whichever it is. So I put it up to the orderly, who politely told us he
would bring our food at once. I am sure we waited a full hour and a half
for that food and I was experiencing all sorts of sensations as to
whether slow starvation was about to begin. I remembered reading that
starving people were sometimes sustained by chewing shoe leather, so I
was wondering how long my poor shoes would last at a ration of a square
inch of leather to chew each day. This hunger was getting my goat. I had
heard of walking off intoxication and seasickness so I decided to try
walking off hunger.
I opened the door and walked into the surrounding boneyard, which was
hemmed in by several high fences of barbed wire. While most prison camps
are well lighted at night in order that there will be little possibility
of any one escaping without being seen by one of the many guards, this
was different, in that it seemed totally dark. Perhaps the reason for
this was its proximity to the lines, or it might have been that it was
too early for lights. I was just milling around aimlessly when suddenly
from somewhere without the darkness came a voice in German and so
gruffly that it almost took me off my feet. I realized that I was being
addressed individually, and while the words meant nothing to me, the
tone of voice in which they were spoken convinced me that it could be
nothing else than the familiar old “Halt! Who goes there?” Not being
well versed in the number of times a German sentry calls his challenge
before he fires, I took a chance on one of the few words I knew and
quickly answered “Freund,” for, as I figured it, “Friend” is a harmless
word any way you take it. The old squarehead only answered “Ja” and
quite unconcernedly walked on.
“Well,” I thought, “this is easy.” So, continuing my tour, I got around
to the side where I found that during the day some prisoners had been
working, probably digging weeds, for to my pleasant surprise I
discovered, perhaps for their own purposes, they had left their tools,
including a couple of spades. Such luck, for with those spades, on such
a dark night it would be easily possible to tunnel out. The big rub was
that the orderly told us that the door to the hut would be locked at
nine o’clock and that we could not go out of the house until seven
o’clock the next morning. It was then about a quarter of nine, so I went
in and told Davis, and he, of course, agreed to attempt to escape that
night. The big point first was to manage to get out of the house, which
could only be effected by crawling through a window. Davis was just in
the act of testing the strength of the window when the door opened and
the orderly came in with our sumptuous repast. In ravenous anxiety we
sized up the banquet—it consisted of a piece of hard, mealy, black
bread, dimensions two inches by three inches by three inches, and in a
pot was the rest of the dinner, which consisted of soup.
I never did like soup, but I’ll say this much in favor of it: I have
never enjoyed a meal in my life like I enjoyed that soup. We had two
nice tin pans in which to serve our soup. We put the pot on the stove to
keep it warm while I proceeded to dish it out, spoonful by spoonful, the
liquid coming first; then we divided the remaining vegetables—two
dilapidated looking spuds and three little samples of hard, gritty,
grimy meat. I gave Davis one piece and I took the other, then we matched
three times to see who would get the other piece. We matched, and the
first time I won; the next flip Davis won. Believe me, small and
insignificant as that piece of meat was, I was too hungry to lose it, so
I got cold feet.
“Davis,” I suggested, “this is damned foolishness. We’ll cut that meat
in two pieces. I’m scared I’m going to lose.”
As Davis was cutting it this hard, gritty, grimy, little piece of meat
slipped and fell into a pail of water which we had just lifted off the
stove. Like two South Sea Islanders diving for coins thrown by the
generous tourist from shipboard, we rescued the meat by diving into the
water with both hands, making a beautiful splash all over the floor.
Davis showed himself to be a religious sort of a guy, for he suggested
that since we had been so lucky in escaping with our lives that we make
a burnt offering of this meat. I didn’t know whether he was joking or
not about the burnt offering, so I took no chance on his not being
serious and told him we had already made one burnt offering that day in
burning up that airplane. Without further argument we sliced the meat
into two pieces and each had his portion.
I had eaten about half of my bread and was still so hungry that I could
have eaten puckery persimmons with considerable relish when I realized
that if we intended trying to escape that night we had best lay off
mincing that bread, for we would certainly need it the next day. We
talked it over, then viewed it from every angle, but since we were in
occupied French territory we decided that I could speak enough French,
and with Davis’s pathetic eyes we could sure win enough favor with the
“froggies” to get by, although they probably had barely enough to eat
themselves.
We crawled into our bunks without removing our clothes for the reason
that it was too cold to sleep without them and we also intended to get
out during the night. About two o’clock, after continued tossing and
tumbling, wondering just what process we would follow in the attempt, I
got up and awakened Davis; then I crept to the window. After a good
twenty minutes of tinkering with that window, cautiously moving it an
eighth of an inch at a time, I finally got it open to such a point that
we could get out—at least, so I thought. Directly in front of us was one
of those little houses so commonly used at garrisons in France and
Germany, known as Sentry Boxes. I figured the old boy would be in there
all right, but he would be fast asleep, so I stuck my head out, gave a
little spring, and as I brought my stomach up on the sill like a flash
from out the sentry box stepped this hardboiled Boche. He had a huge
flashlight and immediately I was in the spotlight. The window was the
stage and I the star. There is some humor in the situation, now as I
look back upon it, but believe me, there was none then. For when that
German began to excitedly ejaculate “Loze! Loze!” whatever that is, I
took my head to cover just like a tortoise draws his protruding
physiognomy into the secret confines of his shell.
“It’s all right,” I called as we hit for our bunk, “we’ve got to have a
little air.”
That night we almost froze to death, for we didn’t dare to close the
window, for we did not know the extent of the German sentry’s memory of
foreign expressions, and the fact that we left the window open all night
would be a good alibi for opening the window in that we did need air. It
was a hard result, but since it was our story we shivered and stuck to
it. Take it from me, we were icebergs the next morning.
Fortunately they served us an early breakfast, which consisted of some
hot German Ersatz coffee, which is no coffee at all. It is made from
acorns and it doesn’t go well as a substitute. In fact, you must train
your appetite and taste for Ersatz just as you do for olives. They
brought us a little confiture, which was also imitation and it didn’t
have any more consistency than a marshmallow. The orderly started to
walk away and simultaneously Davis bawled out, “Where is our bread?” The
orderly explained that they had given us our allowance last night for
twenty-four hours.
If this was to be our regular ration I could see ourselves starving to
death by degrees. It was useless to say that they had not given us
enough, for that line does not appeal to the German. If each of us
received a piece of bread, that settled the argument, but if the
allowance for both of us was brought in one piece there was room for
discussion. The orderly claimed he had brought two pieces of bread, but
I claimed that he had brought only one piece, so how did we know it was
supposed to be for the both of us. Finally I said that I was going to
tell an officer. This got results, for after conferences between the
Sergeant of the Camp, the Corporal of the Guard, the Orderly, the Cook
and the Keeper of the Official Storehouse they brought us in another
little piece of bread.
The next night they brought in a French pilot, who was supposed to have
been shot down the night before on a bombing raid. We suspected right
off that he was a German spy trying to gain our confidence, for the
first thing he did was to tell us in French how much he hated the
Germans and to give us addresses of people who could help us to escape
when we got to Karlsruhe, which, he said, was the place they sent all
prisoners. He said he could speak but little English and knew no German
at all.
After venturing a lot of information about the number of his squadron
and its location he asked me the number of my squadron. I told him the
number of my squadron was “2106” but that I had forgotten the name of
the airdrome, as we had only flown up there. Then he began to suggest
some of our prominent airdromes to assist my memory. I did not bite at
his bait, but rapidly changed the subject. Then he began to play
solitaire with our cards, at the same time paying very keen attention to
our conversation.
I decided to justify my suspicion that he was a German spy, so I made
the suggestion that since I was a prisoner it might help to know more
German, so as Davis had studied it more recently than I, I asked him to
give me a German lesson, as I especially wanted to learn some words that
might come in handy. So as I would ask Davis for the German words for a
number of ordinary objects he would give me the word and his
pronunciation of it. We worked hard for fully half an hour. The
Frenchman had said nothing, and as I noticed he was not paying very
close attention I indicated to Davis not to tell me the next word. Davis
did well, and I repeated, “Dog—dog—dog,” several times. Davis said he
did not know, and then the Frenchman, seeing us both puzzled, spoke up
and said, “Dog. Qu’est que ce ‘Dog’?” which in French means “What do you
mean ‘Dog’?” I told him in French that I wanted the word for dog in
German, and just as natural as could be he instantaneously replied, “Der
Hund.” He had fallen into our trap and we knew quite well then that he
was a German. It was too apparent for argument. After that Davis and I
said absolutely nothing. In fact, we had nothing to do with him
whatsoever and later that night the Sergeant of the Guard came in and
told him that he had been ordered to proceed to Karlsruhe, but that the
orders for us to be moved had not come. We afterwards found that this
same gag of French friendship had been pulled on several other
prisoners, some of whom were, unfortunately, unsuspecting.
In a couple of days we were taken over to Montmedy, or rather we walked
over, for after having once gotten our supposed information there was no
reason to be courteous enough to furnish us transportation. At Montmedy
we were to take the train for the big prisoners’ concentration camp at
Karlsruhe. Before we left we were given our traveling rations, which
consisted of some boiled meat and bread, and this was supposed to last
two days.
On the trip and at the station at Montmedy I noticed that the morale of
the German Army must have failed a good deal, for the discipline was not
what I had always supposed it to be. The proud Prussian officers carried
their own trunks while the enlisted men stood around, and I actually saw
a crowd of enlisted men push aside an officer who was trying to get into
the train ahead of them. I realized then that the statement of the
German Intelligence Officer that it was a proposition of not more than
three months was actually more accurate than I had been inclined to
allow myself to believe.
There was one real character on the train—a hardboiled Feldwebel, which
was the German name for Sergeant-Major, and corresponding pretty largely
to our First Sergeant of the line. He was in charge of our party.
Feldwebels are actually the backbone of the German Army. They are well
trained and highly efficient. This man had many decorations and
physically was a superman. He tried his best to be affable, and though
he did not speak good English he tried hard enough and we tried our best
to supplement his deficiencies with our rather scant knowledge of
German. With great pride he told us of all the battles he had been in
since the beginning of the war, and I must say he would be entitled to
many bronze stars on his service ribbon.
Finally the conversation drifted to the relative fighting qualities of
each Army. He said he was quite sure that the American doughboy was the
nerviest fighter on the front, although he was seriously handicapped by
lack of experience. He, himself, had specialized in bayonet fighting and
proudly stated that he was one of the best bayonet fighters in the whole
German Army, to which fact all the others agreed. He said that with his
blade he had whipped four Russians single handed; that unassisted he had
cleaned up on four Italians, and he pointed to a coveted ribbon as a
recognition of his feat; that at Arras he had gotten the better of three
Englishmen, and he pointed to still another ribbon; and that at Verdun,
in the early days, he had even bested three Frenchmen in a deadly
bayonet combat; and he had individual bayonet victories galore; “but,”
he said, throwing up his hands and laughing good naturedly, “an American
gave me this—a negro,” and he showed me a bronze button that he wore for
having been wounded in defense of the Fatherland. He opened his blouse
and shirt collar and showed us a long scar along his neck and shoulder.
I had heard conflicting stories as to the fighting qualities of the
American negro, so I asked him to explain how it happened. He said it
was during a raid near Verdun; the negroes were, undoubtedly, in
training with the French Foreign Legion in that sector. It started with
a regular bayonet fight in which he quickly knocked the bayonet and
rifle from the negro’s hands, but as the Feldwebel was just about to
give the final fatal stab the negro pulled out the proverbial razor from
somewhere. The scar was the final result. He dramatically summed it up
by telling us that he would willingly fight the Russians, the Italians,
the Englishmen and the Frenchmen at unequal odds, at any time or place,
but he was absolutely through with all Americans because they were
crazy; they didn’t care whether they got killed or not.
“The colored troops, as a whole, are poor fighters,” he said, in words
to that effect, “but the American negro is the exception—he fights, and
fights dirty.”
After a more or less monotonous journey we arrived at Karlsruhe and were
just leaving the station when we heard a big brass band coming down the
street, followed by great crowds, and then a detachment of German
soldiers swung into view, doing their famous goose step. As they passed
we could see that they were just youngsters who did not look over
sixteen years of age. Clinging fondly to them and showering flowers in
their path were their mothers, sisters and other relatives. There might
have been sweethearts, but the boys looked too young for that. I was
convinced that Germany was getting into pretty hard straits when she had
to send that class of men. It seemed to me that the flower of her male
population had withered and that there were now only the upstarts and
old men left.
At Karlsruhe we were taken to an old hotel which had been converted into
a detention camp, and were put into confinement for a while. I was
fortunate enough to be put into a room with several Britishers who had
just been released from German hospitals. These lads had some food that
had been sent them from home while in the hospital. They were wonderful
fellows and if I had ever had any previous misgivings as to the
sportsmanship of the British they certainly were removed in short order
by the splendid and generous conduct of these boys.
The second day at Karlsruhe we were again called before an Intelligence
Officer and again interrogated. This time I gave more beautiful
demonstrations in the art of prevarication, for there were more
cigarettes at stake. The examination here was confined to technical
matters, while before it had been tactical. I became so interested in
the subject in hand that I told him about our new combination sound and
vibration recorder which did many things for us, even accurately
indicating the moment that the German airplanes took off from their
airdromes, what direction they were going, their altitude and the number
of planes. By this instrument we were able to follow their planes and
shoot them down very easily. It might have been a scientist’s dream, but
I blandly explained it all to him, while I rapidly smoked his costly
cigarettes, and the old boy took notes of my misinformation. But before
I left this camp he had also found out that I was a liar, so he too
tacked his little report to my already shattered reputation for truth
and veracity.
After a week at the temporary detention camp we were marched up, en
masse, about fifty prisoners in all, including British, French, Italian,
Portuguese and American, to the Main Prison Camp at Karlsruhe.
We had to have all our money changed into German prison money at a
terrible discount. I’ll say those Germans are thorough. For the fifth
time we were searched. They even made one English Captain take off his
wooden leg to insure that he did not have a compass or anything like
that hidden within it. They searched every stitch of clothing on us, and
finally tried to make us sign a little statement saying that we were not
taking anything in there that was forbidden and that we had read the
rules of war and would be guided thereby or pay the penalty. The solemn
word of an Allied officer did not mean any more to the German than the
ordinary word of a German meant to us.
Our money was exchanged at the rate of five hundred francs for three
hundred marks in prisoners’ money, which was really worth about one
hundred marks.
To search us they took us into a separate room, two at a time. As rumors
will naturally leak out of the most secret chambers, we soon found that
they were confiscating all leather goods, so in one accord everybody
began to cut their leather goods into bits rather than turn it over to
the Germans. I had my Sam Browne belt next to my skin and then my
undershirt, then a woolen O. D. shirt, and then my blouse. In addition I
had a pair of leather gloves. I intended to save them both and, if
absolutely necessary, to give them up only after a good fight.
Finally my turn came to go in. I took off my blouse and my woolen shirt.
The searcher demanded that I also take off my undershirt. I didn’t have
a lot of choice in the matter, so without argument I proceeded to remove
my undershirt, and of course he found my belt. He motioned for me to
take it off, for he spoke nothing but German. I balked and told him in
English that the belt was mine. We argued for two or three minutes, but
I refused to budge. He got real peeved at my stubbornness and called an
interpreter. The interpreter explained that all leather goods were being
confiscated on account of the shortage of leather in Germany and that I
would have to give my belt up. I told him to tell the German that I had
paid for that Sam Browne belt out of my own money and it wasn’t
Government property and was just as much mine as my trousers or my
blouse. He told this to the guy who was searching me, but he merely
shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something, so the interpreter told me
that it was ordered and not to talk so much and hand over the belt.
I calmly proceeded to put on my undershirt, but the searcher began to
lay hands on me, saying to the interpreter, “Nicht, nein, verboten,”
etc. The interpreter asked me to wait, he would request an officer to
come down. In quick order an officer arrived to find out about the near
riot. He spoke good English and explained to me that it was a ruling of
the German Government that all leather goods were to be confiscated.
This officer was very rushed and didn’t have the time nor inclination to
explain much, for explanations were not often made in Germany in those
days, and especially not to prisoners. He told me it was an order and
therefore had to be done and there was no use arguing about it. I
politely told him the only kind of orders I took were in writing, and I
had a right to see the written orders. I expected to see him order the
belt off of me by force, but to my surprise he sent up to the
Headquarters and got an order; at least, it looked like an order, for I
could not read it after he got it—so, after palavering around for about
five minutes I finally decided that the order was O. K. and I would have
to give up the belt. The officer immediately sent the order back and I
then demanded a receipt for the belt. We had another argument over this
and I insisted that the order had said that a paper receipt would be
given for all leather confiscated. I was trying to stall, but, true to
the traditions of German efficiency, they sent for the order again.
Hastily looking it over as if I read German perfectly, I begged his
pardon gracefully and told him that I guessed I had read it so rapidly
the first time that I had mistaken a similar word for receipt. In
considerable disgust at this uncalled for delay the officer left.
I put on my clothes and started out, taking my gloves with me. The
searcher came after me, calling, “Nein, nein,” and attempted to take my
gloves. Going back into the searching room, I told the interpreter that
they did me out of my belt, but they couldn’t have my gloves, for they
were not flying gloves—they were nice gloves, dress gloves, riding
gloves—and I had paid for them myself, and that while they could take my
belt under the provisions of the order, yet the order had not said
anything about gloves and if they wanted the gloves they would have to
send for that officer again and get those orders and show me. The
searcher was getting pretty indignant because there were a lot of others
waiting to be searched and if they overheard our conversation it would
set a bad precedent for the others, so far as he was concerned.
So he dispatched a soldier immediately to get the order for the third
time. After about a half hour it did not come and I was just sticking
around making a general nuisance of myself when along came the officer I
had previously dealt with.
“Why are you still here?” he demanded.
I explained to him that we were waiting for the order to see if it said
gloves when they were privately purchased, dress gloves. He must have
had a sense of humor, for he laughed outright and said, “Keep your
damned old gloves and get out of here.” Whereupon I walked out of the
room with a pair of big, black, leather gloves which came in mighty
handy on several occasions afterward and which I carried without further
trouble throughout my trip through German Prison Camps on the strength
of the precedent that they had been passed O. K. by the searchers at
Karlsruhe. The only trouble about retaining those gloves was that I had
a terrible time convincing the rest of the guys that I really was not a
German spy, for they could not otherwise account for ostensible
favoritism.
XI
ESCAPED ALMOST
I have little sympathy for any prisoner who, having been so unfortunate
as to have been taken by the enemy, allowed himself to settle down to
prison discipline, practically a subject of the enemy, without standing
up like a man and at least trying to escape.
Around a prison camp one hears many, many big ideas of escaping, but
there are comparatively few actual attempts. In fact, this boasting
habit got on one man to such an extent that he was known as “Wild
Fugitive Bill,” for the reason that he was always concocting some new
and novel means of escape and yet never had the nerve himself to put it
through. Always at the last moment he would get cold feet and give up.