THE ESCAPE
IN time captivity became unbearable. Nothing relieved my gloom—neither
letters, parcels forwarded from home by loving hands, the company of my
friends, not even hockey, to which I devoted myself so strenuously that
in the evenings I used to drop asleep, half-dead from fatigue.
It was all of no avail. At last the prisoners’
disease—home-sickness—held me in its grip, as it had held so many
before me. The apathy of most dreadful despair, of entire hopelessness.
Hopeless!
For hours I lay on the grass and stared with wide opened eyes into the
sky, and my whole soul longed fiercely for the white clouds above, to
wander off with them to the distant beloved country.
When an English airman soared quietly and securely in the blue
firmament, my heart contracted with pain, and a wild, desperate
longing set me shivering. My condition grew steadily worse. I became
irritable and nervous, behaved brusquely towards my comrades and
deteriorated visibly, both mentally and physically. This was quite
unreasonable on my part, for I should have been satisfied that at least
I had seen something of the hostilities, and had had many interesting
experiences! So many fell wounded into the enemy’s hands during the
very first days of the war; but the most to be pitied were those who
had come from America at the beginning of the war, forsaking all their
goods and chattels, all they held dear, to serve their Fatherland, and
had been made prisoners through English treachery, before they had had
a chance of drawing the sword.
We were greatly depressed owing to our being deprived of war news from
German sources, and, though we naturally gave no credence to the lying
reports of the English, yet, after a while, we felt the oppression
of reading, week after week, nothing but abuse of Germany, tidings
of defeats, revolution and famine over there. Uncertainty was our
worst trial, and the announcement of Italy’s mean betrayal hit us
particularly hard.
What triumph in the English papers!
At last I was no longer able to bear it. Something had to be done if I
were to be saved from despair.
Day and night I planned, brooded, deliberated how I could escape from
this miserable imprisonment. I had to act with the greatest calm and
caution if I hoped to succeed.
For hours together I walked up and down in front of different parts of
the entanglements, whilst I unostentatiously examined every wire and
every stake. For hours together I lay in the grass in the vicinity of
some of those spots that seemed favourable, feigning sleep. But all the
time I was closely watching every object and noting the ways and habits
of the different sentries. I had already fixed upon the spot where I
had decided to climb the barbed wire. Now the question remained how
to make headway after this obstacle had been overcome. We possessed
neither a map of England nor a compass, no time-table, no means of
assistance of any kind. We were even ignorant of the exact location of
Donington Hall. I knew the road to Donington Castle, for I had fixed
it in my memory on the day of our arrival. I had also heard through
an officer, who had been taken by car to Donington Hall from Derby,
that the latter lay about 25 to 30 miles away to the north, and that
he had passed a long bridge before the car turned into the village.
Next I made friends with a nice old English soldier, whom I presented
occasionally with a few cigars, and invited to a glass of beer in the
canteen. After we had met several times I asked him whether he did not
find it very tedious to be tied to Donington, and whether he sometimes
had a change?
“Oh yes,” he said, now and then he cycled to Derby to the cinema.
“What! Derby?” said I. “But that is too far for you. You are far too
old for that!”
“Too old? I? No, sir! You don’t know an English Tommy if you can say
that. When I am on my bike, I can race any young fellow, and in three
to four hours I am in Derby!”
I had learned enough for that day. The next week I again met my old
friend. We exchanged greetings, and I pressed into his hands a couple
of cigars which I always carried about with me, though I do not smoke.
“Hallo, Tommy!” I began suddenly. “I was talking yesterday with a
brother officer. I swore that Derby lies to the north of us, and he
insists that it is to the south. If I win, you will get a good big jug
of beer.”
My friend’s eyes glistened joyously, and he assured me on his sacred
oath that I had won, and that Derby most certainly lay to the north of
Donington Hall.
Now I knew.
And then and there I resolved to make common cause with a
Naval-officer, Oberleutnant Trefftz, who knew England and spoke English
remarkably well.
The 4th of July 1915 had been chosen for our escape. We had rehearsed
it in every detail and made all our preparations.
On the 4th of July, in the morning, we reported ourselves sick.
At the morning roll-call, at ten o’clock, our names were entered on the
sick-list, and on its completion the orderly sergeant came to our room
and found us ill in bed.
Everything was working well.
With the afternoon came the decision.
About 4 p.m. I dressed, collected all that I considered necessary
for my flight, ate several substantial buttered rolls, and bade
farewell to my comrades, especially to my faithful friend Siebel, who,
unfortunately, I could not take with me as he was no sailor and did not
speak English.
A heavy storm was in progress, and rain poured in torrents from grey
skies. The sentries stood wet and shivering in their sentry-boxes, and
therefore nobody paid any attention when two officers decided to walk
about in the park, in spite of the rain. The park contained a grotto,
surrounded by shrubs, from which one could overlook its whole expanse
and the barbed wire, without oneself being seen.
This is where Trefftz and I crept in. We took a hurried leave of
Siebel, who covered us with garden chairs, and we were alone. From now
onwards we were in the hands of Providence, and it was to be hoped that
Fortune would not forsake us.
We waited in breathless suspense. Minutes seemed like centuries, but
slowly and surely one hour passed after another, until the turret-clock
struck six in loud, clear chimes. Our hearts thumped in unison. We
heard the bell ring for roll-call, the command “Attention,” and then
the noisy closing of the day-boundary. We hardly dared to breathe,
expecting at any moment to hear our names called out. It was 6.30
and nothing had happened. A weight slipped from our shoulders. Thank
God, the first act was a success. For during roll-call our names had
again been reported on the sick-list and, as soon as the officers
were allowed to fall out, two of our comrades raced back as swiftly
as they could through the back entrance and occupied Trefftz’s bed
and mine. Therefore, when the sergeant arrived he was able to account
satisfactorily for the two invalids. As everything was now in order,
the night-boundary was closed, as every night, and even the sentries
withdrawn from the day-boundary. Thus we were left to our own devices.
The exceptionally heavy rain proved a boon to us, for the English
soldiers generally indulged in all kinds of frolic in the evenings, and
we might have easily been discovered.
The hours followed each other. We lay in silence; sometimes we nudged
each other and nodded our heads joyfully at the thought that up to now
all had gone so smoothly.
At 10.30 p.m. our excitement came to a head. We had to pass our second
test. We clearly heard the signal “Stand to,” and from the open window
of my former room “The Watch on the Rhine” rang out sonorously. It was
the concerted signal that all were on the alert.
The orderly officer, accompanied by a sergeant, walked through all the
rooms and satisfied himself that no one was missing. By observations
carried on for weeks I had made sure that the orderly officers always
chose the same route in order to return to their quarters, after their
rounds, by the shortest way. So it was to-night. The round began with
the room from which Trefftz was missing. Of course his bed was already
occupied by some one.
“All present?”
“Yes, sir!”
“All right! Good-night, gentlemen.”
And so forth. As soon as the orderly officer had turned the corner, two
other comrades ran in the opposite direction and into my room, so that
here also all could be reported “present.”
It is difficult to conceive our excitement and nervous tension whilst
this was in progress. We followed all the proceedings in our minds, and
when suddenly silence supervened for an unconscionably lengthy period
we feared the worst. With ice-cold hands, ears on the alert for the
slightest sound, we lay, hardly daring to breathe.
At last, at 11 p.m., a lusty cheer broke the stillness. It was our
concerted signal that all was clear!