begins. Some prisoners have even prided themselves upon being model
prisoners. I have even heard a Captain of Infantry call the Americans
together and suggest that some of us quit raising so much hell during
roll call as our actions were counted against all the Americans. I pride
myself on the fact that I “raised hell” at every opportunity from the
time I was made prisoner until I was released. The more trouble the
prisoners of war caused the enemy the more men the enemy must keep away
from the battle line to guard the disturbers. Not many prisoners
considered this a point, but I believe that as long as there is war the
enemy should be fought and embarrassed—inside and outside.
Karlsruhe seemed to be my ultimate destination, so after a few days to
allow me to catch up on food which was more plentiful here on account of
the remarkable contribution of the American Red Cross, I again began to
set my mind to escaping.
I talked it over with all the old prisoners and they said that no one
had yet been able to escape from Karlsruhe, so, in order to get the
advantage of experience I talked it over with everyone who had ever
tried it. It seemed that the camp was only for concentration, and as
statistics showed that the majority of escapes were attempted by newly
made prisoners, this camp was especially guarded in order to challenge
all comers and to discourage them early in the game. I looked over where
every previous attempt had been made and was told just how it had failed
to materialize.
The entire camp was certainly well guarded. It had one inner, high fence
of barbed wire and one outside fence constructed of wood, about twelve
feet high and on top of it was a quarter arc of steel extending inward,
heavily covered with barbed wire. They had several guards on the inside
and quite a large number on the outside, and both the inside and outside
fences were well illuminated with electric lights.
At one place along the high, back fence the guards had constructed a
sort of chicken house, which threw a shadow against the fence, making it
possible, providing enough assistance was rendered, to construct a small
tunnel. The bunch, which consisted of Oscar Mandel of New Jersey, a
couple of other birds and myself, got together right after the evening
meal and talked it over. After full deliberation we decided to try. It
was our intention to have it as secret as could be, and we planned there
would be only four of us in that escape—and no more; so, after we
pledged to one another that we would tell absolutely no one else about
it, we shook hands and started right away to make the preparations for
the dirty work. Of course, the big job at first was to construct that
tunnel for the man who should draw that job would get the real lemon.
The beat of one of the guards took him about every three minutes to
within about ten feet of the place, and of course, directly on the
outside was another guard whose movements would have to be largely
guessed at.
The approved plan was to put the “tunnel man” over the barbed wire
fence; station another man on the inside, walking back and forth,
whistling or something of the like to give the proper signals; then put
the other two men at different corners near the buildings close by in
order to signal the movements of the watchman to the man walking back
and forth.
Stepping into the light we got a deck of cards and made the agreement
that the man who got the lowest card would go over the fence and dig the
tunnel and the man who got the next would do the signaling. Mandel
shuffled and Blacky, a little English doughboy, drew the first card. It
was a Two of Diamonds. Mack, the second lad, drew a Queen. Mandel, whom
we called Mendelssohn as he was a wonderful musician and also a past
master in the art of escaping, picked an Eight of Clubs. I had a good
chance for I didn’t think it likely that I could get a lower card than
Blackie’s “Two,” so I snapped out a card just as unconcerned as could be
and hastily looked at it—it was the Ace of Hearts. Now the question was
whether the Ace was high or low. I had lots of queer sensations. We had
made no agreement about it before drawing, so, I said nothing until the
other two boys spoke up and said it seemed to them that Ace should be
high. Mandel suggested that in order to be fair that we draw over again,
it being agreed that the Ace would be high. This time I drew first in
order that all the high cards would not get away. I picked a winner—the
Three Spot of something—just what didn’t worry me for I knew the thing
was settled and that I would have to go and dig that tunnel. I was
picturing myself out there getting shot at when Blackie again saved the
day by pulling his same Two of Diamonds. Several sighs of relief were
registered by my heaving lungs for my draw assigned me as outer Watchman
where I had to give Blackie signals all the time. It was quite different
than being between two fences, guns all around me and no place to hide.
We agreed to start at once, so, instead of putting Mandel and Mack at
the outer corners of the house nearest the scene of operations, we
decided to station them at different windows in the house, so as not to
cause suspicion by having too many outside. All the blinds were drawn on
account of air raids, so we arranged that as the boys walked back and
forth in front of the door, that they should quietly keep me informed as
to the exact location of the guards.
My signals to Blackie were very simple: Whenever I whistled a tune that
sounded like ragtime he was to lay off; when I whistled a tune that
sounded melancholy he was to work for all he was worth.
“Do you understand thoroughly, old man?” I asked before he left to crawl
over the first fence.
“Sure, you don’t think I’m deaf, do you?” he answered in his
incomparable English cockney, as he shook my hand and started for the
fence.
Blackie got over the first wire fence with remarkable agility, but he
was hardly over when he remarked he had forgotten his little coal shovel
which was the only tool we had. Finally we found this for him and as
soon as I returned to my post Mandel gave me the signal that all was
clear, so I began whistling the army funeral march, and I heard Blackie
plugging away. In a few minutes when the boys signaled that the guard
was again approaching, I began to whistle “In the Good Old Summer Time,”
but to my amazement I heard Blackie still working away. Then, to get
something real raggy I whistled “Alexander’s Rag Time Band,” but still
Blackie worked on. The guard was fast approaching. Something had to be
done for if he kept on working he would sure be caught, so, stepping
right out in front of the Guard, who, of course, could not speak
English, I began to sing a very sad and mournful tune, with my own
lyrics.
“Blackie,” I sang, “this guard is right behind me and for the Love of
Mike, lay off.”
Blackie stopped; I kept on singing, and the old guard walked right on
by. When he was on the other side of the building I rushed up to
Blackie.
“Blackie, you damn fool,” I softly exclaimed, “can’t you tell ragtime
from a classic?”
“Ragtime,” he said in barely audible cockney English, “Why ragtime’s the
name of a song, and by the way, old fellow, if you don’t like the way
I’m digging this tunnel, come and try a hand at it yourself. It’s
beastly, you know.”
“Go ahead,” I argued, “but from now on I’ll whistle only when he is
coming. Get me?”
The next time the guard came around the corner of the building I began
to whistle. To my surprise Blackie kept on working. I began to whistle
louder than ever, but he kept right on, so, as the Guard approached me,
I stopped whistling and instantly Blackie quit working. As the guard
passed on I again went over to Blackie and said,
“Hey, you poor fish! Didn’t you hear me say to quit work when I
whistled?”
“Oh, you’re wrong, old chap,” he insisted. “You said very plainly to
work only when you whistled.”
I began to think Blackie had to have it impressed upon him, so, I said,
“All right, now. Forget it all and let’s start over. Next time remember
that when I whistle you work. See, when I whistle, I work; and when I
whistle, you work, too.”
He understood this illustration pretty well and we kept this going
successfully until about roll call, which was at nine o’clock. Then I
asked Blackie if the tunnel was dug plenty deep enough. He was quite
sure it was deep enough to get through, so, he crawled over the wire
fence again, and we all beat it to our quarters to pack up our few
belongings with the agreement that we would meet just outside the
assembly shack right after roll call had finished.
This escape, as I have stated, was to be between four of us and no more;
but I would swear, there were a hundred eyes on me at roll call. And
afterwards, not more than fifteen guys came around and wished me luck.
“Luck on what?” I asked one fellow.
“Why,” he said inquiringly at my question, “you’re going to try to
escape, aren’t you?”
So, my well-wishing friends all began to talk about how they wished they
had an opportunity to get away too, and all that bunk. I have concluded
that a bunch of prisoners are the worst gossipers in the world anyway.
Tell one and you tell all. This first experience taught me at a dear
cost, one of the most valuable lessons of my life. When you are going to
escape, or, in fact, try anything else which from its nature requires
secrecy, never, under any circumstances, take any one into your
confidence, and at most, if ever, only one trusted pal. I had heard the
same bluff before, so, I told them if they wanted to get out after we
had gotten away, to go ahead, they knew where the hole was, but not to
go around and cackle about it like a bunch of old hens; either to get
their clothes ready and try to escape or else to go to bed and let some
one else try it.
In escaping, the first man to try has not only the greatest opportunity
to escape, but also takes the greatest hazards in that if the plot is
discovered beforehand, the guards will be on the job waiting for him,
while if it is not discovered he has the best chance to get farthest
away before the hounds are given the trail.
It was the same old test of passing from words to action, and, so with
that bunch of twelve or fifteen who said they wanted to escape. When it
came down to the courage of action their wishes were merely words. Of
that number, including the four original conspirators, only two went
ahead with it. The other fellow who kept faith with me was Oscar Mandel.
Most of the rest of the men all beat it to their different bunks; some
hung around to see the fun, while Mandel and I stayed on the job. I took
all of my insignia off of my coat in order that there might be nothing
to reflect any rays of light that might strike us. Then, we mixed some
mud and blacked our faces and hands in order that they would not stand
out against the blackness of the night.
Mandel and I matched and it was decreed that I should go first and that
I would wait across the road for him. If I got caught I was to make a
lot of noise and, if he was also unfortunate, he would do the same.
An electric tram line ran right along by the camp and we felt that by
following this road we would, at least, get out of the town. So, with a
fond farewell to the camp, as the Guard went around his beat, I slunk
along in the shadows of the building. In the death-like stillness could
be heard beyond the other fence, the steady beat of the outer watchman.
Over to my right the guard of the inner camp was just stepping out of
sight. Could ever opportunity be better than this? The time had arrived.
I stepped up to the first wire fence, and threw my little sack over,
then getting near a post I began to climb over. I cut my hands a lot on
the barbed wire, but that was only incidental, and did not bother me. I
weighed too much to get over like Blackie. It seemed to me that every
wire I stepped on squeaked like the high “E” string of a toy violin.
I dropped myself within the enclosure and ran along, slinking in the
shadows of the fence, until I came to the tunnel. Here was a
disappointment. I could no more get through it than an elephant would
have a chance of entering a doll house. It might have been O.K. for
Blackie, but he miscalculated for me. It was not large enough for my
shoulders, so, peeping out I saw the other German sentry, not over
twenty feet away, and in his apparent unsuspecting demeanor I also saw
my first step toward liberty.
I realized it would be necessary to make the tunnel considerably larger
if I ever expected to get through it. Blackie had made a bum job of it
and worse, he had taken the shovel with him, and I had no implements
whatsoever, except an unusually large jack-knife. Whipping loose the big
blade I began to cut the frozen ground, taking a look around and then
chipping away like a beaver at a dam. I felt like a real criminal and
every motion picture play I had ever seen, of escaping prisoners, played
vividly on my mind. I was working frantically and getting along pretty
well, too, in spite of my rude implement, when all of a sudden I heard a
tremendous noise that made me think that I was knocking on the door of
Hades—it was a big siren blowing a warning for an air raid. Our Allied
bombers were coming over to pay a visit to Karlsruhe. Believe me, I was
for them. The reverberation of that siren was deafening, but I was
certainly taking advantage of its tremendous noise by chugging away with
all my might, when suddenly, not over a hundred and twenty-five feet
from me a huge 107 calibre anti-aircraft gun exploded. I leaped like a
squirrel against that fence for I felt sure that the gun had been aimed
at me, and furthermore, that I had been hit. Pulling myself together I
realized that it was heavy artillery instead of a short-barreled
shotgun. Immediately other huge guns began to fire and for a few minutes
there was a real bombardment going on around there—the whole earth was
shaking. I kept right on digging away for it was the chance of my life.
Of course, all the guards were frightened and confused and were chasing
back and forth, crying out strange ejaculations and perfectly good
German words of profanity, mixed with earnest prayers from “Gott Mitt
Uns” to “Teufel Strafe ’em,” for, believe me, they were acquainted with
the variety of bombs dropped by the Allies.
About this time everyone was out of the huts looking for the airplanes
in the sky, and the inner guards were making a big rumpus and causing
them to close the doors so the lights would not show, which, of course,
would give away the presence of the “enemy.”
In all this confusion and excitement I thought it was a good time to
duck, for while I did not feel that the hole was quite big enough, yet I
would try it anyhow because I probably would never have such an
opportunity again. So, I started out. After considerable grunting and
labor I got my head and shoulders through, and then my coat caught on a
nail on the bottom of the fence and in spite of every imaginable
maneuver from a wiggle to a “shimmie,” I simply could not pull through.
In twisting and squirming I shook the fence, whereupon the excited guard
on the outside noticing me, came running up at full speed ahead and with
pointed bayonet he frothed, “Loze! Loze! Vass is Dass?” He was more
excited over me than he was the prospect of a bomb dropping on the both
of us. He thought that Gehenna had surely been transferred to Karlsruhe
and that the whole camp was on the march. I thought he was going to take
me for a practice dummy and judging from his speed I decided that he
could not possibly stop until he had put that bayonet completely through
me. He must have realized that if he captured me alive he would get more
credit for it. Exasperated like a sick infant with the mumps, excited
like a school girl at her graduation, and worked up like a Hebrew at a
bargain, he cried out, “Commen sie aus! Commen sie aus!” making all
sorts of ejaculations and motions, indicating clearly that he wanted me
to come on out. He was making more noise than the archies.
About this time I began to feel my leg being violently kicked and some
one beating against the fence from the inside, also crying out, “Commen
sie in!” This old boy on whose beat I had escaped had real cause for
concern, for he knew that he would be placed in jail for allowing me to
get away should I get the rest of the way out. No wonder he had an
interest in the matter.
In a jiffy the two guards were in a dog fight over a bone—yours truly
being the bone and the bone of contention—one was kicking me and the
other pulling me—one anxious to get the bonus for capturing me and the
other trying to save himself from jail. I was not only under the fence,
but I was on both sides of it. I was afraid if I went on out the guard
on the inside would shoot me, and if I backed in I knew I would be
punished and I did not know but that the guard on the outside might
become real excited and stick me. So, while they were fighting between
themselves, one pulling and the other tugging at me, I decided that if I
did go on out I might have a chance to hit this other guy on the bean
and take a run for liberty. The guns were firing all the time and things
were getting good and hot around there. The boy on the inside was about
as scared of the guns as he was of my escaping, so, I began to tug and
with the help of the other sentry was pulling myself through. Then the
old boy on the inside administered his trusty bayonet blade to my leg,
and while I cannot describe the particular motion through which he went,
I can certainly testify that he gave me one mighty persuasive jab. For
believe me, I sure did back in at the rate of a mile a minute, for I had
no further inclination whatsoever to go on out. I realized that duty
called me at the camp, and while it had taken me fully five minutes to
get my anatomy that far out—well, this little flying machine had a
reversible propeller, that’s all.
The old boy on the inside was terribly sore, because in climbing the
fence after me he had torn his nice, new, green pants, yet he was
over-delighted that he had saved himself from jail. As we walked up to
the fence I attempted to climb the wire first, whereupon the old boy
said, “Nicht! Nein!” and menaced me again with his bayonet. Needless to
say—I unhesitatingly obeyed. I had hoped, should I have gotten over the
fence first, to run immediately to my bunk and fool the foxy old boy,
but when he flashed that bayonet on me it was the halt sign of my new
fraternity. A little blood was beginning to trickle down my leg and I
began to feel pretty much like a stuck pig, so, in courtesy, I let the
old boy climb over first and I went after him.
On the way to Headquarters, I realized that I had a compass and a map
and knowing what it would mean if these were found on me, as we walked
along, I carefully slipped my hand in my pocket and crumpled up the map.
I then began to cough violently, whereupon I took out my handkerchief
with my left hand and put it over my mouth, and in so doing I managed to
put the tiny map in my mouth; then I chewed it up and swallowed it. I
didn’t know what gag to pull with that compass, and I didn’t dare to
swallow it. The old German who was taking me along didn’t feel any
sympathy for me, but kept poking me along in spite of my overemphasized
limping. Finally I deliberately stumbled and fell, but as I fell I threw
that compass a good twenty yards away, and into a section of the lot
where it was not likely to be found. Then after considerable moral
persuasion, I got up and went over to the headquarters with the feeling
that in spite of the worst I had saved myself, at least, two weeks in
jail.
In a very cold room, at Headquarters, they summoned the Commander of the
Camp, the Officer of the Night, and the Officer of the Guard, and all
the Sergeants and Corporals at the camp. Then the joint board was in
session. They gathered around and proceeded to cause me a good deal of
embarrassment because they took off all of my clothes and did not leave
me enough in which to feel modest. Like a poor, belated, half-soaked,
blind owl, after an April shower, naked from head to foot, with my face
and hands covered with mud, I stood there waiting for them to finish
searching my clothes, before I could once more become a respectable
looking German prisoner. I also was patiently awaiting the announcement
of my penalty. It was my first attempt and I expected almost anything
from shooting to hanging.
XII
THE PRIVILEGES OF PRISONERS
A serious old philosopher once said that every man had his price. That
may be true but I don’t agree with it in principle. My early training
taught me that the man who offers a bribe is a lower parasite than the
man who accepts it and experience has not altered my views. But, a more
serious old philosopher came forth expounding the doctrine that
everything is fair in love and in war. According to my way of thinking
this second boy was on the right track.
So, when my German captors took me down and with a lot of ceremony,
deposited me in the camp calaboose, a hasty examination of the barred
windows and the tremendous lock on the door almost convinced me that my
only hope was to experiment with that philosophy of price, as my biggest
asset happened to be a pocket full of prison money, which, if acceptable
at all, would have to be disposed of at a discount. At any rate, I was
determined to get out—the means might require bribery and it might
require lies. Whatever was necessary to effect my state of freedom, so
long as it was honorable, was in my mind the privilege of the
prisoner—for it was fair in war.
The cell was not so bad; in fact, it was much better than the quarters I
had in camp, except that I was alone. I had a German orderly who took
care of me, which convenience was something foreign in the regular camp.
First appearances were so attractive that I thought it unfortunate I
hadn’t discovered it before. In the morning the interpreter came around
to see how things were going along. I told him “Fine, except that I
wanted something to eat,” an habitual complaint among prisoners. There
was the rub, for he informed me that when in solitary imprisonment in
jail you only receive a portion of German food and that under no
circumstances are you allowed any supplemental food from the Red Cross.
So, about nine o’clock this orderly brought me my breakfast which
consisted of a bowl of Ersatz coffee and that was all. Believe me, the
scarcity left a funny empty feeling in my stomach that decided the
question at once—bribery it would be.
In the afternoon, when one of the calaboose corporals came around on his
hourly inspection, I figured that he was a pretty good guy to play up
to, so I knocked the old boy sick by offering him a pipeful of my real,
American tobacco, which had been given me by a fellow prisoner,
Lieutenant Shea of the 26th Division, who handled the Red Cross supplies
at Karlsruhe. Shea was a real guy; he was fearless and while under very
strict German regulations, he always allowed his staunch Americanism to
be seen by Germans and Americans indiscriminately. This German Corporal
had a whopper of a pipe for he made a big hole in my already slim sack
and tobacco was as scarce as desert icebergs. How his eyes sparkled when
he lighted it. These Germans had been smoking ground cabbage leaves for
almost four years and were getting mighty tired of it.
“Sehr gut, sehr gut,” he ejaculated many times, sniffing the old time
aroma.
Then, he warmed up and we got to talking. It finally dwindled from the
war generally to our own family histories. He was in great distress. He
had lost four sons in the war, and what he considered much worse, his
two daughters would probably never be able to get husbands, for so many
men had been killed. I thoroughly sympathized with him and agreed that
it was all wrong to require such a sacrifice of him. Then he told me
what his army pay was—it was very small—and he said he had been in the
war five years. I told him how much the American soldiers received,
which surprised him very much and seemed fabulous.