Ordinary wearing apparel, dictated by th_My Escape from Germany

also sufficient underclothes for cold weather, and two thick overcoats

between us. Two oilsilks of mine would protect my friends on rainy

days. I insisted on carrying a heavy naval oilskin, sufficiently

large to make a decent ground-cloth for the three of us. If possible,

we intended carrying food for ten days; cabin-biscuits, dripping,

compressed beef, chocolate, cocoa-and-milk powder, sugar, and raisins.

A friend of mine, whom I have mentioned several times in this

narrative, spoke to me one morning. “Take,” he began oracularly and

with a twinkle in his eye, “a pound of real Scotch oatmeal, a pound

of dripping, and a pound of sugar. Mix well. Roll out the dough

until it is about three quarters of an inch thick, and bake it in

a hot oven for four hours. The result will resemble shortbread. It

is immensely sustaining. That it will crumble easily into a coarse

powder need concern you only in so far as you will have to carry it

suitably wrapped. Handkerchiefs will do. At a pinch, a cake per day,

smaller than your hand, will keep you going indefinitely. And,” he

added readily, “if you’ll give me the material, I’ll do them for you.

But mind you chew ’em well when you eat ’em. It’ll take some time to

masticate them properly. You must do that, to get the full benefit of

the oatmeal.”

The square cakes, a little smaller than the palm of a man’s hand, which

he handed to us in a parcel a few days after, were rather heavy for

their size. We thought of carrying ten per man, reduced the biscuits to

two per day, and discarded meat and cocoa altogether.

To carry all this during the railway journey, we had a cheap German

portmanteau, which I had bought for this purpose in prison, and two

small leather hand-bags. As to money, I was fairly well supplied. My

companions got hold of smaller sums, and between us we had enough even

for an emergency.

* * * * *

In the meantime we managed to be seen together as little as possible.

Escaping was in the air. Two attempts from other barracks failed during

the first fortnight. What was worse for us, three men from our barracks

took the bit in their teeth and went one night. They were in cells

again before dawn.

The camp authorities were wide awake and slowly strengthened the

guards. More police dogs were reported to be arriving almost daily.

(I doubt whether these reports were correct.) N.C.O.’s patrolled the

sentries incessantly, or concealed themselves and watched places for

hours where they thought fugitives would pass. As long as we knew

beforehand where these places were this did not matter much, but it

certainly increased my nervousness and impatience. I believe I was a

sore trial to my friends with my incessant, irrational pleading for

“something to be done.”

Kent and Tynsdale had made their first escape from camp by simply

bribing the sentry at the gate and one other, and walking out. We had

hoped to repeat this performance. Both these sentries were still in

camp on guard-duty. Immediately after our arrival we sounded them as

to their willingness to earn a few hundred marks easily. We did not

do this ourselves, but made use of the good offices of a friend of

Tynsdale’s, who had extensive dealings of a different nature with the

two German soldiers and who could bring a good deal of pressure to bear

on them. To appreciate the importance of the help he rendered us, it

must be remembered that no soldier was allowed to talk with a prisoner.

It would have been difficult for us to establish direct communication

with the two soldiers. Not only was the punishment barracks least

suited for anything like secret meetings, but its inmates were kept

under more continuous surveillance than the rest of the interned.

The two soldiers were quite willing to do business, but maintained

that the most they could do was to take an entirely passive part. The

old, easy way was out of the question. The camp authorities were too

suspicious of the existence of irregularities among the guards and of

the danger of fresh attempts now that the “gang” was back in camp. “If

we get certain posts, we won’t challenge during a specified time,” was

what the soldiers gave us to understand.

The situation became worse when one of these soldiers was suddenly

sent to the front. His manifold activities for the benefit of the

prisoners--payment being made with English food--had at last got him

into trouble. The other man, his associate in most of the deals, went

about expecting the same fate and became quite intractable for a few

days. As nothing happened to him, he gradually assumed his normal state

of mind.

We intended to leave camp at the western corner. This was farther

removed from the escapers’ barracks and nearest to Spandau. Our route

was to lead us through part of Spandau.

A box in Barracks No. 8 was our headquarters. There our equipment was

kept, and there we intended to dress.

The windows in the loft of Barracks No. 4 gave upon the enclosure of

the Visitors’ Barracks. They were about two feet square and covered

with wire netting which could easily be removed. As the loft of this

barracks was divided into a large number of small cubicles, only the

inhabitants of one cubicle needed to be taken into our confidence to

any extent. They undertook with alacrity to have everything ready at

a few hour’s notice, including the rope we should have to descend by.

Once in the enclosure of the Visitors’ Barracks we should have only one

wire fence to climb to get into the space between this and the outer

wooden fence. The wire fences consisted of strong chicken-wire with

barbed-wire strands along the top. They were about eight feet high. The

wooden fence extended only a little way. The rest had been destroyed by

a fire which had occurred in camp in June of that year. Along part of

the way we should be partially protected from the view of the sentries

by the wooden fence and the structures about us.

There was a sunken path which was well lighted by electricity, and well

guarded. The sentries walked on top of a bank and were able to see most

of the space between the wire and the wooden fence. Post No. 2 was at

the corner of the wooden fence, where the path met the road which ran

along the front of the camp, and extended along the path for about

seventy yards. Then came Post No. 3. The end of the wooden fence was

nearer to the road than to the other end of Post No. 2.

The attempt was to be made when our man was on duty. He was to be deaf

and blind. This would leave us free to concentrate our attention upon

Post No. 3.

“Next Sunday!” Kent told me at length on a Friday. “Are you ready?”

“Good heavens, man, I’ve been ready these two weeks past!” Then I began

to ruminate: “Sunday? That’s rather awkward!”

“It is, but do you think we ought to delay it on that account?”

“No, certainly not! Does Tynsdale realize the state of affairs?”

“Haven’t discussed them with him. If we two come to an agreement, he’ll

be sure to take the same view.”

There were two objections to the day proposed--one because it was a

Sunday, which made getting into Berlin rather risky, the other because

it happened to be the 16th of September, which made getting away from

the capital additionally difficult.

As to Sunday, food was scarce in Germany, especially in the capital,

and illegal trading was rife. Every Sunday the inhabitants flocked into

the country in multitudes to buy farm produce from the peasants direct,

offering prices much higher than those fixed by law. To stop this, the

police frequently detained passengers who were traveling into town on

the trunk and local railways, in the Underground, and on trams, and

inspected their baggage. A search of our bags and bundles would mean

immediate arrest.

Secondly, at 2 A.M. on the 17th of September--the Monday after the

day we had chosen--summer time was to change to astronomical time.

Consequently, trains all over the country would leave independently of

the printed timetables during several hours before and after the hands

of the clocks were moved back. Thus we could not be sure whether or not

we could catch the train we had selected.

We came to the conclusion that we should have to risk it. But could we

not minimize the first, the greater of the two risks, by reducing the

amount of our luggage? “We’ll take only one of the small hand-bags,

discard these and these articles, and carry food for six days only,” we

decided.

The amount of food which we finally took with us worked out per man

per day as follows: a bar of chocolate, two small cabin-biscuits with

dripping, one cake of the famous “escapers’ shortbread,” two or three

pieces of sugar, and half a dozen raisins. A tin of Horlick’s malted

milk tablets was carried in reserve, and also a small flask of brandy.

CHAPTER XXI

THE DAY

On the 16th of September, 1917, our man was on guard at Post No. 2 from

7 till 9 P.M. and again four hours later. He had instructions to expect

something between 8 and 9 o’clock, or, failing that, during his next

shift. The latter part of his instructions had been an afterthought.

It was part and parcel of our plan to catch the train from the Lehrter

Bahnhof in Berlin at 11:47 P.M. It would have inconvenienced us very

considerably if we had had to delay our departure. If everything went

satisfactorily as far as the sentry was concerned, he was to receive

his reward the following morning, no matter what happened to us.

That evening we were to be counted for the last time that season at 7

o’clock. The roll-call took place on the playing-field in the center of

the race-course. This was outside the strongly protected camp proper,

and it was beginning to be too dark, at the hour mentioned, to let the

prisoners outside of any of the three wire fences surrounding it.

As soon as the ranks broke after passing back into the inner camp

enclosure, we made our way casually and separately to Barracks No. 8.

The box we entered was quite deserted. Two of its inhabitants could be

seen talking near one of the entrances to the barracks, from where they

could hail any chance visitor who might intend to look them up in their

quarters. We dressed as rapidly as possible, yet were somewhat later in

getting ready than we had expected to be. Our baggage had been taken to

the selected cubicle in the loft of Barracks No. 4 during the afternoon

by men not specially interested in our venture.

The cubicle of our friends was in darkness. The open window opposite

the wood-framed pasteboard door admitted a faint rose-gray after-glow

from the western sky. The confined space seemed crowded with dimly seen

forms who whispered that all was ready.

Somewhat perversely, I thought, Tynsdale suddenly demanded that I

accompany him “to have a look at the gate.” It was a double gate,

plentifully protected by barbed wire, which gave entrance to the

enclosure of the Visitors’ Barracks during the weekly half-hour when

visitors were allowed to see the prisoners. Without heeding my protest

in the least he disappeared, and I had to follow after.

“I think we had better climb over the gate instead of dropping from

the window,” was all he answered to my questions about his unexpected

vagary. To my somewhat heated opposition against any alteration in our

oft-and well-considered course of action he turned a deaf ear.

“I’m going to climb over here,” he announced truculently after a brief

inspection, and almost immediately began to suit the action to his

words. As little attention as he had paid to me, he paid less to some

twenty or thirty men, mostly sailors, who were lounging near the spot.

And then a very fine thing happened. As soon as these men saw what

Tynsdale was up to, and without any perceptible hesitancy, they began

walking carelessly about and around him, shielding his activities in

this fashion more effectively than they could have done by any other

means. As for myself, I hurried back to the loft.

“Come on,” I whispered breathlessly to Kent, “quick! Tynsdale is

climbing over the gate. He’s stark, staring mad.” I grasped the rope,

squeezed through the window, and was in such a hurry to get down that

I let the rope slide through my fingers. Naturally a good deal of

skin stuck to the rope. I landed with a bump and had just time to roll

out of the way as Kent’s two hundred pounds came crashing after me. We

got up, both with smarting palms, while overcoats seemed to be raining

from the window above. We managed to catch the two grips as they fell.

During all this time we could hear Tynsdale making a terrific din

among the wires. As soon as he had negotiated the first two obstacles

he started to overcome the third fence, while Kent and I carried our

paraphernalia to the foot of it. Then Kent went over the top, and I

heaved the things over to Tynsdale, who stood ready to receive them.

Kent was a heavy man, and he appeared to me more than a little awkward

at that moment. How he ever managed to get over the fence without

bringing the whole guard about our ears I cannot yet understand. My own

performance probably sounded as bad to them.

As I let go my last hold, a stage-whisper from the window about fifteen

yards away, reached our ears, “Drop, you fools, drop!” The men in the

loft could see the sentries over the top of the intervening low wooden

barracks. To judge from the suppressed excitement in their voices one

of the sentries must have been coming our way with much determination.

A patch of weeds on our left was the only cover near us. Grabbing the

second portmanteau, which was still lying near the fence, I dived for

it headlong and fell down beside Kent. Tynsdale, who had gone forward,

beat a hasty retreat toward us and disappeared from view on Kent’s

other side.

There we lay, out of breath, and dangerously near the lower end. I did

not dare to raise my head even, and then after a long, long interval,

the suppressed voices sounded again, straight from heaven: “All clear.

Go ahead.”

We reached the end of the wooden fence. The enemy sentry was nowhere

to be seen. A few quick, long steps carried us across the sunken path,

into the potato-field and beyond the circle of the glaring electric

lights. Kent was in the lead. Suddenly he dropped, and we followed his

example just as the gate of the soldiers’ barracks, perhaps fifty yards

on our left, clicked open. Then it slammed shut.

Potato-vines offer very good cover for a man in a prone position. It

was dark, too. But, lying there, I had the uncomfortable feeling that

some large and conspicuous part of my anatomy must be sticking out

into plain view. I flattened myself as much as possible and vainly

tried to decrease my bulk by general muscular contraction, but seemed

to swell to ever greater dimensions. When I lifted my head after some

time I saw two round gray-and-black objects above the potatoes. These

were my companions. We had all given way to the same impulse at the

same time. Nothing menacing was to be seen. Silently we got to our feet

and shortly after gained the road.

From now on we were to play the parts of harmless German civilians, and

consequently the need for silence had passed. “What made that gate open

and slam?” I asked Kent. “I didn’t take the time to look, myself.”

“Two soldiers came out of the barracks and went toward camp.”

“Well, it’s all right, I suppose. You know this road. You lead.”

Kent turned and walked off, closely followed by Tynsdale and me. We had

not taken many steps when I suddenly saw the end of a cigarette glow up

in the dark ahead of us. Kent hesitated, stopped, and whispered to us.

“Oh, go on!” I answered irritably. “We can’t stop here.” Kent walked on

and past two soldiers standing by the roadside. They stepped forward,

barring our way. I made as if to pass them, but they did not move aside

to make room.

“What are you doing here?” one of them asked.

“What do you want?” I countered.

“We want to know who you are and where you come from.”

“What right have you to stop us in this fashion and ask us questions?”

“What do you mean by stopping anybody on a public road?” Kent’s voice

amplified my question. I had not noticed that he had turned and joined

our group. “This is a public road, you know.”

Tynsdale, who could not speak German very well, kept discreetly behind

Kent and me and felt, no doubt, as if he were intruding.

“This isn’t an ordinary public road. There is an English prison camp

down that way. Our instructions are to keep an eye on the traffic along

here, what there is of it.” It was always the same man who was doing

the talking. His statement sounded a little odd to me since neither

he nor his companion was conspicuously armed, and neither one wore

a helmet, two signs that they were not on duty. “Unless you have a

passport or can establish your identity by some other means you will

have to come with us, so we can make sure who you are.”

“No, I haven’t a passport,” I said slowly. “You don’t always require

one just walking back and forth from your work.” I was trying to think

of the right thing to do or to say, and particularly whether to risk

about ten years in a penitentiary, if the only move which seemed open

to us should fail.

“Oh, anything will do,” the soldier continued, “an envelop addressed to

you, for example.”

I had made up my mind. “Right. I’ll give you something. Here’s my

passport,” and I handed him a one-hundred-mark bill from my pocket-book.

The soldier looked at the bill, then at me. He poked his companion in

the ribs with his elbow and showed it to him.

“See what that fellow calls a passport? Is that all right?”

“That’s all right,” said the other.

“Boy, boy! You are some guys, you are! Say, are you only going for a

night in Berlin, or are you not coming back?”

“That is as it may be,” I told him.

“Say, what barracks are you fellows from?”

“You needn’t worry about that yet. You’ll hear all about that in the

morning.”

“Oh, all right! But you beat it now, quick!” and they turned to go. But

I had an idea of making further use of them.

“Say,” I called, “we want to get into Spandau. Is it likely that we

shall be stopped? Are there many sentries about there? Which is the

best road to take?”

“Plenty. Walk straight on and then turn to your left across the

railway.” They went away.

When I looked about for the grip, which I had put down in order to get

at my pocket-book, I found it gone. Kent had walked on. Tynsdale was

still hovering close to me.

“Where’s that portmanteau?” I asked him excitedly. “I put it down here.”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Didn’t see it at all. Where did you put

it down?”

For a few seconds we looked underneath the bushes without success. “A

man who will take a bribe will steal,” was a not unnatural conclusion

to come to.

“Wait a minute,” I flung over my shoulder, and started in hot pursuit

after the two soldiers. It was the larger of our two grips that was

missing, containing the most important part of our equipment.

“What the hell do you want now?” is the way they received me. Neither

one of them was carrying anything.

“Oh, nothing,” I replied airily. Being unable to catch them in the

act I dared not take the risk of accusing them. “I thought I had lost

something,” I said.

The one who spoke muttered something threateningly. They were naturally

very anxious to get rid of us now.

“Come along,” I said to Tynsdale, resignedly, when I had rejoined him.

“We’ve got to make the best of it.” A little farther down the road

Kent was waiting for us in the shadow of a bush, with both grips.

He had picked mine up when he started to walk ahead and had caused

me a few bad moments. Here, we brushed ourselves with our hands and

handkerchiefs. A short walk through wide, deserted streets, most of

them flanked by factory buildings, proved pleasantly unexciting.

It was still early in the evening, but the wide thoroughfare of

Spandau, not far from the railway station, was deserted, except for a

small group of people between two tall light-standards, who, like us,

were waiting for a tram to Berlin. The arc-lights fizzed slightly now

and again, and cast fleeting purple shadows over the island, which

served as a platform for the tram-cars.

We three stood a little apart, occasionally exchanging a word or two in

German. We were hot with excitement and exertion. I was carrying the

large portmanteau and an overcoat over my arm. Kent had the other bag,

Tynsdale an oilsilk wrapped in his overcoat.

The first tram was crowded, but a second, immediately behind, was only

moderately full. As prearranged, we got on the driver’s platform, the

darkest part of the vehicle, and the least sought after.

For the first quarter of an hour of our ride, tram-lines and street

ran parallel to, but on the other side of, the railway, which passed

along the front of the camp. The eastern gate of Ruhleben camp was at

one point not more than two hundred yards from a stopping-place, where

officers and men of the camp-guard usually boarded the trams when going

to town. Hardly half that distance away a sentry patrolled.

The possibility of an untoward meeting at this point kept us on edge.

If somebody from Ruhleben had accidentally entered our car, we intended

to take no notice of it, unless he came to the front platform. What we

should have done in that case, I do not know. Our resourcefulness was,

fortunately, not put to the test.

The front platform became fairly crowded. I succeeded in manœuvering

Tynsdale into a corner, and planted myself in front of him, thus

cutting him off from any likelihood of being spoken to by any of the

passengers. Kent could take care of himself, better perhaps than I,

for he was readier with his tongue. Half-way to Berlin, in front of

West End Station, Charlottenburg, where eighteen months ago my railway

journey had started, the track was blocked by a car which had broken

down. It took half an hour to shunt it upon a siding and clear the

line. We were not pressed for time, and remained in our places, almost

the only passengers who did so.

Our immediate destination was the Wilhelms Platz in Berlin. From

there we had to get to the Lehrter Station. Without local knowledge

ourselves, we had gathered an idea of how to do it. Kent was to be

guide and acting manager, but he kept consulting me, who was well

content to follow.

Broadway at the most crowded hour of the day is hardly so packed as

were, that night, the far wider streets of the German capital. It

seemed as if the whole population of Berlin were wandering more or

less aimlessly about. Two solid streams of people moved in opposite

directions on the pavements, and spilled over the curb into the

roadway. In a way, this was favorable to us. Except by accident, it

would have been impossible to find us. On the other hand, it made it

difficult for a party of three to proceed by tram or omnibus. At every

stopping-place of these public conveyances a free fight seemed to be

going on for the places inside them; not the rush we are accustomed to

complain about in London, but a scramble in which brute force triumphed

unchecked by any trivial regard for decent manners and the rights of

others.

After we had alighted and threaded our way across the Wilhelms Platz,

Kent found a station of the Underground.

“Take a first-class ticket for yourself. I’ll buy two,” were his

instructions, whispered in German.

I bought a third-class one. I did not want to. I was merely too funky

to ask for first-class. It meant the pronunciation of an extra word. I

could have spoken it as correctly as any German, but suppose there was

no first-class on the Underground! They’d get suspicious! It was very

silly of me. Mistake No. 1.

Naturally, the third-class was crowded. It is not the custom in

Germany to be polite to the gentler sex. I knew it as well as anybody.

But when an elderly woman, looking very tired, was clinging to a strap

just in front of me, I was on my feet before I knew what I was doing.

She declined the proffered seat in confusion. To repair my “break,” I

hastily sat down again, my ears burning. Mistake No. 2. Kent looked

daggers at me from the opposite seat, and as soon as he had a chance I

got my wigging.

At the Leipziger Platz the throng was thicker, if anything. There was

not the faintest chance of getting into a train.

“There are some droshkies down there,” said Kent, pulling my arm to

attract my attention.

“Get one!” I answered curtly.

The marvelous thing was that the driver accepted us as fares. The

luggage we were carrying, and our destination, Lehrter Bahnhof, did the

trick, I believe.

The drive through the Sieges Allee, past the greater atrocity of the

“Iron Hindenburg,” and farther through deserted residential streets,

was splendid. We lit cigarettes, and I regained my coolness. I wanted

it. Grimly I reflected that two mistakes were quite enough for one day.

We found the booking-hall of the Lehrter Station crowded at eleven

o’clock. Kent and I deposited our luggage and took our places in the

long queue in front of the booking-office.

“What time the eleven-forty-seven for Hanover to-night?” I asked a

porter who was passing me.

“Twelve-forty-seven, but to-night only.”

We had almost two hours to get through, somehow and somewhere. Not at

the station, that was certain.

“Follow Tynsdale and me. Keep as far in the rear as possible, and don’t

lose us,” I told Kent.

The Lehrter Station is situated in the northwestern part of Berlin.

There seemed no decent cafés near at hand in which we could spend the

time and get a drink. As we were very thirsty, however, we found a

low-class place not very far off in which we ordered a glass of beer

each. When the waitress brought the drink she told us ungraciously that

the café was going to be closed in a few minutes. Hastily we emptied

our glasses, glad to get out of the place with as little delay as

possible. Three German privates were eyeing us from a table close to

ours much too attentively for our liking.

Outside, the previous formation was resumed. Sauntering very slowly

along, I led back past the station again, along the river Spree, then

through the empty streets of a residential neighborhood, and finally,

by accident, into the Friedrich Strasse with its dense throng of

people. On the way I kept up a semblance of conversation with Tynsdale.

I would not go into a café again, so near closing time, thinking we

were safest among the crowd, which was moving quite as leisurely as

we were. Tynsdale was content to follow me, and Kent had no chance of

pressing his objections.

More slowly, if possible, we sauntered back to the station, where we

arrived with fifty minutes to spare. Having got our luggage, we spent

the time in the waiting-room and restaurant, over beer, coffee, and

lemonade. German cigarettes, bought at the counter, enabled us to enjoy

a soothing smoke.

“Shall we go out on the platform now?” asked Kent twenty minutes before

train time.

“No; wait,” I answered. Later I explained that, since our absence was

presumably known in camp by that time, and since there was a chance

that passports might be inspected at a terminus, I thought it would be

better if we rushed to the platform as late-comers.

If I recollect rightly, Kent was to chaperon Tynsdale as far as

Hanover. At the last moment I requested that he should come into my

compartment. I should have been worried about my friends if I had

traveled alone in comparative security, and was sure of feeling happier

with Tynsdale by my side. Rightly or wrongly, I imagined I could take

care of him just as well as Kent.

The train was a stopping one, and was crowded to the last seat when we

tried to board it.

“Can we get into a first-class compartment?” I asked a busy official.

“There is no room in the second.”

“Third and second only on this train,” he answered, and then shoved

Tynsdale and me into an already crowded carriage, from which he ejected

a soldier who had a third-class ticket.

“Sit down,” I said peremptorily to Tynsdale, who obeyed. I stood in

the gangway, leaning against the window. Kent disappeared into another

compartment.

Then we were off, past Ruhleben camp to Spandau as the first stop. It

appeared a foregone conclusion that our absence was known in camp by

now. We feared that the train might be searched in Spandau. I took some

comfort from its crowded state. When another crush of people packed

themselves into the little standing room left, I blessed the scarcity

of trains which caused the crowding. Information has since reached me

that the camp authorities did not discover our escape until roll-call

the next morning.

* * * * *

Within the next hour the compartment emptied, until we were left alone,

but for a German N.C.O., who, fat as a pig, was breathing stertorously

in his sleep. Tynsdale was slumbering behind his overcoat. I followed

his example for short spells, the uneasy feeling that I had something

or somebody to take care of following me into confused dreams.

At the Hanover main station our luggage went into the cloak-room and we

ourselves into the waiting-room and restaurant to have a cup of coffee.

I knew Hanover fairly well, and was to conduct my friends to the

Eilenriede, a huge public park encircling a quarter of the town. The

greater part of it is really a densely timbered forest, where we could

spend the morning, or part of it, in safety. Tynsdale and I in front,

Kent in the rear, we wended our way thither, as much as possible

through back streets.

It was a typical September morning, promising a hot day. The life of

the town was beginning to stir: people were going to work, milkmen were

making their rounds, a belated farmer’s cart rattled over the cobbles

now and again; from the main thoroughfares came the buzzing of trolleys

and the clanging of bells.

In the park Kent closed up, and we walked abreast for a time, talking

freely in German. We felt tired, and finally sat down in a secluded

spot, surrounded by thick timber and undergrowth. At long intervals

early-morning ramblers passed us, solitary old gentlemen, and several

couples who most decidedly felt no craving for further company, and

consequently took more notice of us than the old gentlemen. Near by,

two women were gathering wood and loading it into dilapidated “prams.”

They were usually out of sight, but we heard them all the time,

breaking the dry sticks into convenient lengths.

Gradually the sun sucked up the mists, but the haze of an autumn day

remained. Slanting shafts of light struck through the foliage, which

sent off scintillating reflections, where it moved in a very slight

breeze, while its shadows seemed to dance merrily on the ground. A full

chorus of birds warbled and twittered in praise of the warmth of the

waning summer. The hum of insects was in the air. A butterfly winged

past at intervals, and behind our seat a colony of ants was busily

engaged.

The leaves had begun to fall. They covered the ground between the

trees, but the branches themselves only showed the dark-green foliage

of summer.

Our surroundings moved me intensely. I had not seen in this way a green

thing in seventeen months of prison life. I had not been among green

trees for over three years. The seat, hard as it was, was comfortable

to our tired bodies. We felt lazy, and when we had discussed the

night’s events, and outlined the next move, the talk languished. We

were hungry, too. Two biscuits apiece and a rather generous allowance

of chocolate tasted good.

Kent told us that he had immediately found a seat in the train, the

night before. His compartment had emptied sooner than ours, and he had

chatted through most of the journey with his only traveling companion,

a lieutenant. I do not know how many lies he told him.

At ten o’clock we walked back to the town. The heat was oppressive

by now. A circuitous route, to waste time, brought us into the

main street, the Georg Strasse. In an arcade I entered a shop for

sporting-equipment, leaving Tynsdale to wait outside with Kent, and

obtained two military water-bottles and an extremely shoddy knapsack

at an exorbitant price. Kent bought cigars. A strong clasp-knife was

added to my equipment. At a tram-crossing I inquired from a policeman

about the cars to Hainholz. I intended to repeat the trick Wallace and

I had made use of ten months before, and avoid leaving from the main

station. It was too early to obtain a meal in a restaurant then--about

eleven o’clock--so we went into the famous Kafé Kroepke, where we sat

at different tables in the order of our entrance.

On the way back from the station, carrying our luggage and walking in

the usual order, I caught sight of a very detective-like individual

crossing the road toward us. He fell in behind Tynsdale and me, between

us and Kent. As well as I could I watched him, but we did not seem to

interest him. While we stood waiting for the tram, Kent closed up, and

I nearly choked with rage. I thought his instructions, “Do as we do,

but keep apart,” covered everything. Now he was asking me questions.

But, after all, it was only leveling up the score of the previous night

against _me_.

At Hainholz I went to the ticket-window and asked for two second-class

tickets to Bremen. Kent had asked for one ten minutes before, and had

been told to wait.

“Are you two traveling together?” asked the booking clerk.

“No, no. I’m traveling with my friend,” and I waved an uncertain hand

toward Tynsdale, who looked on with an impassive face from a seat

behind us.

“Do I understand you to want a pass for two, and you,” turning to Kent,

who was standing beside me, “for one?”

Kent signified his assent.

“I want two tickets to Bremen. Two!” said I.

“You see,” explained the man, “I have no tickets to Bremen in stock.

I’ve got to write out passes for you. It’ll save work, if two are

traveling together. I can make out a joint pass for two then.” Thank

heaven it was nothing else!

We rushed to the platform only just in time--and waited for half an

hour for the overdue train, another one of the parliamentary variety.

Tynsdale and I got the last two seats in a compartment occupied by a

well-dressed and well-groomed man, four flappers with school-maps, and

a very pretty woman.

I felt much relieved when the train started. Another part of our

venture had come to an end! We had now left the direct route toward

Holland, the route by which the authorities would expect us to travel.

Cloppenburg, which was the ultimate objective of our railway journey,

lay in a straight line not so many miles to the west of us. Yet we were

going to spend another seven and a half hours in getting there, and had

to change the direction of our flight twice.

It was, therefore, with considerable composure that I sat listening to

the chatter of the flappers and the occasional snores of the man, and

watching the landscape through the window.

It stretched flat to the horizon, dancing in the heat haze. Toward four

o’clock, white clouds made their appearance in the azure sky, followed

presently by gray ones. When we drew into Bremen Station, where we had

to wait forty minutes for another train, due to start at half-past

five, a heavy shower was drumming on the glass roof.

Our traveling companions remained with us all the way. About half an

hour before we reached our destination, the pretty lady next to me

began to make ready for her arrival. Her hair, an abundance of it,

required a lot of patting and pulling about, which did not alter its

appearance in any way to the male eye. She sat forward in her seat, and

with her back straight and her arms raised, she assumed the captivating

pose of a woman putting the last deft touches to her toilet. Although

anxious not to appear rude, I tried to lose none of her movements,

which were the more charming to me as I had not seen a woman of her

class close to me for over three years. Her rounded, well-modeled arms

and shoulders showed dimly through the thin blouse. Fortunately, she

was half turning her back toward me and my companion, and we could gaze

our fill.

“Wasn’t she pretty!” were Tynsdale’s first words in the station

restaurant after four hours of silence.

“Wasn’t she!”

* * * * *

We were having a cup of coffee, sociably sitting together at the

same table. I went out to buy the three tickets and have a wash. To

my astonishment, there was real soap for use, not merely to look at

as a curiosity, in the station lavatory. I made a remark about this

extraordinary fact to the attendant, who told me quite frankly that he

made it a point to have real soap, and that it was profitable for him

to buy it at eighteen marks per pound in bulk. This implied illicit

trading, and the outspokenness of his statement was illustrative of the

general evasion of the strict trading laws and price limits.

The journey to Oldenburg, our next stopping-place, took half an hour

only, but was the most trying part of our escape. We were on the main

line to an important naval and air-ship center, Wilhelmshaven, and

although we did not approach it within fifty miles, the fact never left

my mind. Furthermore, the compartment Tynsdale and I were in was so

crowded that we had at first to stand. As soon as a seat became vacant,

Tynsdale slipped into it. It was next the window on the other side

of the car, happily away from an inquisitive and extremely talkative

individual, who, having been rebuffed by an officer and earned the

hostile glare of a man in naval uniform, lapsed for a short time only

into comparative silence. Before he opened his sluice-gates again, I

had sat down beside Tynsdale, covertly watching the dangerous lunatic,

as I called him, and sending up heartfelt prayers that my friend would

stick to reading the book which he held in his hand as usual. He would

not do so, however, but kept looking out of the window, giving an

opportunity every time, I felt, for our conversational friend to open

fire.

The scheduled thirty-five minutes would not come to an end. Even when

my watch told me that they were past, the train still kept stopping at

small stations and in the open country, and jogging on again after a

short halt. My anxiety was great, but at last I had my reward when we

arrived at Oldenburg.

What is it that makes one place feel “safe” and another menacing?

In most cases it is difficult to explain. The comfortable assurance

of security I had here, I put down to the absence of crowds in the

station, and to the fact that a booking-office between the platforms

permitted the purchase of new tickets without the necessity of passing

through the gates with their hostile guard of soldiers. Eighteen months

earlier the shutters in front of the windows of a similar intermediate

office at Dortmund Station, had caused me to reflect that the

authorities wanted to force all passengers to come under the scrutiny

of the guard and the ever-present detectives. Now the face of the clerk

on the other side of the glass appeared a good omen. We were not in

Prussia, by the way, but in the Duchy of Oldenburg.

Our train was due to leave in twenty minutes from the time of our

belated arrival. After a short wait on the platform it was shunted

in. We all three bundled into the same compartment, but took seats in

different corners. We did not carry through very carefully this show

of not belonging together, as nobody joined us. Kent bought two small

baskets of fruit from a vendor who passed along the train, and we were

sufficiently hungry to start munching their contents at once.

During the first part of this last stretch of an hour and a half we

remained alone. Dusk was rapidly changing into total darkness. Soon

it became impossible to distinguish the names of the feebly lighted

stations. I checked them carefully from the open time-table beside me,

lest we should alight too soon or too late.

At 8:30 we arrived at Cloppenburg. The first and probably the most

dangerous part of our venture lay behind us.

CHAPTER XXII

ORDER OF MARCH

My two companions had entrusted themselves to my leadership for the

tramp to the frontier. My first business was to pilot them out of town

from the right side, if possible, and, what was more difficult, by the

most favorable road. I thought it, under the circumstances, about as

hard a task as could be set me, at the very beginning. If so slight

an undertaking as ours may be spoken of in military terms, I should

compare it to a rearguard action and the successful withdrawal from

touch with the enemy’s advance scouts.

It was a very dark night. Only occasional stars glimmered through

the canopy of clouds. I knew nothing of the town, except what little

information could be gleaned from a motor-map, scale 1 to 300,000. The

time-table had taught us that we were to arrive at one station, and

that a train was to start from another about half an hour later. A

number of people were likely to change from the one to the other. To

follow them, as if we were of the same mind, would give us a start

off and carry us beyond the eyes of the railway officials. After that

I should have to do the best I could, without the help of either a

compass, which I could not consult, or the stars, which were not in

evidence.

As long as we were likely to meet people the order of march was to be:

I in the van, Tynsdale and Kent in the rear, as far behind as possible

without losing touch.

Most of the people who had left the station with us kept on the same

road, thus proving our calculation correct. We walked in their rear,

I carrying the portmanteau, which rapidly grew heavy. Big trees lined

the streets throughout; their shadows made it impossible to see more

than a few steps ahead. I followed behind the other travelers more by

sound than by sight. My companions had to keep within arm’s length of

me. There seemed to be a maze of streets, and, trusting to luck, I

turned into one of them. We found ourselves alone. At another corner,

instinct bade me take a sharp turn to the right. Then the streets lost

their character as such. Houses seemed to be irregularly dotted about

on bare ground underneath towering trees. Again they drew together into

a street, or a semblance of one. Here my friends closed up, and I gave

the leaden-weighted portmanteau to Kent. A furtive peep at the compass

heartened me a little. It seemed as if open country appeared in front,

but it was difficult to tell. Near a lamp, three girls passed us, arm

in arm. Inquisitively they turned their heads.

The road ascended and curved, fields were on each side, the silhouette

of a house in front; to the left, perhaps fifty yards away, the ragged

outlines of a wood.

“We’re in the open,” I announced, “and on a favorable road, I think.

Let’s go into that wood and pack our knapsacks. What time is it?”

“Ten minutes past nine,” answered Kent, who carried the luminous

wrist-watch.

It was only a thin belt of trees in whose shelter we arranged our

loads, and discarded the white collars and shirts we were wearing.

From the southward came the barking of a dog and the noise of railway

traffic. The dog was not far away. Whether it was because of his bark,

or because of a light we saw, we sensed a house in the same direction,

near enough to call for careful handling of our electric torches. It

was not necessary to warn my friends. They were squatting cautiously

close to the ground, never rising above a sitting posture, and

screening the light with their bodies. It was I who received a mild

rebuke from the very cautious Kent. I do not think my action deserved

it, but I was so elated that its chastening effect was, perhaps, good.

Not forgetting the fact that we had yet to pass two strongly guarded

lines--the river Ems and the Dutch frontier--I felt, nevertheless, that

our task was more than half accomplished.

When we had finished, I bade my friends lie down, one on each side of

me, so that I might use the flashlight for a thorough scrutiny of the

map. I recognized the road on our right without difficulty. It was a

second-class one, and divided the angle between the two highroads. As

to direction it was entirely favorable; as to safety it was preferable

to a first-class highway. A brook was marked on the map as flowing

across it not very far away, and this was of almost greater importance

than anything else, for we had not been able to fill our water-bottles.

We were thirsty, but not uncomfortably so as yet. My experiences had

taught me the paramount necessity of always having sufficient water.

How to get it began to occupy a great part of my thoughts from now on.

“It’s quite obvious,” I remarked. “We’ll follow this road through

Vahren village. We’ll find water at about twelve o’clock. At about

one-thirty we’ll turn at right angles into this road, which will lead

us to water again, and then into the northern high-road.” I went in

detail over the prospective night’s march. “And now,” I finished,

putting map and torch into my pocket and getting up, “good luck to us!

Come on. I’ll be in front till further orders.”

Once on the road, starting at a good pace, we turned our faces toward

the west, toward Holland, and toward freedom.

* * * * *

When I recall the events of my first two escapes, I am astonished at

the clearness with which every minute’s happenings are imprinted on my

mind. I need only close my eyes to see the sights, hear the sounds,

and, in a measure, be under the influence of the same emotions which I

then experienced.

It is somewhat different with my recollections of this last escape.

For the greater part they are as bright as they can be. But there are

blurred patches in the pictures of my memory. A number of them seem

wholly obliterated.

Soon after everything was over we wrote down the course of events.

These notes and our maps are helping me now in my efforts to recall the

next five days. But even at the time of fixing our recollections with

pencil and paper, while they were not yet a week old, our joint efforts

proved inadequate in filling a blank of about six hours in the second

night of our walk.

It was a glorious sensation to feel a road under our feet, and to have

the open country about us. It was about the time of the new moon. The

rain had ceased hours before, but the clouds were still obscuring the

stars, and the night was exceedingly dark.

In due course the first village was indicated by a few scattered

houses--the outposts, as it were. We slowed up.

A dense mass of black shadow lay in front of us. Not a light was to

be seen anywhere. Slowly we advanced, until the faint outlines of a

roof here and a gable there detached themselves from the overshadowing

groups of enormous trees, which embowered the village completely in

dimly seen masses of foliage. With stealthy steps, almost groping, we

entered the blackness, which seemed to close behind us. Nothing broke

the silence except the rattle of a chain once or twice, and the muffled

lowing of a cow. By contrast it seemed light when we emerged into the

open again.

“We ought to get to water in half an hour now. Look out for it. It’ll

be a small stream. We might miss it,” I counseled. Kent was close

behind me with Tynsdale.

Half an hour--three-quarters of an hour--but no water. Instead we

entered another village, not marked on the map. Among the houses a road

branched off to the north. I was awfully thirsty. My tongue lay heavy

in my mouth.

“Let’s try to cut off that corner,” said I. “The other branch of the

brook may exist in reality. I think this road will curve round to the

northwest or west, and get us there quicker. It’s not marked on the

map.”

My friends were always willing to follow my suggestion, and we tried it.

The road curved west, then west-by-south.

“Stop a moment! We had better go back to the old route. I don’t like

this very much now.”

Again Tynsdale and Kent followed obediently.

This was the first instance of many in which I did not allow myself to

be guided by my instinct, as I should have done if I had been alone. I

felt so strongly my responsibility toward my friends that I disliked

taking any move I could not fully explain by cold reasoning. Instinct

is generally unreasonable. Besides, it does sometimes lead one

astray. In our case it might compel us to walk across-country, and the

cross-country stretches in this part of Germany looked forbidding on

the map, being mostly marked as heather, moors, and swamps.

Having regained the former road, I discovered after a while that it was

turning too much to the south. I was still musing about this when we

entered a smooth, broad, first-class highway.

“Let’s rest for a spell,” I suggested.

We sat down, with our feet in the ditch, close to the trunk of one of

the enormous trees lining the roadside.

“Do you know where we are?” asked Kent, after I had consulted the map

and sat blinking again to accustom my eyes to the night.

“Of course I do,” I snorted irritably. “We’re on that beastly southern

highway I wanted to avoid. I wish I hadn’t been such a fool as to

abandon the other road. I don’t know how we got here. The map shows no

connecting road down to here at all. The only damage done, as far as

I can see, is that we have increased our distance from water. We can

hit the by-road leading north, if we follow the _chaussée_. Oh, I’m

thirsty! I’ll try a cigarette.” We all lit up.

Three abreast we started again.

“There’s a sign-post,” said Kent, whose eyes were exceptionally good.

“To Molbergen,” it read, pointing along a straight by-road at right

angles to our direction.

“This is the one we are looking for,” I announced. “How do you feel,

Tynsdale?”

“I can hardly keep my eyes open,” he made answer.

“Well, we’ll soon get water,” I said, to console him.

“I’ll walk ahead as a pace-maker,” suggested Kent.

“Good!” It appeared a splendid idea. “I’ll take the rear. Tynsdale had

better follow you close, to get the benefit of your pace-making.”

Kent led with a swinging pace along the sandy, rutted road for an hour

and a half. The country stretched flat on each hand, often broken by

patches of forest. A telephone line on our left irritated me with the

monotony of its ever-recurring, never-ending succession of poles. I had

the old sensation of walking up-hill. We found no water. Then we came

to the northern highway, into which we swung by a turn to the left.

By this time my tongue was sticky. I had the feeling of a crust having

formed at the corners of my mouth. Neither Tynsdale nor Kent felt

thirst so acutely. A little way down the _chaussée_ I stopped.

“There is a house over there. I’ll see whether or not there’s a well.

They must have a water-supply,” I remarked.

Tynsdale and Kent waited in the road at first, but soon followed me.

The solitary building stood about fifty paces from it, and a well

with windlass and protecting roof faced its western side. No pail was

attached to the wire rope, but an old cast-iron pot lay on the ground

beside the stone coping. This we tied to the end of the rope with

pieces of string, and, turning the handle of the windlass cautiously,

let it down. When it came up, filled with very cold, wonderful water,

was there ever anything so delicious? We drank in turns, not once,

but many times; then filled our water-bottles, and drank most of the

remaining liquid.

We passed through another village in the course of the remaining hours.

Behind it we came to a large brook, not marked on the map, which rushed

gurgling underneath the stone bridge. I insisted upon another drink and

a replenishment of our water-bottles.

“I can’t keep awake any longer,” complained Tynsdale a little later.

“I suppose we had better take a rest, then. Don’t you think so, Kent?

We’ll just turn off the road and lie down underneath that hedge there.

Only for half an hour, mind. We must find decent cover before dawn.”

This was at half-past three.

We spread the oilskins as a ground-cloth and rolled ourselves into our

overcoats. I wanted to keep awake, but fell asleep as promptly as the

other two, not to awaken until an hour afterward.

“Get up, quick! No time to lose. Get up!” I aroused my friends. Not

more than about half an hour was left us in which to find good cover.

Already the air struck my cheek with the damp chill of dawn. It

“smelled” morning.

We packed in haste, and hurried along the road. Once, and again, we

turned into a by-road, which seemed to be leading toward a wood. But

scattered trees near the horizon produce in the dark the impression of

a forest, since only their outlines can be seen against the sky. We

found each time that we had been lured into a fruitless quest.

The eastern horizon was graying when we came to a small spinney at a

cross-roads.

“This will have to do,” I said, a little doubtfully.

Pressing toward the heart of the thicket, and using my torch to avoid

stabbing branches, I discovered a noose in a bush for trapping birds. I

showed it to my friends. “This doesn’t look like security, does it?”

In the densest part of the spinney we halted.

“Wait a few minutes, will you? I’ll see whether or not I can find

something better near at hand.” With that I left them. I explored

our immediate surroundings without success, located a house in the

vicinity, and finally had some difficulty in finding my companions.

When I thought I was near them I whistled softly, to be answered by

Kent, not three feet away. My friends had prepared a camp, and I lay

down by them on the oilskins. The two overcoats we spread over us, and

the oilsilks on top. The knapsacks served as pillows, and almost in a

moment we were asleep.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE ROAD THROUGH THE NIGHT

We woke up in full daylight, which revealed the scantiness of our

cover. By merely raising our heads we could see people and vehicles

pass along the roads, and the sound of voices and the creaking of

wheels were at intervals very distinct all day. That it is very much

more difficult to see into a thicket than from it, was a consolation

with which we reassured ourselves repeatedly. I do not think the others

felt any more nervous than did I, who thought we were safe as long as

we kept our recumbent position. We hardly moved during the sixteen

hours, I believe.

We ate our rations in two instalments and with interruptions slept

a good deal. We never got as much sleep again in one day while in

Germany. I doubt that we got as much until all was over.

Occasional gleams of sunshine during the morning became ever rarer as

the afternoon wore on. Gray clouds threatened rain more determinedly

as the day grew old, but a strong wind which was soughing in the

branches overhead kept it off until evening, when it started with a

small preparatory shower or two.

When the light began to fail, we packed up and sat about in our

raincoats, talking in undertones and listening to the pat-pat-pat of

occasional drops among the leaves. The roads had become deserted as

darkness fell.

At 9:30 we started our second night’s progress.

Two considerations had determined my theoretical choice of route for

the night. One was the desirability of keeping well to the north of

an artillery practice ground on the hither side of the river Ems, the

Ordinary wearing apparel, dictated by the railway journey, we had;