mustache

the like of which had never been seen in Germany, and a typical

seaman’s roll, could have passed about as well for a full-blooded

Chinaman as for a son of the “Fatherland.” A word from Wallace or me

would make them withdraw, but that word we could not easily bring

ourselves to speak.

Wallace, on the other hand, did his utmost to convince me that we

must not let this opportunity slip by. The other conspirators would

certainly go, and their escape would close this one avenue forever.

“If you stay behind, I’ll go with the others.” Another quandary. He

would not get through, I felt sure, for he proposed to throw in his

lot with S., looking to him for help, which he would get only as

long as it suited S. and no longer. As we had no maps, and Wallace on

his first escape had walked only a few miles, and those with a guide,

our only chance lay in striking my old route. On this second trip we

might cover the distance in two nights, which meant spending only one

day in hiding. My knowledge of the disposition of sentries along that

stretch of frontier might possibly get us across, even under adverse

circumstances.

I had never felt so uncomfortable in my life as I felt when I had to

explain to C. and L., that it appeared impossible to take them along

with us, and my feeling of utter shamefacedness was only intensified by

their immediate and good-humored withdrawal.

To take anything with us beyond what we could put in our pockets was

not to be thought of. Could we send out a parcel or two and have them

deposited at a station cloak-room? Neither Wallace nor I could. We had

never sent parcels from the prison. S.? Yes. He was eternally sending

them away. He proffered his services, which were accepted. A parcel was

handed over to him to be deposited at a certain station, the cloak-room

ticket to be handed to us. When the ticket came--there was only one--he

showed it to me, but explained that he could not give it up, as some

of his own luggage was booked on it. He would go with us for our

parcel, or get it for us in another way. We were to meet him in Berlin

anyhow, for we had accepted his offer to procure us quarters where we

could stay a day or two in safety. His further assistance, which was to

make our “getting through” a moral certainty, I had declined both for

Wallace and myself.

On the morning of the 16th of November I said I would not go. At four

o’clock I said I would, and meant it. Between five and six we went.

* * * * *

It was already dark at this time. On the ground floor and next to

the stairs was the office of the prison. From its door one had an

unobstructed view of the whole length of the corridor and of that part

of the gateway connecting the street with the yard, nearest to the

front gate. Fortunately the door was always kept shut at this time of

the year on account of the cold.

The gatekeeper had his office in one of the cells off the corridor. He

could not see the gateway without leaving the cell. The gateway was at

right angles with the corridor, and not very well lighted. Two steps

led down to its level. In passing from the corridor into the yard the

front door was to the immediate right of the steps.

At this period of our imprisonment the prisoners had access to the

yard at any moment during recreation time. It was cleared for the day

at half-past six o’clock. Wallace and I went there at the appointed

time--five o’clock--wearing our overcoats, as usual, but our best

clothes underneath. The others were already there.

A sixth man had been admitted to the party, a German stockbroker. This

upset Wallace so much that the slightest attempt at persuasion on my

part would have made him give up the venture altogether. But now that I

had made up my mind I rather urged him on.

That morning an N.C.O. had come on duty at the gate who some months

before had insisted upon being armed while on duty, and who had

declared his intention of preventing any one from leaving the building

alive, if an attempt should be made. Since he was bound to discover the

open gate almost at once, we had a fair chance of getting hurt, which

greatly perturbed G.

At length the moment of action came. S., followed by the rest of the

conspirators, made as if to return to his cell. Once inside, he went

straight to the front gate, while the powerful German put his back

against the gate we had just passed through, to prevent anybody from

following us. Wallace and I walked up the steps into the corridor and

stood there, chatting, to screen S. while he unlocked the door. He

failed in his first attempt. The second time he was successful.

We slipped through the door and found ourselves in the deserted street

in front of the prison. The others, contrary to agreement, broke into a

run and disappeared around a corner on the left. Wallace and I walked

leisurely until we turned underneath a railroad bridge to the right.

We felt somewhat relieved when we had turned the corner. During the

walk up the street we had expected every moment to hear the crackle of

automatics beginning behind us. It is one thing to face a gun; it is

another to expect to be shot in the back.

We were to meet S. and G. at a certain café close to the railway

station where our parcel had been deposited, but it took us a long time

to get there, as we did not know our way about Berlin, and were unable

to hire a taxi or droshky. They had almost given up hope when we

arrived.

We sat down at their table in a well-lighted, large room. Everybody

seemed at ease except me. I felt nervous, but tried to hide it. During

the next half-hour S. left us several times to telephone, as he said,

to the house where Wallace and I were to stay. Each time he came back

saying he could not get the connection.

“Let us go and get our luggage, then,” I suggested.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to buy some things?” S. queried.

“Yes; we want to see whether we can get a couple of oilsilks,

two water-bottles, a portmanteau, and, if possible, a couple of

sleeping-bags.”

“You’d better hurry up, then. The shops will be open only for another

hour. We’ll meet you at Café ---- at ten o’clock. In the meantime I’ll

arrange for your lodgings.”

I was doubtful, but we had trusted him so far; it seemed foolish and

impolitic to show suspicion now. Moreover, to have to carry the parcel

would be a nuisance if not a danger. So we agreed and left them.

In a big department-store we bought the articles mentioned. The

sleeping-bags were thin, by no means waterproof and almost useless,

but better than nothing. Clothed as we were, in ordinary town clothes

only, I was much concerned to get what extra protection from the cold

we could.

While I was completing this purchase, a shop-walker addressed me and

followed up his introductory remarks with a reference to the latest air

raid on London and a pious wish as to the fate of the d----d English.

I heartily endorsed his sentiments, while Wallace, with dancing eyes,

grinned facetiously at me. Just at closing time we left the store and

took the hand-bag to the station cloak-room.

Walking about the streets to wile away the time until ten o’clock, we

met S. and G. carrying their luggage. “Hullo, what the ----! It’s all

right, boys; be at the place at ten.”

We were there at half-past nine. We were still there at eleven. Nobody

came. Several times I made the round of the café, even though we sat

close to the only entrance and could not miss them if they came. At

half-past eleven we left, but returned in twenty minutes. Then we gave

up hope.

CHAPTER XVI

FROM BERLIN TO HALTERN

The night was bitterly cold. The extraordinarily mild weather of the

last weeks had changed at the most inopportune moment. A few hard

flakes of snow were now and again driven into our faces by a searching

wind. We were without shelter, without food for the walking part of

our enterprise, without adequate clothes. In Wallace’s case a year

and a half, in mine seven months, of prison life had not improved the

condition of our health. We were decidedly too soft to stand a number

of days of cold weather without at least some fatty nourishment.

I pictured us sleeping in ordinary townish winter clothes on a freezing

day, perhaps with snow on the ground, in thin sleeping-bags consisting

of an outer cover of canvas and a light lining of shoddy. We should be

wet through in half an hour. The moisture would freeze on our garments

as the generation of body heat, already at a low ebb for want of food,

decreased. Then, we would go to sleep.

I imagined us trying to slip through between two sentries, five hundred

yards apart, with patrols in between, and over bare fields, while the

snow-light gave tolerable vision up to a mile.

I was so disheartened that I proposed that we should walk to the prison

and give ourselves up. We could plead that we had gone away for a

lark. Our punishment would almost certainly be light. There had been

precedents which warranted this view. It was not impossible that the

German authorities might come to the conclusion that one escape apiece

had been enough for us. In this way we might get another chance under

more favorable circumstances. If we persisted now, we had not one in

ten thousand, and we firmly believed that after capture we should

be sent to a penitentiary prison and guarded beyond hope of another

attempt.

With splendid pluck and determination Wallace talked me round. No, he

was not going to do anything of the sort. Let them catch him, if they

could, but no voluntary surrender for him. I could do as I liked, but

we might find it easier than we thought.

“All right! Let’s go to a hotel!”

“That isn’t safe. We must try to get somewhere else.”

I intended to have my way now. “No fear! From what S. told us, it is

safe enough. We both speak German pretty well. If we leave the place

before eight o’clock we’ll be all right. Look at C. and G.! They never

had to show their passports at the hotels. This way to the station for

our luggage! Say, do you know a small hotel hereabouts?”

“Yes, there is the ----. I stopped there once. But it is a good long

way from here.”

“Let’s try it, anyway.”

I had pocketed the luggage-ticket. At the station I could not find it.

An agitated search through my pockets failed to reveal the square thin

paper. We were standing in front of the cloak-room, and I was still

hunting through my pockets when a man approached us.

I had caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye while he was

still some yards away. If ever there was a detective in plain clothes,

he was one. Deliberately I half turned my back toward him. He stepped

up close to my shoulder and peered over it, listening to what we were

saying. I dared not take any notice. Wallace’s eyes, boring for a

moment into mine while he lolled against a counter, are still clear

before me.

A few months earlier I had received an answer to one of our petitions,

in a fine official envelop with a huge blue seal on the back. With an

indefinite idea that the seal might be used as an effective camouflage,

I had kept the envelop by me. I drew out my pocket-book, and while

searching through it, held the back of the envelop conveniently exposed

to the eyes of the detective.

“I must have left it at the hotel. Let’s go there and send for the

luggage,” I said aloud in German. The detective turned away. So did we.

A single cab stood in front of the station. I turned toward the station

police-office to get the brass disk, but was met half-way by the

policeman, who had been watching us. He handed it to me without a word.

The hotel at which we wished to stay was full. After some palaver cabby

took us to one near by, where we got a room. It was a very small place.

The night-porter seemed to be the only servant on duty. He appeared

somewhat suspicious, but said nothing about it.

The double-bedded room we were shown into looked very nice. We thought

it ridiculously luxurious, but Wallace went to bed at once. It was

about one o’clock. While undressing I found the luggage-ticket in an

inner waistcoat pocket.

I had still about two hours’ work ahead of me, for I had to map out the

route for the following day. I was quite convinced that Berlin was too

hot for us. We had not yet discussed our further plans, but had bought

a time-table at the station.

Finally, having considered a number of alternative routes, I selected a

slow train, which was to leave the Zoölogical Garden Station, where our

luggage was, at 10:24 A.M. for Hanover, and was due to arrive some time

after 6 P.M. I went to sleep, dead tired, at about 2:45.

We got our knock and hot water at 6:30, as ordered. Having dressed,

we went into the breakfast-room. A nice, comfortable-looking body

presided there; I believe she was the proprietress. We had foreseen the

formality of the visitors’ book, and had our names and addresses pat.

The landlady peered at them, then at us. I had to negotiate with her

for our breakfast, for we had no bread-cards and wanted something to

eat.

“You are foreigners, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Good gracious, no! Why do you think so?”

“I thought so from your accent.”

“We’re not from this part of Germany, as you can see by the visitors’

book.” I was going to add that we had lived a long time abroad, etc.,

but, if I recollect rightly, I did not. I don’t believe it safe to

volunteer information, unless one is telling the truth.

“That’s quite all right, then. We have to be so careful about

strangers! Just sign these emergency slips for your bread-cards. Thank

you, sir.”

During a very sketchy breakfast consisting of coffee, rolls, and

butter, a young lieutenant passed down the room, and with a bright

smile saluted us civilly. Wallace and I looked at each other, grinning

covertly. What a lark! If he knew!

At a quarter to eight we left the hotel and slowly made our way toward

the station. Having plenty of time, we entered a café to have a chat

and another breakfast, even more sketchy than the first. We were the

only guests in the place, and had to wait for the milk. Here I outlined

my plans for the day. At last Wallace assented.

“Come along, then,” I said, rising. “Let’s see what we can buy in the

way of food. Chocolate first.”

In a high-class confectioner’s we were told that chocolate was out of

the question, but _chocolates_ we could have.

“What price?”

“Nine marks [$1.75] a pound!”

We could not afford more than two pounds, because the things we had

bought the night before had made a big hole in our joint capital of

$125.00--in German money, of course. Next we obtained two small tins of

sardines at $1.10 each. Our efforts to buy something in the way of meat

or fat were not crowned with success.

At the station, however, things went well, in spite of my extreme

agitation when buying the tickets.

Within the first half-hour we passed Ruhleben camp, and had a glimpse

of the grand stands, the barracks, and the enclosure, which we knew so

intimately from the inside.

At about 12:30 the train stopped for over an hour at Stendal. The

station restaurant supplied us with a fairly ample fish meal, beer, and

coffee. Another long stop occurred later on.

During the journey we passed a considerable number of prisoners’ camps.

They seemed as a rule to be situated close to a railway line, within

easy distance from a small station. The aspect of the huddled hutments,

the wire fences around them with watch-towers at the corners, and the

sentries on guard, was indescribably forlorn. At one station at which

we stopped a transport of Russian prisoners entrained under a guard of

ancient territorials.

Wallace was in high spirits all the time. I was, on the contrary,

moody, irritable, and worried. My feelings were in complete accord with

the weather.

A lowering gray wrack of clouds was being torn and driven by a

whistling wind above the naked fields and copses. Occasionally showers

of hard snowflakes could be heard rattling on the glass of the carriage

windows. Our compartment was over-heated, as trains always are in

Germany. Yet, I shivered occasionally, as I looked out of the window,

while trying to construct a small optimistic raft to cling to in a sea

of despondency. I made a bad companion that journey.

Hanover was reached on time, and the luggage temporarily disposed

of in the cloak-room. The town greeted us with a brief but thick

blizzard--about the worst thing that could happen to us short of

arrest. Confronted with it, my spirits improved.

“Snow, or no snow, we’ll make the best attempt we can at the frontier,”

I whispered.

“Just what I think,” Wallace agreed heartily.

His boots did not fit him well, and I urged him to buy bigger ones. A

suitable pair, shown to us in a shop, cost $15.00, too much for our

declining purse. When Wallace looked up at me from his chair, mutely

shaking his head, I could not insist on the expenditure.

After that we walked about the streets, looking for a likely hotel.

We decided on a dirty fifth-rate one, to which we resolved to return

later, and then wandered back to the brighter, fashionable part of the

town. We had dinner in a big restaurant. The warmth, the lights, the

show of gaiety around us, and an ample but meatless meal accompanied

by a glass or two of decent lager, made me feel subduedly optimistic.

Wallace was nearly jumping out of his skin with _joie de vivre_.

At ten o’clock we went to our hotel. It was unnecessarily low-class. We

did not seem to fit into the scheme of things there, and consequently

were regarded with half-concealed suspicion. Nevertheless, no questions

were asked. Our room was cheerless and cold. We waited until our

luggage was brought; then Wallace crept into bed, while I sat in my

overcoat near the guttering candle, looking up trains.

I intended to get to Haltern the following evening. The main railway

lines lay across our route, and several changes were necessary, there

being no direct trains over the branch lines we had to use. My task

proved a difficult one. Few trains were running in Germany at that

time. The fast corridor expresses, which we could have taken over

comparatively small stretches, had to be carefully avoided, for we knew

now of the existence of passport controls on them. The slow trains did

not usually connect. After much comparing, testing, and retesting, I

was fairly satisfied at last.

I had resolved not to leave Hanover from the main station. Detectives

might be watching for us there. By using electric trams we could get to

Hainholz, a village near Hanover, and there pick up our train. At about

12:30 we should be at Minden. A two-hours’ wait there, and a journey of

about one and a half hours would take us to Osnabruck by about 5 P.M.

Forty minutes later a non-corridor express would carry us to Haltern,

where we should arrive at 7:30.

I was nearly beat when I tumbled into bed at two o’clock, envying

Wallace, whose regular breathing had filled the room for hours past.

Bang, bang, bang! bang, bang, bang!

“All ri--” I began.

“_Danke schön, danke!_ [Thank you],” shrieked Wallace, to drown my

voice.

I opened my eyes foolishly, to a dark room. A match spluttered, the

wick caught, and Wallace’s eyes glittered reproachfully into mine from

behind his glasses. “I say, do you know what you said?” This in German.

“Well, I--”

“Shshsh, you chump, _Deutsch!_”

* * * * *

“We’d like breakfast, please!” This to a youth in the bar-room.

“Have you got your bread-cards?”

“No. We’re travelers; we’ll sign travelers’ slips.”

“Nothing doing. You can have a cup of coffee.”

“Look here, we got bread at a restaurant last night without them. Why

can’t you give us some?”

At this suggestion the uncivil youth lost his temper completely, and we

were fain to content ourselves with a cup of German coffee-substitute.

Before eight o’clock we were out of the place. Our luggage was again

in the cloak-room of the main station. A long walk got rid of most of

the time before us. At ten we tried to buy some nuts. The oil they

contained would supply our bodies with fuel; but none were to be had.

Having got our luggage, we took a tram to Hainholz, where we arrived

far too early. The cloak-room and ticket-office of the small station

were closed. Some minutes after eleven the train left. It was a

pleasant change to get into the hot carriage after the cold station.

At 12:30 we arrived at Minden. The huge dark waiting-room seemed full

of intangible menaces. We spent an exceedingly uncomfortable time

there, but were recompensed by an excellent meal. A considerable piece

of veal, with plenty of vegetables, blunted our fears and appeased our

ravenous hunger.

At the station where next we had to change we found our train waiting

on a siding, and at 7:30 P.M. we arrived in Haltern.

The weather had been much the same as on the preceding day, a little

colder, a little more snow. With the prospect of getting within

walking-distance of Holland, my spirits were not so depressed. It is

such a bonny feeling to get on “your own feet,” instead of having to

wait in a railway carriage or station, expecting to feel a hand on your

shoulder, and hear a voice asking you for your papers!

CHAPTER XVII

WESTWARD HO!

Until we got out into the open country I was to walk in front, carrying

the portmanteau, which was a little too bulky a load for a man of

smaller stature than mine. Wallace was to follow twenty or thirty paces

in the rear, but not to lose sight of me.

Into the town and the market-place it was plain sailing. Without

looking at the sign “To Wesel,” the existence of which I had forgotten,

I turned into the right lane, recognizing it from its general aspect.

Nevertheless, the darkness made the ground which I had traversed in

daylight look different.

At the cross-roads a long procession of street lamps disappeared down

the street which ought to have been the right one. On my first escape I

had failed to notice these standards on what then looked like a country

road. They are not very conspicuous in daylight. I had had my eyes

fixed upon the landscape generally, rather than upon details close to

me, which had no meaning for me at that time. Furthermore, I had very

soon taken a path on the left.

For the moment I was confused, and, not being able to take bearings in

the dark, I walked ahead, up a lane, pondering the situation. Here were

no lights, which was inviting. A woman passed me, and a moment after

Wallace closed up rapidly.

“Did you see that woman?” he asked. “She turned and looked after you.

She’ll inform the police. We’ve got to get off the road!”

“All right! It’s dark enough for anything. There is no danger. Just

let’s get off the road and see whether anything happens.”

We waited some time, but nothing occurred. Nothing could, as a matter

of fact, for we didn’t wait long enough.

“I can’t recognize this road,” I complained. “The darkness makes

everything look different. We’re too far east. That road with the lamps

along it is the right one, after all.”

“You’re absolutely wrong,” came the quite unexpected opposition from

Wallace. “We’re too far west.”

I had only been soliloquizing aloud, to give Wallace a chance of

understanding every step we took.

“How can you know that?”

“I saw a sign, farther back, ‘To Wesel.’ That means we are too far

west.”

“Are you sure you saw the sign, and did we pass along the road in its

direction?”

“Absolutely certain!”

“I can’t understand it at all. We simply can’t be too far west!”

Wallace had seen the sign in the market-place. This being the

starting-point, his conclusion was not warranted. But he could not know

that. I, on the other hand, was sufficiently doubtful on account of the

lamp standards, and Wallace’s opposition turned the scales.

“All right,” I conceded ungraciously, for I am rather touchy about my

woodcraft, “if you’re so sure of it, we’ll walk straight north. In that

way we’ll come across the road we are looking for, if you’re right. If

not, we can turn back. Now we’ll find a place to pack our knapsacks and

get rid of this beastly bag.”

We left the road definitely now, close to a church which stood dark and

lonely among open fields. We were still near Haltern, but the night

increased the distances.

A drop of rain struck my face. Delighted, I turned to Wallace, who was

behind me: “I say, I believe it’s coming on to rain. It would be fine

if the weather got mild again!”

Behind a wall, which enclosed a churchyard, we stopped to get ready

for the road. We packed our knapsacks as best we could in complete

darkness, for our only flash-lamp refused to act. While we were doing

so, it really began to rain, and we slipped into our oilsilks. Then we

started out across-country, due north, walking by compass.

The going was terrible. The ground was frozen hard and the rain on

coming in contact with it congealed to ice, which caused us to slip and

stumble on the unyielding ridges between the furrows, and now and again

to come down hard. The exertion kept us warm. When I took off my hat

for a moment, to wipe my forehead, I found the brim full of solid ice.

We proceeded for about half an hour, up-hill all the time. Then the

edge of a wood stopped us. That decided me: I knew now that we were

following the wrong course.

“Look here, Wace, there’s not a shadow of a doubt in my mind that we

are too far east. Haltern is bearing south. If we were anywhere near

the right road, it ought to lie in a southeasterly direction. If we had

been too far west, we should have come to the woods much sooner. We can

make one very decisive test. We’ll go east, until the eastern extremity

of Haltern bears south. Then we shall know that we are too far to the

east!”

We altered our course accordingly and proceeded in this new direction.

Suddenly the ground disappeared from underneath my feet, and I fell

headlong down the banks of a deep, hollow road. Wallace was saved

by being last. Up the other side and across more fields we came to

another road. Here we almost ran into a man, whom our sudden appearance

frightened out of his wits, to judge by the way he hurried off toward

the town.

“Now, then, Haltern bears almost southwest now. Back we go to the

cross-roads. Southeast will take us there in a straight line. Come

along.”

On the way back I noticed for the first time a change in my companion.

His steps, all of a sudden, seemed to have lost their elasticity, while

I grew stronger and more contented every minute.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Of course there is. I know it from the way you walk!”

“I don’t feel extra well. Something wrong with my stomach. It’ll pass

soon, I expect.”

That was bad news. We came to a lonely wooden hut, like a very small

barn. I stopped. “Tell me frankly if you think you can’t go on. In

that case we’ll break in here. We’ll have a certain amount of shelter

inside. There is no danger. To-morrow will be Sunday and nobody is

likely to come near us. It is much better to stop in time, before you

have drawn too much upon your reserve strength. The situation is not

precarious enough for that. You’ll want that later on.”

“No,” he insisted; “I can go on.”

At last we turned into the road we were looking for. The rain had

changed to sleet. The road was slippery with ice. Progress would have

been slow under any circumstances, but it was slower on account of

Wallace’s failing strength. He was plucky, however, and he kept going.

The usual thirst began to trouble us. Fortunately we had filled our

water-bottles at the hotel in Hanover. To husband our supply on

Wallace’s behalf, I contented myself with sucking the ice which I

peeled in lumps from my hat brim.

In due course we came to the first clearing. The outlines of a barn

on the right, and a house on the left, seemed familiar. “Let’s rest a

bit,” I proposed to Wallace, for he seemed almost done. He propped

himself in a sitting posture against the wall of the barn, while I

scouted around.

There was a farmyard behind the structure. The barn itself consisted

of a loft, reared on strong uprights. Only half the space below was

enclosed by boards, and filled with compressed straw. The other half

was open, and contained a big farm wagon. Between its wheels and the

straw a number of clumsy ladders were tightly wedged. In the gable of

the loft an open door showed a black interior.

“There will be straw up there,” I said to Wallace. “The cattle were

given a fresh bed to-day, probably. Nobody will want to fetch straw on

a Sunday. We’ll be quite safe.” And I went through the same argument as

before.

Wallace was undecided for a moment, I believe. But, to tell the truth,

I had spoken rather too sharply to him a little time before. My only

excuse is that I was exceedingly worried. Rotten as he felt, he was

bound to be nettled. “No,” he said; “I will go on.”

It was obvious that he was suffering from an attack of something

akin to indigestion. I was unable, though, to make head or tail of

his attack. When I pressed him for information, he told me he had

swallowed some shaving-soap, mistaking it in the dark for chocolate. He

had hardly any pain, but our pace decreased gradually to a crawl as we

neared the crest of the spur of hills, where the path which I had used

on my first escape branched off. Not having a torch, I missed it, but

discovered my mistake about two hundred yards beyond. We had come out

of the forest. Plowed fields on our right had given me the first hint

of my error.

“We’ll have to turn back. I’ve missed the path,” I informed my friend.

“I can’t move any farther. I must lie down,” answered Wallace

indistinctly, swaying on his feet.

Too miserable to say anything, I led him back, and some way into the

timber got out his flimsy sleeping-bag, and put him inside. Then I felt

his pulse. It was going at the rate of about one hundred and thirty a

minute.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“Done for, old man. But don’t you worry. You go on. No use spoiling

your chance. You leave me here. I’ll be all right.”

“I’m not going to leave you, except for a few minutes. I want to find

that path. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour. You’ll be all right

that long, won’t you?”

I was still hoping for a miraculous recovery, although Wallace’s rapid

pulse had upset me sorely. My mind was tenaciously holding to the idea

of “carrying on,” and I wished to know how to get my companion on the

right road without wasting his precious strength.

It took me less than ten minutes to find the path. The groping about in

the darkness of the wood had taken my mind off the real issue. Now, on

my way back, I had to face the ugly situation we were in.

I had not enough medical knowledge to gage the insignificance of the

accelerated heart action, and thus almost feared the worst. If only he

could be sick! Perhaps he was going to die on my hands! If he lived

through the night, could I hope that his strength would return to him

on the morrow and allow us to proceed?

One thing was out of the question: I could not leave him alone, even if

he was out of danger and in shelter, for we were both fully persuaded

that, in the event of capture, we should be sent to a penal prison. But

what was to be done? Wallace could not lie out in the cold the rest of

the night and all the next day. The only shelter reasonably near was

the barn, which we had passed some time before. We should have to go

back to it. We had to reach it, even if I had to carry him.

The snow, which had come on again, was whispering in the trees when I

entered among them, groping in the thick darkness for his recumbent

form. It sifted straight down through the still air, while the wind

shrieked and roared overhead. He called feebly when I came close to him

in my blind search.

“Well, how goes it?” I inquired, with seeming cheerfulness.

“I think I’m better.” This through chattering teeth. “But I’m

aw-aw-awfully cold.”

“Get up. I’ll help you.”

“I-I-I don’t want to.”

“But you can’t stay here,” I protested. “You’d be frozen stiff before

morning. We’ve got to get back to that barn we passed.”

“A-a-aren’t you going to lie down, too? We might keep each other warm.”

“No, I’m not,” very emphatically. “Get up, d’you hear, get up!”

Partly by sheer force I got him out of the thing we had bought for a

sleeping-bag. Already the wet had penetrated in places. While Wallace

stood leaning against a tree, I groped round for our knapsacks.

Carrying the double burden, which privilege cost me another struggle

with Wallace, I led back over the ground which we had covered on our

way up, my friend lurching drunkenly by my side. Then he fell and lay

in a faint, but recovered quickly. After I had got him on his feet

again, I kept his arm, supporting him as much as I could. Every few

hundred steps or so he half collapsed, his knees doubling under him.

When this happened I let him slide to the ground, thus to get some rest.

I do not know how often this had occurred when I noticed something

wrong about the road. The clearing on the left, with stumps standing

black against white snow patches--surely I could not have twice missed

noticing it! The ground, too, fell rather sharply. “Traveling toward

the Wesel road!” I thought. “I remember no villages there, if I

recollect the map.”

Wallace had been sitting on the ground all this time. I helped him to

his feet and urged him on: “We’ve got to be traveling! Up hill now!

Awfully sorry, old chap, but I missed the road.”

Three rests, and the old track was under our feet. Three more, and we

were drawing near to the little settlement.

“It’ll not be very long now, old man; cheer up!” I said encouragingly.

“Mus’ get into warmth. Knock first house come to. Can’t stick it,”

Wallace muttered in reply.

“Try to make that barn, won’t you? It’s close by.”

We came abreast of a house with a light in the passage, which showed

dimly through some panes of glass above the front door. The time must

have been about 2:30 A.M.

Wallace stopped and peered at it. “Is that a house?”

“Yes.”

“Knock!” and with a contented sigh he slid to the ground.

I was not prepared to give up so soon. That is what his command meant,

as it appeared to me. My pal moved and struggled into a sitting

position.

“Knock!” he repeated.

I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, but less determined. The same

result. The third time my knuckles met the wood with a nice regard for

the sleepers inside. I did not intend them to hear me; it was only for

Wallace’s satisfaction that I went through this performance.

“They don’t hear,” I announced, having gone back to my companion. “Come

on, make another effort. Let’s get to the barn. It’s only a few more

steps,” I urged.

“Did you knock?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yes, three times!” I replied, with veracious if somewhat misleading

detail, and I dragged him up and on.

At last we reached it. Wallace was soon resting in the same place as

he did hours before, while I went to get a ladder. Three of them were

wedged in on one side between a wheel of the wagon and a support of the

barn, and by the compressed straw on the other. I tore, and heaved, and

struggled with berserk rage until I got one out, the sweat pouring from

underneath my hat brim. It was an enormously clumsy affair, and trying

to rear it against the barn and into the door opening off the loft, I

failed again and again by an inch or two. After a brief rest I went at

it again. The last inch seemed unattainable. Another effort! Suddenly

it leaped right up and into position. Turning in surprise, I saw my

friend standing behind me. His little strength had been added to mine

just at the right moment.

“I’ll go up first and have a look!” I told him. The rear of the loft

was four feet deep in clean-smelling straw. Thank God for that! We

should be warm!

“Up you go!” I was on the ground again to help Wallace up the ladder.

He managed to ascend it, and then pitched forward. I let him lie and

fetched our knapsacks. The ladder I left in position for the time

being. If a few hours’ rest would improve my friend to such an extent

that it became feasible to “carry on” during the following night, I

intended to drag it up after us, and hide it at the rear of the barn,

where I proposed to conceal ourselves. It would not be missed on a

Sunday.

A hearty heave and shove sent Wallace sprawling on the straw. Soon I

had a hollow dug for him, into which he crawled, and I covered him as

best I could. Then I flung myself down by his side, too fagged to care

for overcoat or covering.

Fighting against the drowsiness which immediately stole over me, I

must have fallen asleep for a short spell, for I felt suddenly very

cold. Too tired to move immediately, I lay shivering, listening to the

dying wind and the faint beating of snow against the thin walls and

the roof of our shelter. When the cold became intolerable, I crawled

with stiff joints into the corner where I had flung our knapsacks, got

my overcoat out, and put it on. The exercise cleared my dulled brain,

and I perceived that I had better look after Wallace. His teeth were

chattering when I bent over him. As well as I could, I got him warmer

after a time. I now kept wide awake, trying to piece together what was

left of our hopes.

I did not anticipate hearing any one stirring in the few houses around

until late daylight, and dully wondered at the sound of voices which

penetrated to our hiding-place, hours before some chinks in the roof

showed faintly gray. We could not see the door from where we rested.

With an effort I turned to Wallace. “Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel you’ve got to get into warmth?”

“Yes.”

“That means going to a farm and meeting people!”

“Yes.”

Poor Wallace! His voice sounded so flat and tired! I have often

wondered since whether I ought not to have made another effort to keep

him where he was, and to proceed with him the next night. He might

have stood it. I don’t think he quite realized what it meant getting

into shelter. I believed at the time that he did. However, I acted

according to my lights, without another word.

Sliding from the straw I approached the door, to stop in wonder for a

moment before going down the ladder. Long icicles had grown from the

upper edge of the opening almost to the floor of the loft in the few

hours we had been inside, and between them the cold light of a winter

morning, strongly reflected by a white, unbroken surface, met my eyes.

It was eight o’clock by my watch. The icicles snapped with a glassy

sound and fell noiselessly outside when I broke through their curtain.

Beyond it the world was white,--the ground, as far as I could see it;

the air, thick with dancing flakes; and the sky. What mattered it now

whether we stayed in the loft or sought the shelter of a farm?

CHAPTER XVIII

THE GAME IS UP

The farmhouse door was opened by a girl of about sixteen, who turned

back into the kitchen to call her mother, a woman whom incessant toil

seemed to have aged beyond her years.

“May I speak to your husband?” I asked politely.

“He’s not at home.”

“Do you expect him soon?”

“No; he’s away,”--hesitating--“at Haltern.”

“Well, it’s this way. I am with a friend. We came from Bremen

yesterday, and we’re on our way to Cologne for a holiday. We’ve

relatives living at Klein Recken, and thought of spending a few days

with them. We tried to walk there last night from Haltern, but in the

awful weather we lost the road. My friend fell ill, too. Fortunately,

we found your barn, and slept in the straw. We’ll pay, of course, for

what damage we did. But the question is this: Can you put us up for a

day or two, until my friend gets really better? We’ll pay you well, if

you would.”

“You can’t stay here that long, but you may come into the kitchen and

warm yourself. You may stay until twelve o’clock.”

I reflected. A few hours’ grace! We had better take it and see how

things turned out.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll fetch my friend and our knapsacks.”

With the assistance of the son of the house, a strong lad about fifteen

years of age, I got Wallace into the kitchen. We were given seats in

front of the roaring kitchener. My friend seemed much better.

Our arrival was obviously an extraordinary event, as well it might

be; but if the people did conjecture at all, they showed it only in a

suppressed kind of excitement. There was no atmosphere of suspicion,

and the few curious questions the woman asked us were easily parried.

There were three girls and the boy in the family, all approaching

maturity. While the woman bustled about preparing a breakfast for us,

two of the girls and the boy made ready to go out. I did not like that,

and tried to find out where they were going.

“You’re going to church, I suppose?” This to the eldest girl.

“Yes,” shyly.

“Have you got one near by?”

“No. We go to Haltern to church. My sister will be back soon from the

first service.” So there was a fourth girl!

“Did she go to Haltern, too?”

“Yes.”

“It seems a long way to walk on a day like this.”

Silence.

“You do get up early, even on Sundays, don’t you? I thought I heard you

about very early, this morning.”

“We get up at five o’clock,” broke in the old woman.

“You don’t say so. I always thought there was little farm work to be

done in winter. You don’t seem to take advantage of your slack time.”

“There’s lots to do.” And she ran through a list of duties.

“Do you feel the war as much as we do in town? How are you off for

food?”

“We manage all right.”

“Well, we don’t. We’re chemists in an ammunition factory, and we’re

worked to death and don’t get much to eat. There’s nothing one can buy.

We applied for a holiday, being tired of the everlasting long hours,

and got three weeks. A bit too late for Muller, here. He oughtn’t to

have come, feeling as he did.”

The coffee was brewed, and bread, butter, and a plate of cut sausage

were on the table. Both of us went at it cheerfully. In the middle of

the meal the fourth girl, the eldest, came in, and the boy and his two

sisters left. This was about half-past nine.

When I had an opportunity, I whispered to Wallace: “We’ve got to get

away from here soon after eleven. Play up.” Then I addressed him aloud:

“What do you think we’d better do?”

“I hardly know. I feel pretty rotten still.”

Turning to the woman, I asked: “It’s about two and a half hours to

Klein Recken, isn’t it?”

“About that.”

“Do you think you can manage that, Muller?” I looked seriously at

Wallace, who understood and answered, equally serious:

“No; I’m afraid it would be too much for me.”

“Well, then, we had better go back to Haltern and on to Cologne from

there. Let me see what train we can catch.” Luckily we had kept our

time-table. It came in handy now.

“There’s a train at eleven-fifty-four to Cologne. We might catch that,

don’t you think?”

“Anything you like, Erhardt.”

“Right-o.” To the woman: “How long do you reckon to the station in

Haltern from here?”

“You can do it in a little over three quarters of an hour.”

“That’s what I make it. We’ll leave here at eleven.”

* * * * *

A dollar and a quarter seemed to satisfy the old woman. Indeed, she

obviously had not expected so much, but she quickly hid the money in

her purse. Then we took our leave.

The weather had cleared somewhat. It was freezing slightly. The clouds

were thinning here and there, and an occasional ray of sunshine drifted

over the landscape. It was a regular Christmas picture. Two or three

inches of snow covered the ground, reflecting strongly the dispersed

light from the sky. Black and sharply defined, the woods were outlined

against it or the unblemished white of the fields, where they stretched

up the hillsides behind them. Each branch had a ridge of snow on its

upper surface, and looked as if it had been drawn with India ink and a

sharp-pointed pen on glazed paper. The boughs of the dark-green pines

were bending under masses of downy white, lumps of which slid to the

ground as we passed. Then the boughs, relieved from part of their load,

swayed upward.

“You see why I wanted to be off,” I explained to Wallace as soon as

we were out of earshot, glad to drop back into English, since nobody

was about. “Our unexpected appearance at the farm was sufficiently

extraordinary to make the girls serve it up hot and strong to their

friends in Haltern. It’ll fly round the town like bazaar talk, and we’d

have had the police coming for us in a couple of shakes. But what now?”

We talked it over. Again Wallace asked me to leave him, but my stern

answer silenced his arguments. Again it was he who urged “carrying on,”

although he admitted that to walk any distance was out of the question

for him. He submitted a plan which did not strike me as particularly

hopeful, but it was the best we could do under the circumstances.

We were to go back to a certain town in Germany, get help there, and

rest in security until Wallace’s condition and the weather had improved

sufficiently to make another attempt feasible.

Our exchequer was at low water, and I had my doubts whether we could

reach the town. But we might try.

Sundry groups of people were coming from Haltern; some of them stared

rather hard at us. Wallace was improving, and enjoyed the walk, but he

seemed very weak, and his feet hurt him so that he limped painfully

along.

The weather changed again for the worse, and as we approached the

station it began to snow. I took tickets to a junction not far off.

During the twenty minutes until the train was due we intended to wait

on the platform.

“Why don’t you wait in the waiting-room? It’s beastly on the platform,”

said the ticket-collector.

“Might as well,” I said indifferently, and turned back.

We took our seats and ordered coffee. At the counter opposite us stood

a young lieutenant in the long green, peace frock-coat of a rifleman.

We saw the ticket-collector come in and address him, whereupon the

lieutenant walked straight up to us.

“Where do you come from?”

“We walked in from Klein Recken this morning,” I answered.

“Show me your papers!”

I smiled and addressed Wallace in English: “Game’s up, old man!” He

nodded glumly. The lieutenant stared. Then I explained.

The officer did not seem very much surprised, and the miraculous way in

which an armed soldier appeared at his elbow showed that he had been

expecting a dénouement.

“I’ll have to send you to the guard-room at present,” he said. “Don’t

try any tricks. My men are hellishly sharp.” I reflected a moment.

Escape was out of the question for the present. Wallace’s condition,

the tracks we should leave in the snow, etc., would make an attempt

absurd.

“I don’t know whether you will accept our word that we sha’n’t run away

while in your charge. We’ll give it, if you like. That’s right, Wace,

isn’t it?” I turned to my friend with the last words. Wallace nodded.

The lieutenant had been in the act of turning away, but wheeled sharply

when I had spoken. Looking us over carefully, he said: “Right, I will.

Are you hungry?”

“We could do with something to eat,” Wallace spoke up for the first

time. The officer turned to his soldier:

“You will take these men to the guard-room. Leave your rifle here. They

are to have double rations of whatever you get.”

“Besten Dank, Herr Leutnant!” we acknowledged.

With a salute we turned and followed the soldier across the railway

lines to the guard-room. It was in a wooden hut, and similar to all

other guard-rooms. We had a wash and made ourselves as presentable as

possible. Wallace shaved. I was still wearing a beard.

About five o’clock the lieutenant came over to search us. Warning us to

give up everything of importance, he merely asked us to hand him what

we had in our pockets, and glanced through our knapsacks.

At six o’clock we were taken to his office in the station building,

escorted by two armed soldiers.

“You gave me your word that you were not going to make another

attempt!” the lieutenant reminded us.

“Yes, sir, as long as we are in your charge, or that of your men.”

“Good. I shall have to send you to prison now. I can’t keep you in the

guard-room. Don’t let the warder search you. I’ve done that. You are

military prisoners, not under civil authority. If you prefer it, try to

make him give you a cell where you can be together. Tell him I said you

were to have one. You’ll be here for a few days before an escort can be

got for you. Good-by.”

He called our escort in while we stood outside, nobody, seemingly,

heeding us in the least. When he had finished with the two soldiers,

we marched off. They were particularly nice chaps from the Rhine,

not proper Prussians, and largely influenced by socialistic ideas.

They twitted us good-humoredly about having been caught. Laughing and

joking, we arrived at our destination.

* * * * *

The old prison building in a narrow side street near the market-place

looked particularly uninviting. After much ringing of the bell and, at

last, thumping with the butt end of a rifle, the door opened, and we

were confronted by a large, flabby-looking man in uniform, with the

placid, unlined face of a person whose life had flowed past him like

a pleasant, quiet stream. He was something between a policeman and a

warder, as it appeared. At the moment he was smoking a long pipe with a

porcelain bowl.

Our arrival agitated him as much as his natural phlegm and his military

training would permit. For a time he seemed undecided what to do,

and repeated over and over again every one of his sentences. This was

a trick of his, which amused us considerably during the days we were

under his care, but made conversation slow and unprofitable. As he

collected his wits, he became more official.

“So, two Englishmen, are they? They are two Englishman, they are.

You’ve brought two Englishmen. Well, well, well! Where are their

papers? Have you got their papers? You must give me their papers. They

are not quite in order; no, no; they are not in order; no, they are not

in order.”

The soldiers explained patiently that they were.

“Well, well, well! Do they speak German? They speak German, I hope.” To

us: “Do you speak German?

“Well, well, I must search you, my men. I must search you, I must; I

must search you.”

“Hold on,” said one of our escort, “the lieutenant says they are not

to be searched. The lieutenant saw to that. And you’ve got to do the

best you can for them, and you are to put them in a cell together.

Orders from the lieutenant!”

“Well, I must search them,” repeated the warder helplessly. “I must

search them, you know; prison rules, you know. I must search them for

concealed weapons!”

“Nothing of the sort. They were searched, and we’ve got orders to see

that you don’t bother them again.”

“Have you any knives, pistols, revolvers, or other weapons on you?”

Stubbornly the warder had turned to us. The habit of years is not so

easily discarded.

“Oh, let’s give him our pocket-knives, Wace, and get it over,” I said,

half laughing, half annoyed.

“Come into this room; come in here; come into this room. Now I’ll enter

the articles in this book; yes, I’ll enter them in this book.” He began

to write, speaking the words aloud: “No. 000000, one ivory-handled

pocketknife. No. 000001, one horn-handled pocketknife.… Now, I’ll give

them back to you when you leave, you see; I’ll give them back to you

when you leave; yes, I’ll give them back to you.”

“Yes, but we want to get back ourselves,” said one of the soldiers.

“Hurry up and show us their cell. We are to have a look at it, the

lieutenant said.”

“All right, all right, all right! I’ve got a single cell will do for

the two of them; a single cell for the two; yes, for the two.”

At last we were in the cell, which was of course as dark as the nether

regions, having taken quite an affectionate farewell of our escort.

PART III

CHAPTER XIX

FOOTING THE BILL

The lieutenant at the station, by his orders to us and the soldiers,

had given us the cue for our behavior. Obviously, we must try to

impress the warder with our standing as “military prisoners,” in order

to be as comfortable as circumstances permitted.

We proceeded to do this with great ingenuousness. Long arguments and

counter-arguments secured us the use of an oil lamp until eight o’clock

at night. We went in force to obtain a second blanket, the warder

leading the procession.

Our cell was very small, and very dirty. What little space there ought

to have been was taken up by stacks of old bicycle tires, which had

been confiscated six months before by the Government to relieve the

rubber famine in the army.

During the three days we spent in Haltern prison we had no exercise

at all. When the weather changed on the second day, and became mild

again, just about the time when we should have been close to the

frontier if everything had gone well, we sulked with fate more than

ever.

The reported arrival of our escort on the evening of the third day

excited the warder to such an extent that he wanted us to get up at

half-past five the next morning in order to catch a train about eight

o’clock. We demurred, of course, and got our way, as usual. Ever

since our arrest we had devoted a good deal of time to weighing the

probability of being sent to a certain penal prison in Berlin.

“Where are you going to take us?” Wallace and I blurted out

simultaneously at two shadowy soldiers in the dark passage of the

prison the following morning.

“To where you came from, the Stadtvogtei in Berlin,” one of them

replied. To say we felt relieved is putting it mildly.

“We’d better not take it for granted that we are going to stay there,

though!” I said, as we tramped through the melting slush to the station.

Several hours later, after a change of trains, Wallace and I had

been put temporarily into a compartment with other travelers, until

it could be cleared for the exclusive use of ourselves and escort.

Slipping into the only two empty seats, we found the burning interest

of our fellow-travelers centered upon a man in the naval uniform of

the Zeppelin service, who was holding forth about his adventures over

England. With extraordinary frankness he was recounting the names of

a number of air-ship stations, and the number of Zeppelins usually

detailed from each for attacks on Great Britain, and predicting another

raid seven days later.

“You give them h---- every time you fly across, don’t you?” asked a

civilian, leaning far forward in his seat.

“Can’t say that there is much to boast about of late,” was the

unexpected reply. “They’ve plenty of guns, and can shoot quite as well

as we. There won’t be many more raids after the one coming off next

week.”

As we saw in the German newspapers eight days later the raid took place

as predicted, and it was the last air-ship raid for a very long time.

* * * * *

To be in the company of a friend, and to have some money in my

pocket, made all the difference between this and my first return from

the neighborhood of the Dutch frontier eight months before. We did

ourselves quite well on the journey, trying to discount in this way

the punishment awaiting us.

At ten o’clock that evening we were welcomed to the Stadtvogtei by

several of our old N. C. O.’s with roars of laughter, and conducted to

two adjoining criminal cells in “Block 14,” a long way from our friends.

Before my eyes had become quite accustomed to the darkness, my cell

door opened again, and our sergeant-major beckoned me to follow him.

“Take your things with you!” he said, and led the way to another cell,

farther along the corridor, to separate me from Wallace.

“Come out here! I want to talk to you!” he ordered, when I had dumped

down my luggage. “Who had the key?” he shot at me when I stood opposite

him in the corridor.

We had expected this, and before our escape had rehearsed our answers

to such questions in case one or more of us should be caught.

“Key? What key?” I asked.

“The key to the front door, of course!”

“I don’t know anything about a key.”

“How did you get out, then? How did you open the door?”

“We didn’t open the door. We found it open. It seemed too good an

opportunity, so we slipped out as we were. We weren’t prepared at all!

But you ought to know all this as well as I do. Haven’t you got your

report from Haltern yet?”

His manner changed. He became quite paternal. He wasn’t a bad chap.

Anyway, he knew he couldn’t screw anything out of us by turning rough.

“Now, come! Don’t try to hoodwink me. We know well enough it was S. who

had the key.”

“Well, if you know, why do you ask me?”

“Come on, tell me. It won’t be to your disadvantage! quite the reverse.

Just say it was S.”

But of course I did nothing of the sort, and he gave it up.

“We’ll give you a hard time of it, this journey,” he threatened, rather

mournfully. “Nothing but the prison food for you, no light of an

evening.

“I thought you had shaved off your beard,” he remarked, before turning

away. “I notified the police accordingly within the hour of your

escape. We had all the stations watched. However did you slip out of

Berlin?”

“Oh, rather casually,” I grinned. “Goodnight, Major!”

I felt by no means sprightly and unconcerned just then. I do not like

solitary confinement. The stretch in front of me bade fair to exceed

in discomfort the first one I had had. Still, we were lucky to be in

the Stadtvogtei, near our friends, where, apparently, we were going to

stay. With this consolatory reflection I rolled myself into my blankets

without undressing. The next day we were going to be de-loused.

* * * * *

S. was arrested in Berlin on the morning following our arrival in

prison, and lodged in a cell next to Wallace’s before we went into the

yard for our exercise that afternoon. If I am not mistaken, a telephone

conversation, during which he had made an appointment with a “friend,”

had been listened to. Instead of a friend, a detective met S.

He got the same punishment as we did. At the time of his escape a

criminal action had been pending against him. A month after our

solitary confinement had come to an end, he was taken to the court

one morning by a policeman. A few hours later the policeman turned up

alone, considerably the worse for drink, and shedding bitter tears. His

charge had decamped through the rear window of a café where he had been

treating his escort. We never saw him again. He was still at liberty in

June, 1917, and apparently in Holland.

G. was never captured. For several months rumors reached us that he

had been seen here or there in Germany. I have not heard that he has

arrived in England.

The German with the English name went to see his mother one day, two

months after his disappearance from prison. The police were watching

her flat in Berlin, hoping for just that event. Their prey got a term

of solitary confinement in our prison, and was then drafted back into

the army.

The sixth man, the German stockbroker, followed S. by a few days only.

He was kept in prison for a week, and then definitely set at liberty.

On the evening of our second day in cells, we were warned not to go to

bed, as our examination was to take place at nine o’clock. A quarter

before the hour, S., Wallace, and I were taken down to the ground floor

and thoughtfully locked into one cell, so that we were able to make the

final arrangements for a consistent and uncontradictory account. This

we did after a thorough inspection of the place which convinced us that

no trap had been laid for us, and that we could talk freely until we

should hear the key in the lock.

The following morning we were told of the comment of Herr

Kriegsgerichtsrat Wolf of the Kommandantur, who conducted the

examination, upon our respective stories: “Those Englishmen have told

me a pack of lies!”

* * * * *

The threat of the sergeant-major had not been an empty one. We were

forbidden to have any food apart from the prison rations. Every third

day for four weeks these consisted only of bread and water, so far as

we were concerned. The parcels arriving for us in the meantime--there

were many of them, for Christmas was approaching--were handed to our

friends for safekeeping. We were debarred from the use of artificial

light in our cells. It being within a month from the shortest day in

the year, this was rather “off.” The dawn did not peep through the

small windows before nine o’clock, and when we returned from the yard

in the afternoon, it was again too dark to read. I think it took the

authorities ten days to relent on the question of light. We then got

the use of an oil lamp up to eight o’clock every night.

I feel quite sure that we had to thank the lieutenant for the extra

punishment of criminal cells, prison food, and no light. He must have

been badly rattled about our escaping, and his superiors may have been

ungentle with him when he reported it. Naturally, he took it out on

us, though to our faces he was quite polite.

The question of food was solved to our complete satisfaction within

three days. Our friends knew, of course, that we were going for our

exercise every afternoon at three o’clock. From the very beginning they

were able to pass us sandwiches and small cans of food.

Not without a little difficulty the N.C.O. in charge of our corridor

had been persuaded that “they are allowed to have their newspapers,

of course.” His referring the question to higher authority had been

discouraged. Why bother busy men with trifles? The newspaper man was

one of us. He brought the papers round every morning, when the cell

doors were opened for cleaning purposes, and also every afternoon.

Frequently he did not exchange a word with us but simply pushed the

papers into the blankets of our beds. After he had gone, sandwiches and

a beer bottle full of hot tea seemed to have been hatched miraculously

among our bed-clothes.

The last and crowning achievement was the ventilator dodge. The

ventilator was a square hole in the wall above the door, inclined

toward the cell. Just after our dinner time, when the N.C.O. on duty

was likely to be otherwise employed, stealthy footsteps might have

been heard passing rapidly along the balcony. Very frequently they were

inaudible even to our strained ears. The scraping of tin against stone

was a signal for us to hurl ourselves toward the door, to catch the

Lyle’s syrup can, filled with hot meat and vegetables, or soup, which

was sliding through the ventilator.

None of the N.C.O.’s knew about this. They marveled at our physical

endurance, which permitted us to retain a flourishing appearance in

the face of starvation. Sagely they counseled the taking of medicine,

or soap for instance, to make us look weak and pale just before our

“solitary” was to terminate. “It’ll never do to be seen with bulging

cheeks and bursting seams by anybody in command.”

* * * * *

The chance of seeing old friends, if only for a few seconds every

day, the knowledge that I should have their companionship again as

soon as our punishment was over, and the fact that I was in familiar

surroundings, lessened the depressing effect of my solitary confinement

this second time. Wallace, too, kept in fairly good spirits.

Nevertheless, I came to the conclusion that the game was not worth the

candle. I told Wallace of my decision as soon as I could. When we were

again in front of the gate I qualified it: “Never again, Wace, never

again--except during the mild seasons, and when the chances are as good

as I can make ’em.”

On Christmas Eve, the thirty-fourth day of our punishment, we were

liberated, but we had to sleep in the criminal cells for some time

afterward.

In time, however, Wallace got the single cell he coveted, and I,

after three weeks, again joined my old friends in the big cell. For a

fortnight dear old K. was the fourth man. Then he was sent to Ruhleben.

Wallace was the fifth member of the mess, a sort of day-boarder.

A week after K. had left us, most of the Englishmen got into trouble.

As a punitive measure we were ejected from the large common cells, and

C., L., Wallace, and I were lodged as far apart as possible. C. and I

were warned to be ready to go to a penitentiary. W. received “solitary”

for an indefinite time. Another fortnight, and all our intimate friends

were sent back to Ruhleben. Only those members of the English colony

who preferred prison to the camp, and four escapers, who had made two

attempts, remained in the Stadtvogtei--ten in all. But for Dr. Béland

and one other prisoner, Wallace and I were almost confined to each

other’s society.

* * * * *

We had a fairly miserable time of it. The loss of most of our

companions had unsettled us. To crown our misery, we were officially

informed that we could not hope ever to be returned to camp, or even a

camp, as we were considered dangerous to the German Empire.

The announcement ought to have made us feel rather proud. As we knew it

to be only one of their specious arguments, it did nothing of the sort.

Very soon I left it entirely out of my calculations. Wallace did not,

however, but continued to attach importance to it. I must say this, in

order to explain my later attitude toward another attempt to escape

from prison. In the course of months I grew more and more convinced

that we should go back to camp one day. Then would come our chance! I

cannot explain my conviction. It was a “hunch.”

* * * * *

Our belief, however, that we should have to wait did not serve as an

excuse for inaction. Wallace and I pushed our preparations for the next

escape as fast as possible, which was incredibly slow.

Our mainstay was an N.C.O. employed in the office. He was a

queer individual, one of the plausible sort. His favorite saying

characterized him sufficiently: “_Eine Hand waescht die andere_ [one

hand must wash the other].” His saving grace was the entirely frank

attitude as to his outlook upon life and its obligations--lack of

obligations, in his case. Through him we were able to take one great

step forward--to procure maps. In the first part of this volume I have

mentioned that the sale of maps to persons without a permit from the

General Staff was forbidden in Prussia. According to the statement

of our friend he got us the maps we wanted from a “relative” of his,

who happened to be a bookseller. “He had these maps in stock and had

forgotten to register them.” One or two of them were indeed slightly

shop-soiled. They were good maps, covering a part of Germany from

Berlin, and including it to the Dutch frontier. Their price--well, it

made my eyes water. They were worth it, though. For a prisoner of war

the collection must have been unique. We each had a compass.

Chiefly on my advocacy we postponed the start again and again. The

chances of getting away from prison were, to my mind, infinitesimally

small. One attempt by another party early in May was cleverly nipped

in the bud. Our last attempt had not encouraged me to trust to luck,

but I clung to my belief in a return to Ruhleben, which appeared as

unlikely as ever, on the face of things. Once, however, we were ready

to go, but almost at the last minute the help we had reckoned upon was

not forthcoming.

Among the men who had tried their luck in May, 1917, were two who,

very pluckily, had started to walk the whole distance between Ruhleben

and the Dutch border. Unsuitable maps, in the first place, had been

their undoing. They both spoke German--one like a native, the other

not so well. They do not wish to be known, so, for the purpose of this

narrative I will call them Kent and Tynsdale.

Tynsdale is a friend of mine. His pal Kent and he are good men.

Do your best for them.--X.

This, penciled on a slip of paper and addressed to Wallace and me, was

given to us by Tynsdale soon after his arrival. The brief phrase did

not overstate their merits.

Tynsdale was small, wiry, and, at times, very reticent; Kent, tall,

bulky, and--not reticent. In due course we came to live in a large

cell together. They were as eager as were Wallace and I for a new

venture, but they were quite determined not to break prison. The

information they gave us about Ruhleben from the escaper’s point of

view strengthened my prejudices against this course.

“Let’s wait a little longer. The weather will be favorable until

October. If our hopes should prove vain, we can always make a

desperate sortie. Before it comes to that, something may happen.”

This was the final conclusion we arrived at.

Something did happen--several things, in fact.

The first was an unexpected visit from a representative of the Dutch

Legation in Berlin. It found us well prepared with an impressive

protest against being kept in prison any longer. The same evening I

confirmed the interview in two identical and rather lengthy letters,

to which almost all of us, including the five men then in “solitary,”

subscribed their signatures.

One of these letters was delivered to the Dutch Minister by hand

twenty-four hours after it had left the Stadtvogtei in the pocket of

a person entirely unconnected with the postal service, military or

otherwise. Consequently the German censor had no chance of perusing

it. The other passed through the ordinary channels until it was,

presumably, decently buried in the censor’s waste-basket.

A little later, German newspapers mentioned the fact that negotiations

about the treatment of prisoners of war had taken place at The

Hague, and that an agreement had been come to which was now awaiting

ratification by the governments of Great Britain and Germany.

It so happened that at this time we had unusual facilities for the

secret purchase of English newspapers. In a copy of the “Daily

Telegraph” we read that the agreement had been ratified. Another week

passed and a copy of the same paper contained paragraphs concerning

civilian prisoners of war. The report of a speech in the House of Lords

by Lord Newton, I believe, either in the same paper or in some other

bought at the same time, helped us to interpret these paragraphs so far

as they seemed to refer to cases like ours. At any rate, it gave us a

talking-point in favor of an interpretation as we should have liked

it, and announced further that the agreement had become operative in

England on August 1, 1917, already a few days past.

A memorial in the shape of two letters addressed to the Dutch Minister

in Berlin was the immediate result of reading these articles. The

letters went the same way as the former ones, and drew a good deal of

good-natured chaff upon my head about “writing-sickness,” “Secretary

for Foreign Affairs,” and charges to be made for every signature I came

to collect in future.

Tynsdale and Kent had not been away from camp more than three months.

They knew all the ins and outs of it, including a good deal of

information not usually shouted from the house-tops. Wallace and I,

after an absence of thirty and seventeen months respectively, were

comparative strangers to Ruhleben.

“Will you two come with Wallace and me?” I asked our new friends

one day. “I should like to have your help in getting out of camp,”

I explained. “Later on I can probably be as useful to you.” And I

referred to my record as an escaper, to my equipment, and to my _maps_.

They assented. They knew from previous discussions that I was not

entirely in sympathy with their proposed route; or, rather, I had

explained to them what I thought to be the advantages of a route I had

in mind, which were confirmed by their own information.

As it appeared desirable that each member of the proposed expedition

should be fully equipped as far as essentials were concerned, we

set to work feverishly making tracings of parts of our maps. We had

to finish this work while still in prison, because it would not be

possible to secure sufficient privacy in Ruhleben for this kind of

thing. Fortunately I had anticipated something like this months before,

and possessed some colored inks and drawing-pens. Tracing-paper I

manufactured from thin, strong white paper, which I treated with

olive-oil and benzene. We finished three copies before we left prison,

the original making the fourth.

On the 23rd of August, 1917, a strong guard of policemen escorted a

highly elated batch of British civilian prisoners through a part of

Berlin, then by rail to Spandau, and again, _per pedes apostolorum_, to

Ruhleben camp. We were nineteen in all.

Four Britishers stayed behind voluntarily; five more were in

“solitary,” having recently tried to escape and failed. Among the

latter was our old friend L.

CHAPTER XX

RUHLEBEN AGAIN

We arrived in Ruhleben shortly before noon, and were kept waiting for a

long time just inside the gates, for the good of our souls. But then,

the under dogs are always kept waiting somewhere for the good of their

souls. So that was all right.

When our names had been called a number of times, and some supposedly

witty remarks had been made by a sergeant, whose reputation in camp was

no better than it should be, we were marched off to our barracks (No.

14), a wooden one, and the last one toward the eastern end of the camp,

next to the “Tea House.”

Part of it was divided off by a solid partition and enclosed by a

separate wire fence. This was the punishment place of the camp, called

“the Bird Cage.”

The other and larger part was empty; had, in fact, been cleared

that morning for our reception, much to the disgust of the former

inhabitants, who had been very comfortable in their home-made cubicles

and corners. Now the place was absolutely bare, except for the litter

of broken shelves and partitions on the floor.

We were still contemplating it doubtfully when we received our orders:

“Beds will arrive presently. They are to be placed in two rows in the

center of the barracks. Nothing shall be hung on the walls, or the

beams and supports. No partitions or corners will be allowed. The

barracks is to be kept bare, so that the inmates can be seen at any

hour of the night. The electric light is to be kept burning all night

and must not be obscured in any way.” Thus ran the gist of them.

We were pretty wroth. “Call that a return to the privileges and

liberties of an ordinary prisoner of war?” rang our complaint.

At night our indignation broke forth again. We had to be in bed by 10

P.M. At 10:45 a patrol of three privates and an N.C.O. came to count

us, tramping noisily round and round in their ammunition boots, over

the bare wooden floor. Not much to complain about in that. But they

repeated it six times during the night, and that was distinctly “off.”

For many of us, sleep, even during the intervals, was difficult on

account of the glaring brightness of the electric light.

Our barracks captain protested strongly the captain of the camp. So did

virtually every member of the barracks privately, and gradually this

nuisance abated. The six times we were disturbed dwindled down to four,

then to three; and sometimes we were inspected only twice, when the

patrol considerately kept outside and counted us through the windows.

* * * * *

Our reception in Ruhleben was rather flattering. I do not know how many

new acquaintances I made during the first fortnight; several hundred,

I should think. Now and again, inevitably, I met a man who immediately

told me what he would have done “if I had been in your shoes and got as

far as you. They would never have brought _me_ back alive!”

I had only to look at my barracks companions to see that we bore the

prison stamp, and the remarks of my friends did not give me a chance

to forget my own appearance. Compared with the Ruhlebenites proper, we

looked more like animated corpses than living beings. Our faces were

ashen gray, even our lips had paled. The skin around our eyes remained

drawn and puckered, until the eyes had accustomed themselves again to

the strong light of the open sky.

Prison life had taken its toll of our vitality, particularly among the

long-timers. For a few hours the fresh air acted upon us like heady

wine, and during the following days it simply sapped our strength.

Kent and Tynsdale were in comparatively good condition. Wallace was

bad, but had an appetite, and recovered quickly. I was the worst of the

four. My physical condition did not make me a desirable companion for

an arduous venture, and since we found it impossible to “make a move”

at once, as we had intended, I deliberately set myself to repairing the

damage as quickly as I could. I took plenty of rest, and, avoiding any

but the gentlest exercise, grew gradually stronger. About the middle of

the second week I started some very mild training.

Yet I still remained nervous and distraught; more so than my

companions, who showed signs of the same trouble. It was, however,

merely the nervousness of inaction, for I was eager to start. The camp

was not even as desirable as we had pictured it. Barracks No. 14 was

far less comfortable in every respect than the barracks we had called

our own before we made our first attempt. Everything was dirty, and we

missed our accustomed privacy. The two daily roll-calls, which took

place on the playing-field at seven o’clock in the morning and again

twelve hours later, were an unmitigated nuisance.

What, then, could be more tempting than to woo Fortune again? If she

proved fickle, we would go back to the Stadtvogtei. Under the new

arrangement the punishment for a “simple escape” by a military prisoner

was to be a fortnight’s imprisonment. At first we interpreted the

paragraph as applying to civilian prisoners also. Now we had become

more doubtful about it. Our friends, who had been sent to prison

after the 1st of August, had more than doubly exceeded the stipulated

time before we left the camp. What more likely than that the Germans

would treat the agreement as another “scrap of paper” and send us to

comfortable winter quarters, if we were caught?

* * * * *

We had intended to start within a few days of our arrival in camp. This

we found impossible, but for two reasons the delay was fortunate. It

permitted us to recruit our health and get accustomed to the open air,

and it brought us nearer to the time of the new moon in the middle of

September.

About a week after our arrival, Wallace decided not to come with us.

For months he had had a plan of his own, which recommended itself

neither to Tynsdale, Kent, nor me. He rather liked the idea of playing

a lone hand, and his strong desire to see a little more of his friends

in Ruhleben finally decided him. Tynsdale, Kent, and I “carried on.”

Our plans were simple enough, once we had got out of camp. First of

all we intended to make for Berlin. From the capital a railway journey

of about twenty hours (including a break of seven) was to take us to

a small town in the northwestern part of Germany, sixty kilometers

from the Dutch frontier as the crow flies. From there we intended to

walk, the distance by road being rather more than seventy miles. One

considerable river would have to be crossed, we did not quite know how,

but we were all fairly powerful swimmers.

Tynsdale’s knowledge of German was not good enough to make it possible

for him to travel on the railway without a companion to do the talking.

Kent, his particular chum, was more than willing to take the risk of

being Tynsdale’s courier, and proposed that he and his friend should

always travel in one compartment, while I traveled alone in another.

This arrangement was obviously unfair. Granted the wisdom of traveling

in two parties, Kent would be taking the greater risk all the time. We

finally agreed that Tynsdale was to be alternately in Kent’s and my

charge.

We had maps and compasses. I had a water-bottle and a knapsack, and

Kent obtained another knapsack in camp. A third and two water-bottles

would have to be bought en route.