HOLLAND
I was now in a small wet stook, very cold and hungry. It being too
light to risk a return journey to my carefully prepared nest, I had to
take things as they were, and fell to wondering what it must feel like
to be in a nice warm bed. The day proved to be one long nightmare. By
careful observation I saw that a number of girls were working on the
same crop, luckily at the other end of the field. They appeared only
to be gleaning, but as it was quite likely this was preparatory to the
carting, I resolved to keep a very sharp look-out to avoid being
transfixed by a pitchfork and hoisted on to a cart. About
breakfast-time a peculiar noise came from somewhere quite close, so,
parting the corn carefully, I peered out in that direction. There, to
my horror, were three men scything the rushes along a ditch which
passed a few feet from me. The heap was a small one, and, therefore,
to avoid detection, I endeavoured to put the best part of it between
myself and them when they were working the closest to me. The
completion of this operation naturally left me a little exposed on
what I supposed to be my safe side. The men had almost passed, when I
happened to look away from the ditch and saw a farmer standing beside
the very next heap to mine, surveying the crop, his hands in his
pockets. Somehow or other I wriggled back unobserved, and lay
shivering with a combination of cold and fear. After half-an-hour's
wait, I again looked out cautiously, and was relieved to find the man
gone, though there seemed to be even more people in the neighbourhood
than before. To add to my discomfort the breeze increased to quite a
strong, piercing wind, which whistled in and out among the
corn-sheaves until I felt very like an ice-cream in a refrigerator.
Even then there were more trials to come, for, not only did the grain
pour itself into my clothes, eyes and ears, but also mixed with the
crop was a large proportion of barley or bearded wheat, which took a
truly fiendish delight in slowly but relentlessly making its way up my
sleeves or down my back. In this predicament it seemed almost
unthinkable that I should ever have been so foolish in my schooldays
as to pick barley heads and deliberately put them a little way up my
coat-sleeves, the barbs downwards, expressly for the pleasure of
feeling them crawling up my arms. Most of us do curious things in our
youth!
Suffice it to say that, in spite of all convictions to the contrary, I
was still in the heap, unmolested, when the afternoon resolved itself
into evening and the labourers left for their homes. A little before
nine o'clock, after a short but drenching shower, I could stand it no
longer, so crawled out, damp and cold, but still almost glad to be
alive. Looking towards the west in the fading light, I saw a large
shape moving slowly from left to right through the country, roughly a
couple of miles away. It could only be a sail. With a sinking feeling
I realised that in front lay at least one more canal which must be
crossed. (This canal, I afterwards discovered, was actually in
Holland.) Although I did not feel desperately hungry, I somehow felt
that I was getting near the end of my tether; my food, also, was
dwindling and could not last more than two days at the outside, for I
was already half-way through my emergency ration, a tin of Quaker
oats. Strange to say, porridge is nothing like as nice eaten raw.
As soon as it was dark I started out, resolved not only to be
extremely cautious, but, at the same time, to get as far as possible
before the next day overtook me, time now threatening to form one of
my most formidable adversaries. Travelling across country, I soon came
upon a long road bordered by trees, so hid in the edge of some beans
to make sure that all was clear before venturing across it. Almost
immediately I heard voices not far distant, and presently a man on a
bicycle rode past. When everything was quiet again I managed to step
across the road unobserved, feeling sure that another danger point was
past. The night being cold it may be imagined that I was scarcely
overjoyed at finding it necessary to wade or swim through another
short series of dykes; this was, however, the case. Drawing near to
the dreaded canal, I noticed that on either flank, some distance away,
were clusters of rather brilliant lights. Presumably this pointed to
the fact that these lights were placed at points of special
importance, such as strongly guarded bridges, in which case it seemed
probable that the canal might form part of the boundary line. In order
to avoid the slightest rustle which might attract attention, I rolled
my raincoat and secured it over one shoulder, "bandolier fashion." I
next covered the brass buttons of my tunic with mud, to prevent their
reflecting the rays of a possible flashlight, and, after smearing some
dirt on my face and hands, moved forward once more, prepared, in case
of discovery, to make a dash towards the west regardless of the
consequences.
In a few minutes I saw, by the even line of the higher ground in
front, that I had almost reached the raised canal, and was just
preparing to mount the short, grassy slope when I came upon a
hard-worn narrow track running along near the edge of a rather wide
dyke, which separated me from the embankment. The dyke being in the
lee of the wind it seemed advisable to ascertain whether it was
possible to cross by any plank or bridge which might be in the
vicinity in preference to going through it, for, though one may be
able to get into a dyke quietly enough, the getting out is a very
different matter when the sides are steep and one's clothes full of
water. Walking along this path very warily for about twenty yards, I
was lucky enough to discover a plank leading across (for except for
the faint silhouette of the top of the embankment against the sky,
practically everything was hidden by the darkness). Though the plank
bent threateningly I succeeded in crossing it, and crawled to the top
of the rise. A glance revealed a broad, reed-fringed canal, reflecting
little dancing lights on its wind-swept surface--the stars which had
the audacity to peep out from between the clouds. I could hear the
splashings of a water-rat actually swimming at that time of night for
the fun of it! Quickly crossing the tow-path and parting the reeds, I
followed its example, and, not waiting to remove pack, clothing or
shoes, swam towards the opposite bank as silently as possible. It can
only have been a few yards across, but I remember feeling almost as
tired as if I had swum the Channel. This was the tenth night of my
escapade, and the strain was certainly beginning to tell. As I was
leaving the canal behind some wild duck rose from a dyke close by me,
with much flapping of wings. If their desire was to frighten me they
certainly achieved their object.
When, after an hour or more, I continued plodding along without seeing
anything unusual, I could not help again wondering if I was still in
German territory. My curiosity increased when two motor cycles with
powerful headlights went by on what appeared to be a main road. I had
not seen anything like that for weeks, so resolved to go along the
road myself in the hope of seeing some other strange sights.
Immediately on arriving there I had to take cover in a corner of an
orchard to avoid another light, which was rapidly overtaking me. From
this point of vantage I was soon able to see that the light was on a
bicycle, and the rider not a tin soldier, complete with helmet and
curling moustache, but a peaceably dressed young woman. Encouraged by
the promising trend of events, I stole some apples and made my way,
munching and shivering, towards a little group of houses, hoping to
discover some writing which might prove which country I was in.
Eventually I found a letter-box and feverishly endeavoured to
decipher, in the semi-darkness, a long word printed in black letters
on a white background. With a sinking heart I slowly made out the
letters B--R--I--E. Was it necessary to read any further? Surely this
was proof positive that I was still under the gentle sway of the
Kaiser! What else could the remainder be but "fkasten," completing the
German word for letter-box. With almost a feeling of resignation, I
continued to wrest the remaining letters from the darkness. The
expected F was a very peculiar shape. No, it was a V, after all! With
every letter my hopes rose as I spelt out the remaining E N B U S. I
do not profess to be a German scholar, but I do know that the word
"BRIEVENBUS" does not adorn their letter-boxes in the ordinary course
of events. Feeling vaguely happy, but still haunted by the first
syllable of the word, I made my way further into the village. At first
all seemed quiet, but presently I heard a couple talking near the
entrance of a house. Creeping up as close as I dared in the deep
shadow of the building, I strained my ears almost to dislocation to
catch a few words of the conversation. The language they were speaking
struck me as peculiarly ugly, and did not seem to lend itself readily
to the uses to which they were undoubtedly putting it. The fact that
they were not speaking ordinary German did not necessarily mean that
the language was Dutch, for it might have been some border dialect.
However, I could restrain myself no longer, so, walking up to the man,
I addressed him thus in German, with as much nonchalance as I could
command: "Can you tell me if I am in Germany or Holland?" He did not
seem to grasp the question at once, which in itself was a good sign,
though it lengthened my breathless suspense. I believe I would
willingly have murdered him if, by doing so, I could have had the
answer an instant sooner, for so much depended on it. All at once he
straightened himself up and, in a surprised voice, replied, "Holland!"
I should never have believed that one simple word could have meant so
much. The news so completely overwhelmed me that, for a few seconds, I
failed to grasp its import. Then, springing forward, I seized and
shook his hand so violently that it almost threatened to fall off, at
the same time showering explanations at him in a hundred and one
different languages, in the hope that he would understand one of them.
Needless to say, at first the unfortunate Dutchman was rather
perturbed at being so cordially greeted by some one he must have
thought to be a dangerous lunatic at large, though I consider that he
stood the ordeal very well. I think the girl was the first to really
grasp the situation, for, to my surprise, she congratulated me in
broken German, and insisted on shaking hands, too. In spite of the
good news I was still wet, cold and hungry, and the prospect of again
sleeping in a warm bed was very alluring. I therefore inquired the way
to the nearest hotel, and was told to make for a larger village, some
three kilometres distant. I asked if there was any possibility of my
taking a wrong turn leading back into Hunland, and being assured there
was none if I followed the main road, started off in the best of
spirits. It was just like walking on air. My dreams of freedom had at
last come true. Though it was after one o'clock, I encountered several
people and each time inquired the way, thus making assurance doubly
sure. I can hardly attempt to describe the strange exultant feelings
which surged through me as I marched along, conscious of having left
"Brother Bosch" behind.
Eventually, singing a marching song, I rounded a corner and found
myself in a village street, almost opposite a house in front of which
hung a sign, just distinguishable in the darkness: "Hotel Van Dijk."
Regardless of the fact that I did not possess a cent, I proceeded to
knock loudly on the front door. After a few minutes my efforts were
rewarded by hearing an upstairs window open, and being told in Dutch
to go away. However, my mind being made up, I persisted in making more
noise than ever. Seeing his protestations were in vain, and evidently
scenting something unusual, I understood "mein Host" to say that he
would come down. My knowledge of the laws of internment of a neutral
country being very limited, it behoved me to act with extreme caution
if I wished to follow in the footsteps of brother escapers, whom I
knew had preceded me to England.
Though I had committed no act of war, such as crossing the frontier
carrying arms, I did not feel very sure of my ground. Therefore when
the elderly innkeeper, holding a flickering candle, shot back the
bolts, he found me wearing only a khaki shirt and grey flannel
trousers, the soaking raincoat and tunic having been hurriedly
secreted in my pack, so that he could not assert that I was in uniform
when he first saw me, in case the subject should be raised later. As
soon as he heard the facts of the case, the Dutchman motioned me to
accompany him along the street, which I did wonderingly. I imagined
myself shortly being interviewed by a fat, sleepy-eyed and pompous
burgomaster, who would either fall upon my neck, or order me straight
back to Germany. After half-an-hour's walk, when my guide halted
beside a long wooden hut and knocked vigorously, I decided that there
was nothing to fear in that direction, for no such distinguished
person would deign to live in so humble a residence. Presently, in
answer to our repeated efforts, we heard several grumbling voices, a
door was opened, and I was bidden to enter. As soon as I was
accustomed to the glaring gas-light, I experienced a considerable
shock. Occupying the whole length of the room in which I stood was a
double line of beds, mostly containing sleeping men, and from the
walls hung many greenish uniforms, rifles and bayonets! On recovering
from my first surprise, I turned to a fully dressed soldier I took to
be a sergeant, who by this time, presumably, understood that I was an
escaped "Inglesman," and asked him, in German, for an explanation. In
the midst of his almost unintelligible reply I caught the word
"_Grenswacht_" (frontier guard). Seeing that we were at cross
purposes, the sergeant roused a man who spoke very fair English and
acted as interpreter. I soon learnt that I was in the local
headquarters of the Dutch Frontier Guard, and would have to remain
there until seen by an officer the next day. This suited me only too
well, so having duly impressed the fact that I was not in uniform, I
retired to a bed arranged for me in the N.C.O.'s room, and commenced
to pull off my wet clothes.
Meanwhile tongues had not been idle, and eager, curious faces began to
peep at the "stray dog" through the half-open door. Just as I was
about to turn in, curiosity could be restrained no longer; the room
filled with noisy young fellows, who took up a position round my bed
and proceeded to bombard me with questions. It was all so well meant
that I endeavoured to give them a brief outline of my doings, in
German. The idea of an Englishman speaking German was evidently quite
beyond their comprehension, for, judging by many doubtful looks of
astonishment, it seemed that the general impression was that I was a
camouflaged Hun. As they all persisted in talking at once, I put an
end to the argument by disappearing under the bedclothes. About ten
o'clock the next morning I awoke, feeling stiffer than ever before,
the slightest contraction of a muscle resembling the jerking of a
rusty wire. However, when a soldier, seeing that I was awake, brought
my breakfast, I sat up with remarkable agility and devoured every
crumb. Never have I enjoyed a meal more. Every additional mouthful of
the deliciously fresh Dutch cheese and new bread seemed to receive a
still more exquisite taste when I thought of the Irish stew I had
missed when standing behind my imitation wall at Ströhen. It was not
until after a thoroughly good scrub and a cold bath that I could screw
up enough courage to look at myself in a mirror, and, prepared as I
was, the sudden reflection of the wild-eyed, bearded tramp
considerably surprised me. A little before lunch, having obtained some
dry underclothing, I was sitting on my bed, extracting a selection of
barbed wire and splinters from my hands with a large needle, when a
Dutch officer walked in to see the curiosity. He greeted me cordially
in very good English, introducing himself as Lieutenant Hoffman, in
charge of the local detachment of the Frontier Guard, and asked me to
lunch with him at his hotel.
On the way thither I could not help being very impressed by the design
and beauty of the village. The houses were mostly large, with
spacious, well-kept gardens, the streets clean and the general
atmosphere of the place spoke of great prosperity. Hoffman took me to
a barber, who performed for a long time, but in the end turned out a
comparatively respectable human being. At lunch I met another Dutch
officer, also an English scholar, who, after hearing the latter part
of my experience, told me that I must have actually walked along the
German sentry's path, just beyond the canal, the night before. Having
had no escaped prisoners in that district before, they had a
disquieting idea that I should very likely be interned. I learnt that,
in all probability, I should proceed to a larger town for further
examination the following day, and gathered that, in the meantime, it
would be advisable for me to remain close to my headquarters and
refrain from wandering about by myself, the frontier being too close
for safety.
Shortly after lunch the two officers entered the room, carrying a
couple of sporting guns, and announced their intention of spending the
afternoon at a canal on the frontier duck shooting, and said that I
might expect them back about tea-time. Being a prisoner no longer the
very thought of seeing grey-clad sentries standing at their posts
appealed to me so much that I begged to be allowed to accompany them,
deciding to run the small risk such a visit might entail. Hoffman was
considerably surprised at my proposal, but said I could come at my own
risk if I thought I had known him long enough to be able to take his
word. He reminded me, at the same time, that one can easily step over
a frontier line, intentionally or otherwise, and produced a loaded
automatic pistol from his coat pocket as if to back up his argument,
asking me to choose my course of action. For a few seconds I reasoned
with myself and then accepted, it seeming perfectly obvious that
Hoffman would never have shown his hand had he intended playing a
crooked game. Just before starting the innkeeper lent me a civilian
cap and overcoat, which gave me a sense of security and enabled me to
set out with the others if not a perfect, at any rate a passable
Dutchman.
Presently we arrived at a bridge-head, where the Dutch guard turned
out and saluted, when, it must be confessed, I felt a trifle nervous,
being then almost on the frontier. The formalities over, we left our
bicycles in the guardroom and, crossing the bridge, proceeded along
the tow-path at the side of the canal. There, sure enough, were the
grey-clad sentries, standing near their boxes along a little raised
path, at intervals varying from one to two hundred yards. Seeing that
our presence seemed to occasion considerable interest on the part of
the sentries, I inquired the reason from one of my companions, and was
informed that only persons in the company of Dutch officers were
allowed where we were walking, in the neutral zone dividing the two
countries. Curiously enough the water dog, whose duty it was to start
the birds from among the reeds, was English and went by the name of
"Tom." Fortunately he was very obedient, for had he once crossed
between the extenuated lines of grey men Tom would have afforded the
Huns some moving target practice, which in all probability would have
resulted in his contributing to a sausage machine. I am sure I do not
know what I should have done if this had happened while I was with the
party, for Tom, when feeling lonely, used to run straight up to me,
wagging his stumpy tail and looking up with eyes which so plainly said
that he was indeed glad to meet a fellow-countryman, for, though
Dutchmen were kind enough to him, the scent was somewhat different.
Towards the end of the afternoon we came to a place where the frontier
line gradually converged, running parallel to, and about twenty-five
yards away from, the canal, just the other side of a dyke at the
bottom of the embankment. It must have been somewhere here that an
unseen hand had unconsciously guided me to safety through the darkness
of the night before. I selected a particularly Hunnish-looking sentry,
who was standing beside a painted black and white box, with a long,
wicked-looking and old-patterned bayonet gleaming above his slung
rifle, and, hailing him casually, remarked that it must be weary work
doing nothing, and inquired if he was tired of the war, to which he
replied with a sullen "_Ja_." Undismayed by his dismal expression, I
inquired if they ever had any escaped prisoners in those parts. This
time he did not deign to answer, but merely shook his head solemnly.
By removing my coat I could have easily disillusioned him, but,
remembering that a rifle bullet is not a thing to be trifled with, I
refrained.
Feeling my triumph complete, I turned and limped away, still hardly
able to realise that only a few hours before I had unknowingly paraded
along the same little raised path which the Germans were so jealously
guarding. Of all my escapes this was the most inexplicable. To what
was it due? Certainly not to my own initiative alone. Man's extremity
is indeed God's opportunity.
* * * * *
Supreme in the world of red tape, far above the ken of misguided
mortals, lives an omnipotent being--the Censor. In imagination, he
sits in a huge armchair, wreathed in tobacco smoke, casually sorting,
from piles of manuscript, the sheep from the goats. The former are
destined to be smothered in official stamps and coloured inks, while
the latter are cast ignominiously into the gigantic waste-paper
basket. Though this little sheep, in particular, may have a little of
its wool shorn off, I trust that it may eventually avoid the rubbish
heap. For this reason I must ask the reader to be contented with a
very curtailed and disjointed account of the remainder of my
wanderings.
* * * * *
In due course I was placed in a quarantine camp, to remain there until
a given number of days should elapse, when, on being pronounced free
from infection, I should be allowed to continue my journey through
Holland. The camp contained a number of German deserters who, it
appeared, crossed the frontier in this district at the average rate of
one per diem, having for the most part arrived direct from the front,
with every intention of leaving their beloved "_Vaterland_" behind for
ever. They made no secret of the fact that they hoped to be able to
emigrate to England or America as soon as it was all over. Several of
them were N.C.O.'s, wearing the black and white ribbon of the Iron
Cross, to all appearances good soldiers whom their relentless system
had forced to desertion rather than the terror of the British guns.
The Germans occupied a separate hut, and were kept strictly to
themselves. This probably saved a lot of trouble, for, judging by the
spirited way they occasionally sang "_Deutschland, Deutschland über
alles_," accompanied by an accordion, the spirit of patriotism and
savage "kultur" still flowed in their veins. Doubtless the first
German band to return to England will be composed of the most gentle
peace and beer-loving Huns that ever visited our favoured shores.
Whatever the nature of the welcome and guarantees extended to them by
our English "Bolsheviks" (who even now have the audacity to advocate a
policy of "shake and be friends"), their lives will not be at all
secure when they come in contact, as they ultimately must, with
Britishers who have been most brutally treated and forced to work as
prisoners in the German salt mines, men who have come to know the
truth of the saying, "Once a Bosch, always a Bosch," during their stay
of several years in Hunland. I feel genuinely sorry for the very few
really nice Germans who certainly do exist (several of whom I met
during my captivity). However, considering that their influence has
been practically _nil_ in the War, on account of their being in such a
minority, I suppose they will be bound to suffer with the rest.
The number of escaped French and Russian soldiers was surprising.
However they must have had many excellent opportunities, while
working in the fields near the frontier, to cross the dividing line.
It did not take me long to discover three British privates, who were
distinctly bored and very pleased to see me. The eldest was a South
African, escaped from a reprisal camp, while the other two belonged to
the Warwicks. Though little more than boys they had in all probability
seen more of the hardships of life than many men of treble their age.
Great excitement prevailed when, by dint of much cajoling, I managed
to procure a mandoline from the town, for, though the meals were very
much looked forward to and enjoyed, the rest of the time passed very
slowly. It is not easy to play tunes to satisfy the cravings of
different nationalities at a moment's notice. A few Russians flung
themselves about to the lilt of some of their rowdiest cake-walks,
while the "Marseillaise," seeming a universal favourite, was
repeatedly called for. On the morning of the fourth day three
weird-looking figures, wearing a queer mixture of ready-made Dutch
garments, entered the camp with a guard. I could scarcely believe my
eyes when I recognised some of my former companions at Ströhen. Two of
them, Captain Harrison, of the Royal Irish, and Lieutenant C. F.
Templar, 1st Gloucesters (since then, I regret to say, killed in
action), were "old Contemptibles," having been captured about the
beginning of the War, while the third, Lieutenant J. Insall, V.C.,
R.F.C., had been in captivity two years. They had all made many
previous attempts to escape, and consequently had sampled many German
prisons, and now at last succeeded. Captain Harrison, I have since
heard, was again captured, during the German advance in the spring of
'18, but was fortunately able to regain our lines the same night. Our
delight at meeting again outside Germany was mutual, and, having so
many notes to exchange, the time then passed much more rapidly. After
various communications with the British authorities, we were
successful at last in getting in touch with the British Minister at
the Hague, who almost immediately obtained our release from the
quarantine camp, to the unbounded astonishment of the local Dutch
magnates.
* * * * *
Receiving an invitation to visit Sir Walter Townley (British
Minister), I proceeded to the Hague, freed at last from the annoying
formality of being continually escorted by an officer or guard.
Imagine my pleasure at once more sitting down to afternoon tea in an
English drawing-room. I shall never forget the kind thought and
solicitude of my hostess, Lady Susan. I almost seemed to be in
England.
Before catching my train back, I engaged a taxi and tried to see as
much of the town as possible in the time. The driver understood but
little of my directions; the sight, however, of a few _guldens_ caused
him to drive so recklessly that I thought my last hour had come. It
seemed that we must be leaving the path strewn with luckless victims.
Arriving at the Palace of Peace, where the nations had so
unsuccessfully beguiled each other with "smooth words, softer than
honey," I succeeded in inducing my charioteer to come to a standstill.
Alighting, a policeman informed me that the building had just been
closed, but pointed out the highly ornamental metal gates, which, at
the cost of 40,000 marks, had been presented by the Kaiser Wilhelm a
few years before the War. Espying on them angels of peace carrying
palm branches, I could contain myself no longer, so delivered an
impassioned harangue to the astonished Dutchman on the subject of
hypocrisy, in a mixture of German, French and Dutch. Presently, seeing
a large crowd gathering around us, I concluded my remarks with a
substantial tip, and signalling to "Mynheer Mercury," was once more
whirled into space.
* * * * *
The convoy, in formation, steamed through the neutral waters towards
the open sea. On board were a party of women and children, proceeding
from Germany to England for repatriation. Several of them must have
been in Germany an exceedingly long time, for they could only speak
broken English, while some of the children, having evidently been born
there, could speak no English at all. Soon the ship began to roll
gently in response to the ever-increasing swell. As the White Ensign
fluttered happily from the stern, most of us took advantage of the
still comparatively calm sea by parading along the deck in company
with a British commodore, confidently straining our eyes to catch a
first glimpse of the approaching escort; and it was, unfortunately,
obvious that every one on board did not share our good spirits. As the
disconcerting movements of the ship increased, the Anglo-German
element, pale-faced and dejected, assembled amidships, and forming a
small, huddled group, hastily commenced to put on their cork jackets
and life-belts, evidently preparing for the expected impact of the
dreaded torpedo. Just then, as the look-out, attracted by some specks
of foam emerging from the grey, misty horizon, signalled that a number
of ships were fast approaching, they could stand the strain no longer,
so, breaking into a weird German chant, they wailed disconsolately.
Could it be that the victorious German fleet, of which they had so
often heard, was at this very moment bearing down upon us? Perish the
thought! The specks of white grew larger with alarming rapidity. It
was not until the British destroyer flotilla was almost on us that we
could discern, behind each dividing mass of curving foam, the sinister
and capable grey shapes of Britannia's watch-dogs moving swiftly, in
perfect harmony with sea and sky. As if inspired by one mind, our
guardians turned about, and silently taking up their respective
positions at a reduced speed, they passed with us safely along the
King's Highway!
THE WHITEFRIARS PRESS, LTD., LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.
PHILIP GIBBS
ON THE WAR IN FLANDERS
I. The Battles of the Somme
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II. From Bapaume to Passchendaele
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III. Open Warfare 10/6 net
London: Wm. Heinemann, 21 Bedford St.
_OTHER RECENT VOLUMES_
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Transcriber's Notes
The list of other volumes in the collection has been moved from the
front of the book to the end.
Obvious typographical errors have been fixed. See the list below for
details. The original errata in the book has been included.
Issues fixed:
page 5--typo fixed: changed 'stacatto' to 'staccato'
page 25--errata typo fixed: changed 'weis' to 'weiss'
page 32--spelling normalized: changed 'guard-room' to 'guardroom'
page 43--errata typo fixed: changed 'balolaika' to 'balalaika'
page 47--errata typo fixed: changed 'Weiswein' to 'Weisswein'
page 51--errata typo fixed: changed 'Hammelin' to 'Hameln'
page 55--errata typo fixed: changed 'Weiswein' to 'Weisswein'
page 75--typo fixed: changed 'Middlesessex' to 'Middlesex'
page 103--spelling normalized: changed 'gaolbirds' to 'gaol-birds'
page 111--spelling normalized: changed 'bathroom' to 'bath-room'
page 126--typo fixed: changed 'Pupchen' to 'Püppchen'
page 127--typo fixed: changed 'farmhouse' to 'farm-house'
page 152--typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Ströhen'
page 159--errata typo fixed: changed 'feasten' to 'fkasten'
page 165--typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Ströhen'
page 167--spelling normalized: changed 'guard-room' to 'guardroom'
page 171--typo fixed: changed 'uber' to 'über'
page 172--typo fixed: changed 'Strohen' to 'Ströhen'