convoy, one of the destroyers, and injured it so badly that it had to
put back to port. It would have been a strange climax to my adventure
if the disaster had resulted in the sinking of my boat and I had lost
my life while on my way to England after having successfully outwitted
the Huns. But my luck was with me to the last, and while the accident
resulted in some delay, our boat was not seriously damaged and made
the trip over in schedule time and without further incident, another
destroyer having been assigned to escort us through the danger zone in
place of the one which we had put out of commission.
When I arrived in London the reaction from the strain I had been under
for nearly three months immediately became apparent. My nerves were
in such a state that it was absolutely impossible for me to cross the
street without being in deadly fear of being run over or trampled on.
I stood at the curb, like an old woman from the country on her first
visit to the city, and I would not venture across until some knowing
policeman, recognizing my condition, came to my assistance and convoyed
me across.
Indeed, there are a great number of English officers at home at all
times "getting back their nerve" after a long spell of active service
at the front, so that my condition was anything but novel to the London
bobbies.
It was not many days, however, before I regained control of myself and
felt in first-class shape.
Although the British authorities in Holland had wired my mother from
Holland that I was safe and on my way to England, the first thing I did
when we landed was to send her a cable myself.
The cable read as follows:
_Mrs. M. J. O'Brien, Momence, Ill., U. S. A._:
Just escaped from Germany. Letter follows.
PAT.
As I delivered it to the cable-despatcher I could just imagine the
exultation with which my mother would receive it and the pride she would
feel as she exhibited it among her neighbors and friends.
I could hear the volley of "I told you so's" that greeted her good
tidings.
"It would take more than the Kaiser to keep Pat in Germany!" I could
hear one of them saying.
"Knew he'd be back for Christmas, anyway," I could hear another remark.
"I had an idea that Pat and his comrades might spend Christmas in
Berlin," I could hear another admitting, "but I didn't think any other
part of Germany would appeal to him very much."
"Mrs. O'Brien, did Pat write you how many German prisoners he brought
back with him?" I could hear still another credulous friend inquiring.
It was all very amusing and gratifying to me, and I must confess I felt
quite cocky as I walked into the War Department to report.
For the next five days I was kept very busy answering questions put
to me by the military authorities regarding what I had observed as to
conditions in Germany and behind the lines.
What I reported was taken down by a stenographer and made part of the
official records, but I did not give them my story in narrative form.
The information I was able to give was naturally of interest to various
branches of the service, and experts in every line of government work
took it in turns to question me. One morning would be devoted, for
instance, to answering questions of a military nature--German methods
behind the front-line trenches, tactics, morale of troops, and similar
matters. Then the aviation experts would take a whack at me and discuss
with me all I had observed of German flying-corps methods and equipment.
Then, again, the food experts would interrogate me as to what I had
learned of food conditions in Germany, Luxembourg, and Belgium, and as
I had lived pretty close to the ground for the best part of seventy-two
days I was able to give them some fairly accurate reports as to actual
agricultural conditions, many of the things I told them probably having
more significance to them than they had to me.
There were many things I had observed which I have not referred to
in these pages because their value to us might be diminished if the
Germans knew we were aware of them, but they were all reported to the
authorities, and it was very gratifying to me to hear that the experts
considered some of them of the greatest value.
One of the most amusing incidents of my return occurred when I called at
my banker's in London to get my personal effects.
The practice in the Royal Flying Corps when a pilot is reported missing
is to have two of his comrades assigned to go through his belongings,
check them over, destroy anything that it might not be to his interest
to preserve, and send the whole business to his banker or his home,
as the case may be. Every letter is read through, but its contents is
never afterward discussed nor revealed in any way. If the pilot is
finally reported dead, his effects are forwarded to his next of kin,
but while he is officially only "missing" or is known to be a prisoner
of war they are kept either at the squadron headquarters or sent to his
banker's.
In my case, as soon as it was learned that I had fallen from the sky it
was assumed that I had been killed, and my chum, Paid Raney, and another
officer were detailed to check over my effects. The list they made and
to which they affixed their signatures, as I have previously mentioned,
is now in my possession and is one of the most treasured souvenirs of my
adventure.
My trunk was sent to Cox & Co. in due course, and now that I was in
London I thought I would go and claim it.
When I arrived in the bank I applied at the proper window for my mail
and trunk.
"Who are you?" I was asked, rather sharply.
"Well, I guess no one has any greater right to Pat O'Brien's effects
than I have," I replied, "and I would be obliged to you if you would
look them up for me."
"That may be all right, my friend," replied the clerk, "but according
to our records Lieutenant O'Brien is a prisoner of war in Germany,
and we can't very well turn over his effects to any one else unless
either you present proof that he is dead and that you are his lawful
representative, or else deliver to us a properly authenticated order
from him to give them to you."
He was very positive about it all, but quite polite, and I thought I
would kid him no more.
"Well," I said, "I can't very well present proofs to you that Pat
O'Brien is dead, but I will do the best I can to prove to you that he is
alive, and if you haven't quite forgotten his signature I guess I can
write you out an order that will answer all your requirements and enable
you to give me Pat O'Brien's belongings without running any risks." And
I scribbled my signature on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.
He looked at me carefully through the latticed window, then jumped down
from his chair and came outside to clasp me by the hand.
"Good Heavens, Lieutenant!" he exclaimed as he pumped my hand up and
down. "How did you ever get away?" And I had to sit right down
and tell him and half a dozen other people in the bank all about my
experiences.
[Illustration: COPY OF TELEGRAM INVITING LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN TO MEET KING
GEORGE]
[Illustration: COPY OF TELEGRAM SENT BY LIEUTENANT O'BRIEN IN ANSWER TO
AN INVITATION TO MEET KING GEORGE]
I had been in England about ten days when I received a telegram which,
at first, occasioned me almost as much concern as the unexpected sight
of a German spiked helmet had caused me in Belgium. It read as follows:
_Lieut. P. A. O'Brien, Royal Flying Corps, Regent's Palace
Hotel, London_:
The King is very glad to hear of your escape from Germany.
If you are to be in London on Friday next, December 7th, His
Majesty will receive you at Buckingham Palace at 10:30 A.M. Please
acknowledge.
CROMER.
Of course, there was only one thing to do and that was to obey orders. I
was an officer in the army and the King was my commander-in-chief. I had
to go, and so I sat down and sent off the following answer:
_Earl Cromer, Buckingham Palace, London_:
I will attend Buckingham Palace as directed, Friday, December
7th, at 10:30.
LIEUTENANT PAT O'BRIEN.
In the interval that elapsed I must confess, the ordeal of calling on
the King of England loomed up more dreadfully every day, and I really
believe I would rather have spent another day in that empty house in the
big city in Belgium, or, say, two days at Courtrai, than go through what
I believed to be in store for me.
Orders were orders, however, and there was no way of getting out of it.
As it turned out it wasn't half so bad as I had feared; on the contrary,
it was one of the most agreeable experiences of my life.
XIX
I AM PRESENTED TO THE KING
When the dreaded 7th of December arrived I hailed a taxicab and in as
matter-of-fact tone of voice as I could command directed the chauffeur
to drive me to Buckingham Palace, as though I were paying my regular
morning call on the King.
My friends' version of this incident, I have since heard, is that
I seated myself in the taxi and, leaning through the window, said,
"Buckingham Palace!" whereupon the taxi driver got down, opened the
door, and exclaimed, threateningly:
"If you don't get out quietly and chuck your drunken talk, I'll jolly
quick call a bobby, bli' me if I won't!"
But I can only give my word that nothing of the kind occurred.
When I arrived at the palace gate the sentry on guard asked me who
I was, and then let me pass at once up to the front entrance of the
palace.
There I was met by an elaborately uniformed and equally elaborately
decorated personage, who, judging by the long row of medals he wore,
must have seen long and distinguished service for the King.
I was relieved of my overcoat, hat, and stick and conducted up a long
stairway, where I was turned over to another functionary, who led me to
the reception-room of Earl Cromer, the King's secretary.
There I was introduced to another earl and a duke whose names I do not
remember. I was becoming so bewildered, in fact, that it is a wonder
that I remember as much as I do of this eventful day.
I had heard many times that before being presented to the King a man is
coached carefully as to just how he is to act and what he is to say and
do, and all this time I was wondering when this drilling would commence.
I certainly had no idea that I was to be ushered into the august
presence of the King without some preliminary instruction.
Earl Cromer and the other noblemen talked to me for a while and got me
to relate in brief the story of my experiences, and they appeared to be
very much interested. Perhaps they did it only to give me confidence and
as a sort of rehearsal for the main performance, which was scheduled to
take place much sooner than I expected.
I had barely completed my story when the door opened and an attendant
entered and announced:
"The King will receive Leftenant O'Brien!"
If he had announced that the Kaiser was outside with a squad of German
guards to take me back to Courtrai my heart could not have sunk deeper.
Earl Cromer beckoned me to follow him, and we went into a large room,
where I supposed I was at last to receive my coaching, but I observed
the earl bow to a man standing there and realized that I was standing in
the presence of the King of England.
"Your Majesty, Leftenant O'Brien!" the earl announced, and then
immediately backed from the room. I believed I would have followed
right behind him, but by that time the King had me by the hand and was
congratulating me, and he spoke so very cordially and democratically
that he put me at my ease at once.
He then asked me how I felt and whether I was in a condition to
converse, and when I told him I was he said he would be very much
pleased to hear my story in detail.
"Were you treated any worse by the Germans, Leftenant," he asked, "on
account of being an American? I've heard that the Germans had threatened
to shoot Americans serving in the British army if they captured them,
classing them as murderers because America was a neutral country and
Americans had no right to mix in the war. Did you find that to be the
case?"
I told him that I had heard similar reports, but that I did not
notice any appreciable difference in my treatment from that accorded
Britishers.
The King declared that he believed my escape was due to my pluck and
will power, and that it was one of the most remarkable escapes he had
ever heard of, which I thought was quite a compliment, coming as it did
from the King of England.
"I hope that all the Americans will give as good an account of
themselves as you have, Leftenant," he said, "and I feel quite sure they
will. I fully appreciate all the service rendered us by Americans before
the States entered the war."
At this point I asked him if I was taking too much time.
"Not at all, Leftenant, not at all!" he replied, most cordially. "I
was extremely interested in the brief report that came to me of your
wonderful escape, and I sent for you because I wanted to hear the whole
story first-hand, and I am very glad you were able to come."
I had not expected to remain more than a few minutes, as I understood
that four minutes is considered a long audience with the King. Fifty-two
minutes elapsed before I finally left there!
During all this time I had done most of the talking, in response to the
King's request to tell my story. Occasionally he interrupted to ask a
question about a point he wanted me to make clear, but for the most part
he was content to play the part of listener.
He seemed to be very keen on everything, and when I described some of
the tight holes I got into during my escape he evinced his sympathy.
Occasionally I introduced some of the few humorous incidents of my
adventure, and in every instance he laughed heartily.
Altogether the impression I got of him was that he is a very genial,
gracious, and alert sovereign. I know I have felt more ill at ease when
talking to a major than when speaking to the King--but perhaps I had
more cause to.
During the whole interview we were left entirely alone, which impressed
me as significant of the democratic manner of the present King of
England, and I certainly came away with the utmost respect for him.
In all of my conversation, I recalled afterward, I never addressed the
King as "Your Majesty," but used the military "sir." As I was a British
officer and he was the head of the army, he probably appreciated this
manner of address more than if I had used the usual "Your Majesty."
Perhaps he attributed it to the fact that I was an American. At any
rate, he didn't evince any displeasure at my departure from what I
understand is the usual form of address.
Before I left he asked me what my plans for the future were.
"Why, sir, I hope to rejoin my squadron at the earliest possible
moment!" I replied.
"No, Leftenant," he rejoined, "that is out of the question. We can't
risk losing you for good by sending you back to a part of the front
opposed by Germany, because if you were unfortunate enough to be
captured again they would undoubtedly shoot you."
"Well, if I can't serve in France, sir," I suggested, "wouldn't it be
feasible for me to fly in Italy or Salonica?"
"No," he replied; "that would be almost as bad. The only thing that
I can suggest for you to do is either to take up instruction--a very
valuable form of service--or perhaps it might be safe enough for you to
serve in Egypt; but, just at present, Leftenant, I think you have done
enough, anyway."
Then he rose and shook hands with me and wished me the best of luck, and
we both said, "Good-by."
In the adjoining room I met Earl Cromer again, and as he accompanied me
to the door he seemed to be surprised at the length of my visit.
"His Majesty must have been very much interested in your story," he
said.
As I left the palace a policeman and a sentry outside came smartly to
attention. Perhaps they figured I had been made a general.
As I was riding back to the hotel in a taxi I reflected on the
remarkable course of events which in the short space of nine months had
taken me through so much and ended up, like the finish of a book, with
my being received by his Majesty the King! When I first joined the Royal
Flying Corps I never expected to see the inside of Buckingham Palace,
much less to be received by the King.
XX
HOME AGAIN!
That same day, in the evening, I was tendered a banquet at the Hotel
Savoy by a fellow-officer who had bet three other friends of mine that
I would be home by Christmas. This wager had been made at the time he
heard that I was a prisoner of war, and the dinner was the stake.
The first intimation he had of my safe return from Germany and the fact
that he had won his bet was a telegram I sent him reading as follows:
_Lieutenant Louis Grant_:
War-bread bad, so I came home.
PAT.
He said he would not part with that message for a thousand dollars.
Other banquets followed in fast succession. After I had survived nine
of them I figured that I was now in as much danger of succumbing to a
surfeit of rich food as I had previously been of dying from starvation,
and for my own protection I decided to leave London. Moreover, my
thoughts and my heart were turning back to the land of my birth, where I
knew there was a loving old mother who was longing for more substantial
evidence of my safe escape than the cables and letters she had received.
Strangely enough, on the boat which carried me across the Atlantic I saw
an R. F. C. man--Lieutenant Lascelles.
I walked over to him, held out my hand, and said, "Hello!"
He looked at me steadily for at least a minute.
"My friend, you certainly look like Pat O'Brien," he declared, "but I
can't believe my eyes. Who are you?"
I quickly convinced him that his eyes were still to be relied upon,
and then he stared at me for another minute or two, shaking his head
dubiously.
His mystification was quite explicable. The last time he had seen me I
was going down to earth with a bullet in my face and my machine doing
a spinning nose dive. He was one of my comrades in the flying corps and
was in the fight which resulted in my capture. He said he had read the
report that I was a prisoner of war, but he had never believed it, as he
did not think it possible for me to survive that fall.
He was one of the few men living out of eighteen who were originally
in my squadron--I do not mean the eighteen with whom I sailed from
Canada last May, but the squadron I joined in France. He rehearsed
for me the fate of all my old friends in the squadron, and it was a
mighty sad story. All of them had been killed except one or two who
were in dry-dock for repairs. He himself was on his way to Australia to
recuperate and get his nerves back into shape again. He had been in many
desperate combats.
As we sat on the deck exchanging experiences I would frequently notice
him gazing intently in my face as if he were not quite sure that the
whole proposition was not a hoax and that I was not an impostor.
Outside of this unexpected meeting, my trip across was uneventful.
I arrived in St. John, New Brunswick, and eventually the little town of
Momence, Illinois, on the Kankakee River.
I have said that I was never so happy to arrive in a country as I was
when I first set foot on Dutch soil. Now I'm afraid I shall have to take
that statement back. Not until I finally landed in Momence and realized
that I was again in the town of my childhood days did I enjoy that
feeling of absolute security which one never really appreciates until
after a visit to foreign parts.
Now that I am back, the whole adventure constantly recurs to me as a
dream, and I'm never quite sure that I won't wake up and find it so.
THE END
* * * * *
[Transcriber's Notes:
The transcriber made these changes to the text to correct obvious
errors:
1. p. 172 woulb --> would
2. p. 265 geting --> getting
End of Transcriber's Notes]