THE ESCAPE FROM NEW ZEALAND TO THE
SMOKING ISLE
The thought of every prisoner is--escape! That was what we thought
about, by Joe, and what we dreamed about. Occasionally, I'd wake up
with a start, dreaming we were still in our small boat and about to
be dashed against that coral reef. Usually my sleep was not troubled
with such nightmares. But I often dreamed of getting away, capturing
another ship, and continuing our cruise. This did finally come
about, but not for many months.
No opportunity of escape presented itself during our stay at Suva,
which was not long. Kircheiss and I were shipped from the Fijis to a
little isle off the coast of the north island of New Zealand, right
near the entrance to Auckland harbour. The other four went to the
island of Somes, where they had a hard time under a bad camp
commander, a Major Matthis. No chance to escape came their way, but
with Kircheiss and me it was different. We had a highly exciting
time, and thus were spared the mental and physical stagnation that is
the lot of the average prisoner of war.
The public of New Zealand was inflamed against us. When we arrived
there was a great outcry and demand that we be shot. This amazed us,
but we discovered the reason a few days later. You see the
inhabitants of these islands thought that we had sunk the big New
Zealand passenger steamer _Wairuna_, with all on board. As a matter
of fact, we knew nothing of the _Wairuna_ and hadn't even heard of
her. Later, it developed that she had been captured by our fast
auxiliary cruiser _Wolf_, sister ship of the _Moewe_, and her crew
taken aboard as prisoners. But so far as the New Zealanders were
concerned, their ship and all on board her had vanished as though
swallowed up by the sea. So they were frantic about it, and my boys
and myself nearly lost our lives as a result. After carrying out her
raid, the _Wolf_ slipped through the blockade again and back into
Germany. At the time of our arrival in New Zealand from Fiji,
nothing was known of the _Wolf_, and it was supposed that we had sunk
the _Wairuna_ with her passengers and crew. The rage of the public
was such that the authorities had to hide us away in their naval
barracks at the Devonport Torpedo Yard, and then transfer us secretly
to a prison camp on the island of Motuihi, near by. Meanwhile, the
populace clamored for us to be turned over to them so they could
lynch us.
The little island of Motuihi, a beautiful strip of land, had long
been the internment place of many Germans who had been captured when
the British seized our possessions in Samoa and in other parts of the
South Seas. They were all civilians, from ten to seventy years of
age, traders, plantation owners, and officials. They greeted us with
pride and affection, but more particularly with anxiety. They said
we were sure to be shot. I laughed at this. "By Joe, who wants to
kill us? On what grounds could mere prisoners of war be shot down in
captivity?" I asked.
But things looked a little less rosy when, forty-eight hours later,
we were taken by boat to Auckland and then whisked by automobile,
under cover of night, through valley and forest to a freight train
pulled up in a wild, remote place. They locked us up in a freight
car, where there were two beds. They told us it was to protect us
against the public. The train pulled out and, after an all-night
journey, stopped near the outskirts of the city of Wellington, the
capital of the islands that comprise New Zealand. Here they put us
into another automobile and rushed us to the Danish Barracks in
Wellington, an old jail, an almost prehistoric relic of more
primitive days in New Zealand. A native keeper who led us along a
corridor tugged at my coat and pointed into a cell. There were my
boys, Leudemann, Krauss, Parmien, and Erdmann. They were in chains.
We were all to stand trial together. We spoke to one another for a
minute, and then Kircheiss and I were led to our cells.
On the following day, Kircheiss and I were taken aboard an old
cruiser in the harbour and ushered into the saloon, where there were
about a dozen men who wore black coats and four-cornered caps with
tassels. Our four boys were standing in a corner. I was boiling mad.
"What's this?" I said. "Is justice becoming ridiculous? Why are we
put in jail like this and some of my boys in chains? Is that for
prisoners of war? And what man of you is able to judge of our
warfare? You are civilians. Are we to be judged by civilians? I
will answer only to naval men."
Just then Sir Hall Thompson, British naval commander in New Zealand
waters, came down the stairway. I turned to him.
"I am glad to see you, sir. Why are we treated like this? And are
prisoners of war to be tried by civilians?"
"Count," he replied, "public opinion forces it. The public has
demanded that within three days of your arrival in this country you
must reveal where you sank the _Wairuna_ and why you sank her without
saving a single life, and also where your ship _Seeadler_ is."
"But I know nothing about the _Wairuna_," I replied. "I did not sink
her. In every single capture that we made, I took the crews aboard
my ship, kept them there until we were overcrowded, and then sent
them home."
"You say you didn't sink the _Wairuna_?"
"No! Nor ever even heard of her!"
"Will you give me your word of honour on this?"
"I give it to you now."
"Very well, Count, that is good."
"But why do you keep my men in chains?"
"We want to know where the _Seeadler_ is."
"I want to tell you, sir, that my men will die before they will say
anything. They have orders from me not to talk. If anyone is to
tell anything about the _Seeadler_, it is I. You would give your men
the same command under the same circumstances, and you would want
them to obey as my men are obeying."
"You are the one to ask, Count, about information of the _Seeadler_?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me where she is."
"Captain, may I sink deep in the earth if I ever betray my crew. I
respect you. I would not put such a question to you if you were my
prisoner."
"Count," he replied, "your men have set an example to our sailors. I
understand and appreciate your attitude. So long as your men show
themselves to be disciplined sailors, they will have excellent
treatment. And I hope that you, yourself, will have a pleasant stay
with us and find nothing of which to complain. Gentlemen," he
addressed the judges, "the court martial is over."
My four men were taken back to their island, and Kircheiss and I to
ours.
At Motuihi things were not so bad. The food was good and discipline
was not too strict. The camp commander, Turner by name, seemed very
proud to have a couple of real war prisoners in his charge. He had
really excellent cause to be pleased. Now that he had enemy naval
officers in his camp, he was raised to the rank of Lieutenant
Colonel, and his force of guards was increased to eighty men. It
likewise seemed to add to his dignity that he had among his captives
someone whom he could call Count. The principal annoyance now was
the strict watch they felt obliged to keep over us to prevent our
escape. Headquarters at Auckland had to be telephoned every other
hour and told that everything was all right. Colonel Turner was also
provided with a fine new motor boat, so that, if anything went wrong
with the telephone wire, he would still have a means of swift
communication with the mainland.
"By Joe, what a fine motor boat," I exclaimed when I saw it.
"Maybe we could use it," commented Kircheiss.
You couldn't blame the authorities for being a bit nervous. They
still did not know where the remainder of the _Seeadler's_ crew was,
and were worried about a possible raid to liberate us. Likewise,
Kircheiss and I had the idea of escape buzzing furiously in our
heads. In fact, the prisoners on Motuihi before we arrived had
already thought of a jail break. They had formed no definite plan,
but had gathered materials that might be useful. One had contrived
to filch and hide away a number of tools. Another had found a
derelict floating mine and taken the fuses from it and also a large
quantity of guncotton, which he stowed in his mattress. He slept on
the guncotton every night. Another had succeeded in "finding" charts
of the harbour with the location of the mine fields. In any plan of
flight, I could, by including the men who had collected them, have
these materials at my disposal.
The motor boat was, of course, the centre of all scheming. The idea
was to sail away in it with an able-bodied company of prison camp
comrades, capture a sailing ship, and go buccaneering again. One of
the prisoners, a young fellow, was a motor expert. The camp
commander had assigned him to look after the engine of his motor
boat. So he was one man whom we would have to have with us. I
didn't think there would be much trouble in getting away with the
boat. Although there were sentries all over the island, we were sure
we could invent some way of outwitting them. We would have to stow
the boat with a large amount of supplies. This, our motor expert
could do while pretending to tinker with the engine. He could hide
the material away in the air chambers of the boat. Much more
difficult was the job of collecting all the food, weapons, and other
equipment. This took a long time, and all the patient manœuvring
that is traditional of prisoners and their schemes of escape.
First it was necessary to quiet the uneasiness of the camp commander.
He apparently expected me to go breaking out of his camp breathing
fire from my nostrils. The camp doctor was a German Pole, quite
intelligent, but of degenerated spirit, who was used by the
commandant to spy on the prisoners. He made the friendliest sort of
overtures to me, and I, having been told that he was an informer,
made it seem as though I were being completely taken in by his smooth
ways.
Nearly everybody in the camp suffered severely from rheumatism. I
was one of the few who had the good luck to escape the malady. But I
pretended to get it badly, so badly that I was only able to walk with
crutches. The commandant was pleased when he found that I was almost
helpless. For how could a cripple attempt an escape? The doctor
pretended to try his best to cure my supposed ailment, but gave me a
kind of treatment that was designed to make it worse. His
hoodwinking was complete when I asked him to help me to get word to
my people in Germany to send me five thousand pounds, and promised
him part of this in return for his aid. I kept the hypothetical five
thousand pounds dangling before his nose, and his avarice blinded him
so much that I was able to make a ready tool of him.
My crew for the projected flight consisted of nine men, seven of whom
were North German Lloyd merchant-ship cadets captured by the British
in Samoa. When war broke out, they happened to be at the American
South Sea port of Pagopago. Slipping away in a small boat, they got
to German Samoa, only to find it in the hands of the New Zealanders.
I did my recruiting secretly. The plan of escape was kept from the
other prisoners. Always to keep your secret among as few as possible
is a good rule even among prisoners. You never know who is a spy.
The fellows I chose were all lively lads, ready for anything.
One day a couple of the prisoners said to me:
"Count, let's get up a show for Christmas, a play."
Show, play, theatre--that was an idea for me.
"Certainly I will," I replied. "I often got up shows in the navy.
We will have a theatre here at Motuihi that will beat the best in
Berlin. But you must leave everything to me. I will direct
everything."
"All right," they said.
I got permission from the commandant to produce the show. In fact,
he waxed quite enthusiastic about it. Not only would it give the
prisoners something to do, but it would also provide amusement for
the jailers. Life on the island was mighty boresome to all of them.
In a little while, the prison camp was humming with preparations for
the grand spectacle I was going to stage. This was the cover under
which my fellows and I prepared all of our equipment for our escape.
It deluded the guards, and also fooled the prisoners whom we couldn't
take with us. When we wanted material, always apparently innocent
things, we asked for it and said it was for the show. When we built
anything, it was for the show.
We even built a wireless set out of things supposed to be for our
_grosses shauspielhaus_. We made bombs out of tin cans and the
guncotton that had already been procured. The bombs had fuses that
could be lighted from a cigarette. One of my men worked on a farm in
the interior of the island, and got a lot of dynamite and blasting
powder used in blowing up stumps. We stole a couple of pistols from
the camp arsenal. We made a fake contrivance which looked like a
perfect Lewis or Maxim machine gun, but it worked well enough and it
looked even more formidable. Cadet von Zartowsky took odds and ends
and made a sextant that afterward took us fifty nautical miles off
our course, pretty fair, considering the circumstances.
We had no great trouble in hiding away a considerable supply of food
in the air chambers of the motor boat. Of course, I not only had
talked of elaborate plans for the supposed theatrical events that I
was directing, but I also had the prisoners prepare a lot of
bona-fide stage props, more even than could be used. These were made
up by the rest of the fellows who were not in our plot. Most of the
actual material needed for our escape and subsequent raiding cruise
had to be fixed up stealthily by the boys who were to make the dash
for freedom with me.
One midnight, a guard happened to notice three of my men busily at
work. One was painting a large German flag. Another was making a
red pistol holster. The third was sewing a sail out of bed sheets.
We intended hoisting a sail on the motor boat in order to conserve
fuel if we had to cruise about in that little boat for a long time.
The guard reported what he had seen to the commandant.
"Oh, it's all right," said Colonel Turner, "it's stuff for the
theatre."
But next day he came and questioned me:
"Look here, Count, I can understand how you might need a flag and a
pistol holster for your show, but what about the sail?"
"Oh, that's the curtain!" I replied.
Of all the people I met in New Zealand, there was but one for whom I
had a complete contempt. He was a fellow named Hansen, a German by
birth and a naturalized New Zealander. In spite of his
naturalization, he had been interned. He happened to notice that the
motor expert, while supposedly working on the engine of the _Pearl_,
the colonel's boat, had carried something suspicious aboard. Anxious
to curry favour with the commandant, he reported that we were acting
suspiciously. The commandant was contemptuous of a rat like that in
the first place, and then he was utterly infatuated with our theatre.
He said that whatever we were doing could only be in preparation for
our show. Nevertheless, he tried to investigate, but found nothing
to confirm what the squealer had told him.
After weeks of hard labour, we were ready. At night we cut the wires
connecting the island with the mainland and set a barracks afire.
That created the diversion we needed. Everybody, guards and all,
flocked to put the blaze out. I was among the foremost, and
attracted all attention to myself. I seemed to have a passion for
fighting fires. My boys were with me. When the excitement was at
its highest, we stole away singly and boarded the motor boat. The
engine purred, and we were away in the darkness.
We were safe from pursuit for a while, anyway. There was no other
boat at the island, and Motuihi could not communicate with the
mainland. It was only when the wires were repaired or when the
mainland was due to get its next report that the chase after us could
begin. When our escape did become known on the mainland on that
night of December 13, 1917, every kind of craft available went out to
look for us. Private owners took up scouting for us as a sport.
Boats chased one another and shot at one another, and one steamer
went on the rocks. Finally, a false rumour spread that we had
capsized and drowned, and the weary pursuers were glad to accept it
as true and return home.
We had our difficulties in finding our way in the night through the
Hauraki Gulf on which Auckland lies, but at an hour or so past
midnight we saw sweeping shafts of light. The authorities at
Auckland were looking for us with a searchlight, a ridiculous
procedure, but one calculated to impress the population. We steered
by the searchlight beams now, and picked our way along easily enough.
Of course, it would take a separate volume to record all of the
details of our work of preparation and our final escape. I am only
giving you a description of the high spots. But, by the way, I
almost forgot to tell you how we were dressed. We all had New
Zealand uniforms. Mine was the most interesting of the lot and
provided material for Australian humorists and cartoonists for many
weeks. As the commander of a man-o'-war, even of a twelve-foot
wooden one, with the unwarlike name of _Pearl_, I absolutely had to
have a sword. One of my boys, just an hour before our escape,
slipped into the wardrobe of the prison camp commandant. Not only
did he take Colonel Turner's best dress uniform, but he also swiped
his sword and scabbard.
We lay off an isolated bay of Red Mercury Island, northwest of the
Bay of Plenty, for two days, during which we had a couple of narrow
escapes from searching boats. A government cutter had almost sighted
us when she damaged her propeller on the rocks and had to limp back
home. The third day we put out to sea, and as we bounced about on
the waves I swore in the cadets as regular midshipmen of the Imperial
Navy and promoted Vice Corporal von Egidy to the rank of naval junior
lieutenant. As commander of a war vessel, even though she was only
the colonel's motor boat, I had the authority to do this. Then each
helped the other cut his hair short in naval fashion.
Two sailing vessels came by. We decided to seize them both, sink
one, and keep the other. We went after the first one, but a sudden
puff of wind carried her along at a great rate, and we could not
catch her. This was very unfortunate, for she reported our capture
of the second boat, which she witnessed. Bombs poised, machine gun
pointing, and German flag raised, we swiftly approached the _Moa_.
She hove to. My boys and I clambered on deck. With Colonel Turner's
sword in my hand, I ordered the captain and crew herded below, the
captain, an excellent old salt, growling:
"You're escaped prisoners, eh? Our boys are doing their bit in
France, and at home they can't even guard prisoners."
The _Moa_ was a fine craft but as flat as a match box. Intended for
coastwise trade, she had no keel and drew only three feet of water,
but she had huge masts. A storm blew up, and we scudded before the
wind. The _Moa's_ captain rushed up bristling with excitement. His
boat, he protested, was not adapted for sailing on the high sea, much
less through a storm. We were risking our lives, he expostulated.
We should take down sail.
"We are sailing for our lives, by Joe," I responded, and kept all
canvas up.
The skipper stayed on deck all night and poured out oil to quiet the
waves. We went on our watches, undisturbed. Ordinarily, we would
have been somewhat worried, but the storm was taking us along
swiftly--away from pursuit. The waves began to break over our stern,
and the _Moa_ bobbed up and down. She had a deckload of lumber.
Overboard with it. We started to work and were ably assisted by a
breaker that crashed over us and in an instant swept most of the
lumber into the sea. We were towing the motor boat we had taken from
the commandant at Motuihi. A wave swamped her, and she tore loose
from the towline and sank.
We steered to the Kermadec Islands, an uninhabited group where the
New Zealand government keeps a cache of provisions for castaway
sailors. Curtis Island, one of the group, came in sight on December
21st. It appeared in a cloud of smoke, a land of volcanoes and
geysers. Presently we spied the sheet-iron shed where the provisions
were stored. Kircheiss and four men landed on the inferno-like coast
and in due time returned, their boat loaded deep with provisions.
The New Zealand government was kind enough to provide many useful
things for shipwrecked sailors and sometimes for escaped prisoners of
war. There were tools, oars, sails, fishing tackle, blankets, bacon,
butter, lard, canned beef--in short, everything. We had intended to
leave our prisoners on Curtis Island, but that den of steam and
sulphur fumes seemed unfit for anyone. So we decided to take them on
to near-by Macauley Island, there put them ashore with a supply of
provisions, and send a wireless message to summon aid for them.
"Smoke to the north, behind island," sang the lookout.
Two men were still on the island. I sent hastily for them. The
_Moa_ raised sail and ran before the wind. The steamer was in sight
now. She sailed toward us. We changed our course. She, too,
changed her course. The skipper of the _Moa_ recognized her as the
New Zealand government's cable steamer, _Iris_, an auxiliary cruiser.
She had cannon, and we had none. Our goose was cooked.
We still tried hopelessly to run away. She gained on us, and
signalled us to stop. We kept on. A flash, a distant roar, a
hissing in the air, a splash in front of us. She was firing on us.
"Heave to," I commanded, and we were prisoners once again.
The _Iris_ was manned, not by naval men, but by a nondescript crowd
that put pistols to our backs as we came aboard, and searched us to
the soles of our shoes. Then these gentry robbed us of our personal
possessions. They were wildly jubilant over their victory. I
gathered from them that the ship that had escaped us having brought
the news of our capture of the _Moa_ to Auckland, the authorities
there had surmised that we must be headed for the cache of supplies
at Curtis Island. When we arrived at Auckland, the New Zealanders
had their own little victory celebration. Sightseers in all sorts of
boats came out to have a look as the _Iris _with the _Moa_ in tow
steamed into harbour, the victor of the Battle of the Kermadecs.
We were jailed at Mount Eden, the local prison of Auckland, as a
punishment for our flight. For a calaboose, it was not bad. After
twenty-one days there, we were distributed among various prison
camps. Kircheiss and I went to River Island near Lyttelton on the
south island of New Zealand. Even the yard of our prison in Fort
Jervois was a veritable cage. It was screened not only around but
also across the top with lines of barbed wire. The commander of the
camp, Major Leeming of Tasmania, was one of the best fellows I have
ever met. He, too, felt himself a prisoner here on this lonely
island and soon became our third man at cards, which we played to
while away the hours during the long evenings.
A drawbridge that had been smashed by a hurricane was being repaired,
and we prisoners had access to the waterside for a while. In the
yard stood a row of empty tar barrels. One of the barrels fell over,
and I happened to notice that it was picked up by a small coastwise
schooner that often lay at dock farther down the shore. I threw in
another barrel. It floated. The boat picked it up. My plan was
made. I could arrange one of those barrels so that I could float out
in it. I would pick the time when the little schooner was at shore.
Then I would get into the barrel and roll myself off the dock. The
boat would pick the barrel up. It might seem a bit heavy, but they
would think it had tar in it. The barrel once aboard, its lid would
open and a man armed with a knife would step out, like a
jack-in-the-box. Thus I would have a boat. I would pick up
Kircheiss, who would be waiting, and we would go sailing and perhaps
get to some neutral island.
I had everything, and waited. Major Leeming had been so kind to me
that I did not want to embarrass him by escaping under his command.
He, expecting an addition to his family, was to take a furlough. I
would do my jail-breaking while he was away. But soon after Major
Leeming went on his furlough, Kircheiss and I were ordered back to
the prison camp at Motuihi. Of course, there was a new commandant at
Motuihi now, a Major Schofield. Most of the prisoners there received
us with enthusiasm. Even the treacherous Polish doctor brought me a
bottle of champagne, hoping that I would not mention our former
little business transaction in which he was to get a percentage of
that $25,000.
Some of our own countrymen who had spent so many hours learning parts
for that theatrical show seemed to hold it against us. But, after
all, had I not treated them to a far better melodrama from the life
of a sailor?
Presently, several fellows came to me and asked if I did not think
something could be undertaken. They had already contrived to get a
few pistols and build a folding canvas boat. We could not very well
go to sea in that. But if we could contrive to station ourselves at
some other part of the island, we could wait until a sailing ship
came along, put out in our flimsy little craft, and attack her. We
consulted with the former governor of German Samoa, Dr.
Schultz-Ewarth by name, who was a prisoner at Motuihi. He with his
personal servant, a giant fellow, formerly a German baker, was
allowed to wander where he pleased on the island. It was his man who
hit upon the idea of hiding in the interior of the island by building
a cave in the side of a dry river bed that he had discovered, the
cave to be so disguised that searchers would not notice it. We could
easily get out of the camp and into the other parts of the island,
and, at the same time, give the impression that we had escaped over a
cliff to the shore and been picked up by a boat. We could keep to
our retreat until the search had died down, and then we could watch
for a passing sailship and attack it. The plan seemed an excellent
one.
We gathered more weapons, while Dr. Schultz-Ewarth and his man, on
their long rambles, began the construction of the cave. Things
progressed rapidly. Then the Armistice came. If it had been delayed
a week, there would have been another escape at Motuihi.
After the Armistice, we were prisoners for four more months on the
north island near Auckland, but were allowed visitors. One day, a
Maori chieftain's wife from the tribe of the Waikotas, a people who
made a name for themselves as warriors against the English in their
heroic struggle for freedom in 1860-61, called with her retinue.
This lady, whose name was Kaihau, handed me a letter. It was written
in Maori, and translated read as follows:
I come to you, O illustrious chieftain, and pass on to you for the
future preservation of an old tradition the mat of the great
chieftain Wai-Tete.
As she handed me the letter, she brought forth from under her dress a
mat that she had hidden there while passing the prison guard.
My surprise was great, and I nudged Kircheiss, but he was as
mystified as I. Fortunately, there was a German lady present who had
been living in New Zealand for some time. She understood the customs
of the handsome aborigines who once ruled in New Zealand, and
explained to me that I was about to receive the highest honour that
the Maoris can bestow upon anyone.
The chieftain's wife began to dance around me with great rapidity and
wild abandon. The name of this dance was the Haka-Haka, or something
like that, and at the conclusion of it she presented me with a green
stone found only in New Zealand. Again she spoke.
"O great warrior from across the seas, we greet you as a chieftain of
the Waikatos, and among my people you shall be known henceforth as
'Ai-Tete,' meaning 'Holy Water.' We believe that the spirit of our
Maori hero Ai-Tete has returned to us in you."
I accepted the stone and pressed the Maori woman's hand to express my
gratitude. As she was about to take her departure, she requested
that I hide the mat and stone and carry them to Germany with me,
which I did. But before concealing them, I had my picture taken
wearing nothing but the garb of a Maori chieftain, this simple mat.
Except for the absence of full war paint and the usual tattooing, my
friends said I made a perfect aborigine. Perhaps so. Even in
Germany there are those who look upon me as more of an aborigine than
a civilized being.
When the day on which we were to sail drew near, the president of the
Soldiers' Mothers' League visited me and wished me a pleasant trip on
behalf of the mothers of 80,000 soldiers. She said she came because
New Zealand's sons who had been war prisoners in Germany had returned
home in good health to their mothers. Therefore, she considered it
her duty to pray God that I, too, might soon be restored to my
mother's arms.
So at last we sailed away from New Zealand, "the land down under,"
where we had had the last of our adventures, enjoyed a few hardships,
spent many weary and delightful hours, and met many hospitable and
kindly people. On the whole, I have happy memories of the Antipodes.
In July of 1919, I stepped on German soil again and hurried home,
just in time to pass a few more weeks with my father, who died on
September 3d. The old warrior held steadfast to his faith in the
Fatherland to the last. But to his dying hour he was filled with
regret because his government would not let him take an active part
in the Great War.
On January 3, 1920, all my men returned--that is, all save one.
Their clothes were faded from the tropical sun and corroded by the
sea water, but they returned without a stain upon either their honour
or their loyalty.
The only gap in our ranks after those long adventures was the
excellent Dr. Pietsch, our ship surgeon. The news of Germany's
collapse reached the remote part of Chile where he was living. When
he heard it, he fell dead of heart failure.
Returned to my beloved Fatherland, I found so many things changed and
different from what I had hoped. In this connection, there is one
memory always before me. It is of my mother. I was sitting at her
sick bed when even the doctors had given up hope. Only then did I
realize how much I loved her, but I also realized with sorrow and
regret how much more I should have done for her. Exactly the same
feeling I have to-day when I find my country lying low. Never have I
loved my homeland so much as now.
To the youth of America I would like to send a message: Europe is one
continent attached to still another even greater land mass. That
other is the continent of Asia, filled with many strange races, all
speaking different languages. Even Europe itself is split up into
many nations speaking more than thirty different tongues. This I
believe is largely responsible for the constant wars that are the
curse of Europe. As an old sailor who has sailed before the mast
around this world many times, I want to tell you Americans how lucky
you are to live in a great country occupying a large part of this
continent, with the wide Atlantic for a barrier on one side and the
Pacific on the other. Yours is a great inheritance. You should be
proud of it. You should make yourselves worthy of it.
As a sailor who has sailed under many flags and whose friends and
pals are the citizens of many countries and many climes, it is my
dream that one day we shall all speak the same language and have so
many common interests that terrible wars will no longer occur. But
keep your bodies fit, and if your country needs you, just remember
the motto of the sea:
"Don't jump overboard! Stay with the ship!"
To all my countrymen, wherever they may be, I would like to say: Look
up to the bright sun and not into mouse holes where it is dark. Take
my lads for your example. When their ship was wrecked on the coral
reef of that atoll in the South Seas there was one thing that was not
wrecked--their courage. Even when the _Seeadler_ met her fate, from
stem to stern went up the cry, taken from an old refrain, "The German
oak still stands."