MAKING GOOD
The officers’ Lager at Stralsund lay on an island, or rather on a twin
pair of islands, called Greater and Smaller Danholm, separated from the
mainland by a narrow strip of water over which a permanent ferry plies
to and fro. On the further side of these islands and separated from them
again by a wider channel, perhaps two-thirds of the width of the Solent
at its narrowest point, lay the pleasant shores of Rügen. The blue sea
and the wooded slopes of this fair island recalled to the home-sick
prisoner the beauties of her smaller sister of the Wight.
Hither in the summer of 1918 came 500 odd hungry British officers, the
unwilling guests of his then Imperial Majesty Wilhelm II. They were a
not inconsiderable part of the many taken in the three gigantic German
offensives between March 21st and May 27th. They came in big batches
from the sorting-out camps of Rastatt and Karlsruhe—the former place a
memory that will endure for their lives with those who were there—or in
little driblets from the hospitals whence they had been discharged.
Hither came also in September 200 officers from Aachen
(Aix-la-Chapelle), the last of their illusions gone. They had been sent
from various camps to that place, the stepping-stone for internment and
happier things. They had stayed there two months. Their parcels, which
should have been forwarded to them, went persistently “west.” In many
cases even their luggage had gone to Holland. They had been taken for
walks and had viewed the promised land. And now, at the eleventh hour,
the congestion of sick at Aachen had necessitated their removal and they
had been side-tracked to the Baltic—to wait and wait, and begin the
dreary round again. They moved our sympathy. They had had two and a half
years of it, and now they had as little to eat as, and not much more to
wear than, the new arrivals. But one of them had a typewriter.
And hither came also a little party of three from Holzminden Camp in
Brunswick, transferred, as I have previously explained, as suspected
persons to a camp of really reliable security. Major Gilbert, Lieutenant
Ortweiler, and myself had been told one morning that we had an hour and
a half in which to pack. We packed and went. Stralsund was like a rest
cure.
It is indeed a pleasant spot. A channel, narrow at the entrances,
broadening to ninety yards in the middle, divides the islands. Standing
on the bridge which spans the channel at its narrowest, one looks west
to Stralsund town. Whether with the setting sun behind it or with the
morning sun full on it, it is beautiful. Venice viewed from the sea
could hardly be prettier. The dome of the Marianne Kirche dominates the
town, and the bat-coloured sails of the fishing vessels could be just
seen, with an occasional motor-boat, moving in the blue Sound. In
Greater Danholm the chestnuts are magnificent. There is one avenue of
trees which meet each other overhead as in a cathedral nave. And there
was one little segregated, fenced-off spot which for no particular
reason we called King Henry VIIIth’s Garden—the name seemed to suit. One
could take half an hour walking round the camp.
But it is not my intention by painting too glowing a picture to alienate
my reader’s sympathy. The place was good, but German. The buildings were
good, but had held Russians. The air was good, but there were smells. We
had been long-time prisoners—veterans, we considered ourselves, in this
horde of “eighteeners.” And it would be cold, very cold in winter.
We had a fortnight’s holiday, revelling in the unexpected beauty, the
much less uncomfortable beds with their extra sheet, the open-air sea
bath in the mornings, the freedom and scope of movement, the almost
latent wire, the inoffensiveness of the German personnel, the
unobtrusiveness of the Commandant, the beer (liquorice, but still beer
of a sort), the exchange of news with the new prisoners and the picking
up of old threads, the sight of the sea from our landing window, the
games on real grass....
And then, in quite a different sense, we began looking round.
We learned that the authorities were quietly and politely confident that
the place was escape-proof. They expected attempts. Oh! yes. “We know it
is your duty. We should do it ourselves.” And conventionalities of the
sort that are common when German officers of a decent type—and there
were such on this island—find themselves in conversation with
Englishmen. “But it cannot be done—no one has ever escaped from here.
True, it might be easy to cut the wire and get on to the main part of
the island, but we have our dogs. If you swim to the mainland you will
be recognised and brought back. Even if you get across to Rügen you have
to get off it and you would be missed. We have our seaplane to scour the
sea. The ferry is guarded....” and so on.
Subsequent events appeared to justify this view. Attempts were made, and
failed in quick succession. In each case the objective was the same,
though aimed at by different methods—the open sea and the Danish island
of Bornholm or Danish territory elsewhere. Two officers, yachtsmen born,
cut the wire one night, swam out towards Rügen, boarded an empty fishing
vessel about 200 yards out and got clean away. They stranded off the
north-west corner of Rügen and were recaptured. Three others
commandeered a boat which had been left unpadlocked in the channel,
rowed to the mainland, and separated. Two were recaptured immediately,
the third was at large some days and was eventually arrested some way
down the coast. I did not learn his story. Another party of three
attempted to paddle over to Rügen on a cattle trough. They selected a
stormy night, were upset fifty yards out of the channel, and got back,
unobserved, with difficulty, and, as one of them could not swim, rather
luckily.
So far as the German precautions went, the net upshot of these attempts
was that stringent orders were issued about leaving boats in the channel
or on the shores of the island unpadlocked. For the rest, the Commandant
was satisfied with his second line of defence, the water, which was
moreover (it was now mid-September) growing daily colder and more
unattractive.
Such was the position when the Holzminden trio began to put their heads
together. I do not think any of us seriously entertained the idea of an
escape by water. We were all hopeless landsmen, and Gilbert at any rate
could not swim. A “stunt” by sea necessitated a combination of luck,
pluck, opportunism, and, above all, watermanship. Our armament, such as
it was, was of a different kind. We all knew German, Gilbert and I
indifferently, Ortweiler fluently. We had the wherewithal to bribe. We
could lay our hands on a typewriter. We knew the ropes of a land journey
by railway. G. and O. had both been “out,” the latter more than once;
and I had heard these things much discussed. Moreover, Gilbert, being a
Major, had secured a small room which he invited me to share, and
Ortweiler was a member of our mess. In a deep-laid scheme privacy is
almost an essential. Greatest asset of all, the Germans were not
suspicious and they left us alone.
Our idea, very much in the rough, crystallised as follows: together or
separately—as events might dictate—to bluff the sentry at the main gate,
and at the ferry; to get on to the mainland and there travel by train to
the Holland frontier; and to have our preparations so thoroughly made
that, on paper at least, our plan was bound to be successful.
Our first idea was to co-opt three or four others and go out as a party
of orderlies with one of us disguised as a German sentry in charge.
Individual officers had on several occasions already been into the town
with a party of orderlies on some “fatigue” or other in order to have a
look round. Our idea was to concoct some imaginary fatigue which would
take us not only into the town but out of it, where we should have an
opportunity of assuming our real disguise and separating on our
respective routes. We got so far as to fashion out our bogus rifle in
the rough, but before very long we discarded the whole idea for various
reasons. The rifle would be too difficult to imitate to pass in broad
daylight. We could not be certain of securing the uniform of our sentry;
all the sentries on duty in the camp were likely to be personally known
to one another. Difficulties of taking our disguise with us,
difficulties of hitting on the right sort of “fatigue” to disarm
suspicion ... the “cons” had it emphatically.
[Illustration:
Facsimile of the original permit-card copied by Lockhead.
]
Moreover, in the interval the looked-for “key” had presented itself.
Gilbert had succeeded in removing a workman’s “permit” from his coat
pocket while he was working in the camp. This “permit” entitled the
civilian in question to visit the camp and its environs between given
dates, name and business being duly stated, and the permit signed by the
Camp Commandant. Printed in German print on a plain white card, it
appeared not impossible of exact imitation. Our hopes were more than
fulfilled. Lieut. Lockhead, one of the party weather-bound en route for
a neutral country, had, we knew, performed yeoman service in this line
when at Holzminden. We showed him the card. Within two days he had
accomplished an exact replica, including the signature, so good as to be
undistinguishable from the original. Our hopes rose. It remained to
complete the remainder of our essential equipment—civilian clothes,
German money, forged passports, maps, and compasses. With the two former
I was entirely unprovided. One passport, forged on an old model, was in
Gilbert’s possession, but we doubted its efficacy in northern Germany.
The two latter articles I was content to leave to the last moment, when
I should have definitely decided on my route. One had the feeling that
it was absurd to spend hours on acquiring articles necessary only for
the last lap, when one might be stopped at the gate—a curiously
illogical reasoning, as these things, or at least one of them, are
indispensable for even a short journey across country ... but there it
was.
It was at this point that the event occurred which led me definitely to
abandon my Holland scheme and decide for the Danish border. A German
private soldier came into our room one day to do some work. He was in
uniform but was on leave in Stralsund, which was his home, and in the
then prevailing shortage of labour he was lending a hand to his
erstwhile master.
No “escaper” ever omits a chance—provided he can speak German at all—of
profiting by a conversation with someone from outside the camp. Indeed,
this was so well known to the authorities that in most camps anybody
coming in from outside was escorted by a sentry and not left alone
during the period of his stay in the camp. Stralsund was an exception,
possibly because the English had been there so short a time, possibly
because of the Commandant’s complacent idea as to its security. Be that
as it may, I had this fellow fairly quickly sized up. It turned out his
job was doing sentry on the Denmark border.
“Is it dull there?”
“Frightfully.”
“Do many get over up there?”
“Oh yes.”
“What? Prisoners?”
“A few, but smugglers and deserters mostly. We pretend not to see them.”
Here was an eye-opener! I threw caution to the winds and found that I
had not mistaken my man. He was a genial rascal, venal and disloyal to
the core. Before he had been in that room half an hour he had committed
himself far too deeply in the eyes of the German law for me to have any
fear that he would turn round and blow the gaff on _us_. He told us
(Gilbert had come in by that time) of a slackly guarded frontier, with
wire so low that you could walk over it; of the exact route from
Stralsund to the last station outside the _Grenz-Gebiet_ (border
territory); of the innocuous passage of an ordinary _Personal-Zug_ (slow
train) without the complications of passport-checking or examination
over the dreaded Kiel Canal. He came in next day with some civilian
collars and ties and an inadequate railway map, and on each day he went
out the heavier by sundry woollen and flannel clothes, cigarettes, soap,
chocolate, and cheese. He gave me in return about 30 marks in German
money. He had promised to do even more, but he made some excuse that his
leave was up and we saw him no more. Probably he funked it. Viewed as a
commercial deal, the balance was in his favour; but he had given us
information that was beyond rubies. Our hopes rose higher, and by this
time Gilbert and I were more or less definitely committed to the Denmark
scheme.
We had not long to wait for an opportunity of seeing how our passports
should read. I will say no more. Even at this distance of time,
immeasurably magnified by the intervening events, there still may lurk
the long arm in German law, and we need not doubt that there are still
too many souls in Germany attracted by the thought: _Wie soll ich
Detective werden?_ (How shall I become a detective?) to make it
altogether safe for those concerned if I were to be more explicit in
print. Suffice it to say that our tools were of tender years, cheaply
bought, and therefore on both accounts the less deserving of
retribution[13]. I had sold my field service ration boots for 45 marks,
through the agency of Ortweiler. I had therefore collected about 75
marks, and this was, of course, ample for my requirements. I was all the
time anxiously on the look-out for civilian clothes. I had got a pair of
old blue trousers from Captain Clarke of the Merchant Marine. I had an
old pair of ration “Tommy” boots which on comparison with the home-grown
article might just “do.” I had shirt, collar, and tie. I wanted hat,
coat, and, in view of the lateness of the season, some sort of overcoat.
[Footnote 13: This chapter was written over a year ago and times have
changed. We borrowed the passport off a glazier’s boy who used to come
into the camp. And we sold our boots to one of the camp canteen
officials who was distinctly venal.]
By great good luck the hat, or, as it happened, cap, materialised. A new
naval suit with cap had arrived for a merchant skipper who had gone to
Aachen for a medical board with the hope of exchange. As soon as we had
heard he had been passed and gone over the border, G. and I promptly
closed for the suit, of which we had secured the refusal, with his
_chargé d’affaires_. Shorn of its buttons the suit made a smart civilian
costume for Gilbert, and shorn of its badge the cap became merely of the
naval type of headgear so common amongst German boys or men of the
working-class. I had always decided I would shape my rôle according to
the clothes which I could find, and I now decided that I should travel
4th class, as some sort of mechanic. For a coat I had to fall back upon
a brand new English coat sent out from home and confiscated by and
restolen from the Germans. I made it as shabby as I could in the short
time at my disposal but even so it was far too smart to pass for my
class of “character” except at night. I therefore decided that if
travelling by day I would wear over my coat a very old dark blue naval
raincoat which had been given me. I was thus equipped. I might possibly
have done better if I had waited, but the completion of my arrangements
had to synchronise, as far as possible, with that of the others. I had
also been able to copy a fairly good map of northern Schleswig, showing
roads and railways, and, by great good luck and at the eleventh hour, I
secured what I believe was the last compass but one in the whole camp.
The shortage of these articles seemed extraordinary, when one reflected
on the abundance of them in most of the old camps of longer standing. To
the donor on this occasion I am eternally indebted, as I could not have
managed very well without it.
From one of the camp personnel I had elucidated the fact that the
Hamburg train went at 6.40 in the morning. From another source we heard
there was also a train at 6.43 in the evening.
Gilbert meanwhile had been busy with the typewriter which he had secured
with great forethought from its owner in the Aachen party. The
“_Ausweis_” forms were completed, each according to our own particular
specifications.
Mine ran as follows:
_Personal-Ausweis_ ⎫
_für_ ⎪
_Karl Stein_ ⎬ on the outside,
_aus_ ⎪
_Stralsund_ ⎭
and on the inside: on the left-hand side, my photograph—(I had been
photographed in this very camp by the Germans and I had been wearing at
the time an old Indian volunteer tunic which in the photograph looked
much like a German tunic. This was pure chance and very lucky).
On the right side, my particulars:
Karl Stein.
_Date of Birth_: 4/6/1880.
_Place of birth_: Stralsund.
_State belonging to_: Prussian. _Height_: 1.60 metres.
_Chin_: Ordinary. _Eyes_: Brown.
_Mouth_: Ordinary. _Hair_: Brown.
_Nose_: Large. _Beard_: Moustache.
_Particular marks_: None.
_Authentic Signature_: Karl Stein.
(A very lame and halting hand this!)
“Herewith certified that the owner of the pass has subscribed
his name with his own hand.”
(_Signed_) Lieutenant of Police, Stralsund.
The stamps affixed to the passport—two on the photograph, one on the
right-hand side—were an amazingly clever imitation by Lockhead (the
friend who had already helped us with the forging of the permit-cards).
He did these stamps by hand through some purple carbon paper that I
still had with me from an old army message-form book, and to be believed
they should be seen in the original.
1314.
PERSONAL-AUSWEIS
für
Karl Stein
aus / Stralsund
[Illustration]
Vor- und Zunamen: Karl Stein
Geburtstag: 4. Juni 1880
Geburtsort: Stralsund
Staatsangehörigkeit: Preussen
Grösse: 1,60. Mund: gewöhnlich
Gestalt: untersetzt Augen: braun
Kinn: gewöhnlich Bart: Schnurrbart
Nase: groß Haare: braun
Besondere Kennzeichen:—
Karl Stein
(Eigenhändige Unterschrift.)
Es wird hiermit bescheinigt, dass der Passinhaber vorstehende
Unterschrift eigenhändig vollzogen hat.
STRALSUND, den 1. Mai 1918
DIE POLIZEI-SEKRETARIAT.
I.A.
Kozmin
G. took infinite trouble with the filling up of these passports. He had
acquired a good flowing German hand and he filled the particulars in
himself, with a flourish for the signature of the Police _Leutnant_ at
the bottom. He also filled in the permit-cards. We had each two
passports, one made out as from Stralsund, and the other as from
Schleswig. We should naturally show the Stralsund one in the Schleswig
territory and _vice versâ_.
We were now ready, or as ready as anyone is until the actual time comes
to go, when there are always a thousand and one things to be thought of.
* * * * *
It was arranged amongst ourselves that Ortweiler should have the first
shot, as he stood easily the best chance of effecting escape.
Accordingly, on Monday the 14th October he made his exit. He was well
made up with a false moustache stuck on with some very diluted form of
spirit gum, and fiercely curved at the tips. It was only tow, but it
served its purpose in the dark. Our duty was to patrol the avenue
leading to the main gate between 5 and 6.30 p.m., to mark down what
dangerous Germans had left the camp, and to stop O. if anyone who was
likely to suspect him hove in sight.
I should mention here that from the barrack selected as dressing room to
the main gate is about 200 yards. From the main gate on to the ferry is
another 350 yards. After dark at this time of year various Germans
living in the town were likely to be leaving the island for the night,
and the ferry was thus constantly on the move. Our object was primarily
to avoid the more dangerous Germans, e.g. an officer or the Interpreter,
who knew us all well by sight.
All went well. I gave the signal “all clear” at about 6.30 and G. and I
piloted Ortweiler out, slowing down as he passed us 40 yards from the
main gate. We saw him take out his card and hand it to the sentry, who
then let him through the postern. It had worked! We breathed a sigh of
relief. Just as we were going back, we met the Interpreter homeward
bound for the ferry. He was too close behind O. to be exactly safe, so I
engaged him in conversation. He was in a hurry and I could only think of
something rather fatuous to say, but I held him up a minute or two and
that may have caused him to miss Ortweiler’s particular boat[14].
[Footnote 14: I have since heard that they went over the ferry
together.]
We “cooked” Ortweiler’s _appel_ at 8 p.m.—this is a familiar device for
concealing escape. The result was that the barrack Feldwebel did not
report his absence till next day at 9 a.m. roll-call. He had thus twelve
hours’ clear start, by which time he was most of the way to Berlin. We
thought him almost a certainty to get over with his fluent knowledge of
German, and he did, in point of fact, escape into Holland, _viâ_ Berlin,
Frankfort, and Crefeld, after a night’s thrilling experience on the
actual border which would be a story in itself.
G. and I were naturally elated, the more so as from enquiries it
transpired that the authorities had absolutely no suspicion of how O.
had got out. Owing to repeated wire-cutting and escapes into the island,
the guard had been increased and placed outside the wire. No one had
passed the sentries who had not the proper credentials. Of that they
were quite convinced. It was believed that he was still hiding in the
camp. We hugged ourselves.
Friday of that week, the 18th, the day selected as “_der Tag_,” was an
unforgettable one. Our kit had to be packed and labelled; final
arrangements made about feeding in the event of recapture; compromising
documents of any sort had to be destroyed; at the last moment I realised
that I had no braces, no German cigarettes, and no matches. To crown all
there was a barrack hockey match which we could not very well avoid.
During the day it so happened that we were twice invaded by Feldwebels.
On the first occasion the door was locked and we had to throw a map into
the corner and then open the door, an action which would in itself have
been of damning suspicion in most camps. On the second, the Feldwebel
found G. cutting sandwiches of German _Kriegs Brot_ (war bread). G. had
to explain that it was a new attempt to make _Kriegs Brot_ palatable,
and invited the Feldwebel to come and see the result at dinner time.
Doubtless he came, but there were no sandwiches and no us. At 4 p.m. we
had our high tea—four Copenhagen eggs each and tea and jam. At 5 p.m.
the roll was called, and immediately after it we started transferring
our disguise under cover of the growing darkness to the barrack from
which we were going to make our final exit.
It had been arranged after some discussion that Gilbert should leave not
before dark, and not later than 6, and that I should give him ten
minutes clear before leaving. This would give me little time to catch
the 6.42 train to Hamburg if I was at all held up (a forecast which was
verified by events); but there was no help for it. It was necessary that
Gilbert’s disguise should be assisted to the full by darkness.
We had let a few friends into the secret and these were cruising about
like destroyers up and down the avenue, reporting the departure of
dangerous Germans. Gilbert did not eventually get off much before 6, and
it seemed a long time before the leader of the convoy reported that G.
was safely through the gate. I gave him ten minutes, conscious mainly of
the fact that I had forgotten any German I had ever learnt, and then
stepped forth.
I was Karl Stein, firm of Karl Stein & Co., Furniture Dealers,
Langestrasse, Stralsund; I had been into the Kommandantur to arrange
about a new contract for officers’ cupboards. I knew the shop because I
had seen it the day before when I went to the town hospital under escort
with a party of officers for massage. I needed no massage, of course,
but had only done this to acquaint myself with the geography of the
town.
With a blank stare I passed several brother-officers walking up and down
the avenue and reached the gate. My great moment had come, but the
sentry simply looked at my card carefully, said _schön_, and handed it
back. I walked very fast down to the ferry. There was no boat on my side
and I saw I should have to wait some minutes. The sentry at the ferry
examined my card and handed it back. How should I avoid the two Germans
who were already there on the jetty waiting for the boat? I decided to
have a violent fit of coughing.
I must here mention that my knowledge of German, acquired during
captivity, was not such as would enable me to support a
cross-examination of more than a minute or two. I had, however,
practised the “pure” German accent with assiduity. In point of fact I
hardly spoke a hundred words on the journey, and some of these were not
absolutely necessary.
At last the ferry boat came over, empty. I got in and sat in the bows.
There was an English orderly working the bow oar—I had seen him the
previous day. I kicked him, and he realised what I was and shielded me
as much as he could from the other occupants of the boat, which was now
gradually filling. It was a long five minutes and I continued my violent
fit of coughing, leaning over the side as if in a paroxysm. There were
two Germans in the bows and one of them touched me on the shoulder and
suggested that I should trim the boat by sitting in the middle. I
complied meekly, feeling really very wretched indeed.
At the last I thought I was really done for. The German adjutant got
into the boat. He didn’t know me by sight, but I thought it was more
than likely that he would suspect me. Mercifully he began to talk to
some lady typists from the camp who had just preceded him.
We shoved off eventually, almost full. I continued coughing till we got
across. When the boat discharged I went ashore almost last. I gave them
a wide berth in front, and as soon as I was clear made off at my best
pace for the station. Now I was Karl Stein of Schleswig, carpenter,
ex-army man, and recalled for civilian employment, catching the train
for his native country. I tore up my “permit” and dropped it in the
road—one month off my sentence anyway.
As I expected, I just missed my train. I had no watch, but the clock on
the Marianne Kirche showed me I should be late. I reached the station
about 6.50; it was rather full of people. I wondered if Gilbert was away
in that train ... and then, vaguely, what the chances were of my being
nabbed before the next went—this, I noted, was at 6.40 the next morning
(Saturday). I think if there had been any outgoing trains that night I
should have taken them, even though they led me east instead of west.
But as it happened there were none. I went into the men’s lavatory in
the station, shut myself in a closet and reflected. I thought at that
time to my horror that I had forgotten my matches, so I denied myself a
smoke—my matches turned up later and I needed what few there were. I
solaced myself with a slab of chocolate.
The position was not encouraging. Our information about trains was
correct. Our friends would not be able to camouflage our absence, which
would certainly be discovered by 8 p.m., reported by 9 p.m. It was more
than likely that they would telephone to the station. I determined not
to be in the station at all between 9 and 12. If I was arrested next
morning, I was. In the meantime it was good to be free.
It was a beautiful October night in Stralsund. I braced myself up and
begged a light for a cigarette from a youngster at a street corner, and
then strolled along the streets that led from the station to the Kirche.
I knew these now quite well enough not to get lost. I sat on a bench and
looked across the moonlit water, which near the station runs right in in
a broad and lovely sweep. I lit a pipe from my German cigarette and
smoked comfortably. Should I get off next morning?...
I was cooling down now, and wandered down past the Marianne Kirche to a
cinema in the Langestrasse. A boy there told me the booking office was
shut. I wandered round and round till one o’clock. I sat for a long time
on my old bench overlooking the water; at another place I entered a
private garden and sheltered for an hour under a wall right on the
water’s edge. It was blowing fairly fresh.
About one o’clock I returned to the station and entered the waiting
room, full of recumbent figures, mostly soldiers and sailors. I got hold
of two chairs and tried to sleep. There was a sailor on the other side
of the table.
At 4 o’clock I got up and had a cup of coffee. The waiting room was now
fairly full of people, most of them presumably going by my train.
I had by now a two days’ growth of beard and my moustache was fairly
long and well down over the corners of my mouth. Moreover, I had had a
fairly sleepless night.
In my pockets I carried three large sandwiches of German bread with
English potted meat inside, about twenty slabs of Caley’s marching
chocolate, a box of Horlick’s milk tablets, a spare pair of socks, some
rag and vaseline, my pipe and tobacco, English and German cigarettes, my
compass, money, and papers. I had an old German novel in my hands which
I pretended to read with great assiduity. Half an hour before the train
was due to start, I went to the booking office. I was surprised to hear
my own voice. “Fourth to Hamburg, please.” I had no idea what it cost,
so I tendered a 20-mark note. The ticket cost only seven marks! I went
back to the waiting room, and a few minutes later faced the barrier. No
questions, no suspicion. I breathed again and wondered what that
Commandant had done. Wired to Rostock perhaps....
My carriage was not over-full at the start—four or five women and two
elderly men. I had no trouble with them. Their conversation began and
maintained itself exclusively about food, but they were cheerful enough.
Before Rostock the carriage had filled up and I with British politeness
was strap-hanging. An old woman began asking me to shift her _Korb_
(basket). I could not exactly understand what she wanted and must have
looked rather foolish. However, I did the right thing eventually.
We changed at Rostock. I was half expecting trouble but nothing
happened. A porter told me the platform for the Hamburg train. I got
this stereotyped question fairly pat.
To Hamburg the train was overflowing; we were over 40 in a tiny
compartment. I was wedged in against the window, strap-hanging. At one
intermediate station a young soldier got in with a goose hanging out of
his haversack. He immediately became the centre of an admiring throng.
He was a cheerful youth and bandied repartee with all and sundry—I could
not catch his sallies, which were in low German and greeted with roars
of laughter. I suppose he was the son of some farmer and had “wangled”
this goose, which would probably have fetched 150 marks in the market,
to take back to his mess-mates. He got out just before Hamburg. I could
not have asked for a better foil.
Hamburg! I had never hoped for even so long a run as this. Was there
really a chance?... In any case, I was now well clear of the Stralsund
zone. I began to realise that the heavy week-end traffic was helping me
and that I was indeed no more than a needle in a haystack. I ate a
sandwich and an apple which I had bought at Lubeck.
We ran into the big station at about 2.40 in the afternoon—it was very
full. It did not take me long to find the “departure” notices, Kiel
3.10. I took my place in the “queue” for the fourth class booking
office. Behind me two women had an altercation as to priority of place
in the “queue.” I was rather afraid they were going to appeal to me. I
had no wish for the rôle of Solomon at that moment.
I booked direct to Flensburg—about four marks’ worth—and made my way
downstairs to the departure platform, which was indicated clearly
enough. I did not like the odd quarter of an hour which I had to wait
before the train came in. I was not very happy about my dark blue
waterproof. I could not see anything approaching its counterpart. If one
stands still, one can be examined at leisure; if one moves up and down,
one runs the gauntlet of a hundred restless eyes, any one pair of which
may at some previous date have had first hand cognisance of a typical
naval rubber-lined English waterproof....
Then I blundered. There was a coffee-stall on the platform. I went up to
it and asked for a cup. I had drunk nothing since 4 o’clock in the
morning. Fortunately neither of the _Frauleins_ in the stall paid any
attention to me. Just then I saw the notice “_for soldiers and sailors
only_” printed up in big letters. I should have known that, but no one
had noticed anything.
When _would_ that train come in?
It came at last. I chose the carriage with fewest soldiers in it, and
most women, and made for my strategical position by the window. But it
was impossible to avoid men altogether. I had one strap-hanging next to
me from Hamburg to Kiel. Everybody started chattering at once. How could
I keep out of this all the way to Kiel without suspicion? Of course,
they were talking about food—various ways of dishing up potatoes.
I looked out of the window, pretending to be interested in the country.
It was impossible even to pretend to read in that crush. A man on the
seat was forcibly expressing his views to two _Frauleins_ on the new
(10th) War Loan. They giggled.
I often wonder if those Hamburg folk then had any notion that another
fortnight would see the Red Flag floating in their midst.
At Neumünster we had an invasion. The carriage, full already, became
packed. Four girls of the farmer class—sisters, I judged them—got in at
my window. I lost my place of vantage and was relegated to the middle of
the floor. I felt a pasty-faced youth quite close to me sizing me up....
Fortunately the farmer girls riveted all attention for half a dozen
stations. They were in boisterous spirits and screamed with laughter at
their own jokes. They spoke dialect and I could not understand them, but
I grinned feebly in unison. When they got out, I recovered my post by
the window. Bless them, anyway, for a diversion.
At the next station an elderly man who was sitting on a basket
immediately in front of me said something to me directly. He was not in
any way a formidable character, but he spoke villainous dialect and I
could not make head or tail of his question. He was referring to
something in the station. I said _Ja_ and looked out of the window in a
knowing way. But I could not risk a second question. I felt the
pasty-faced youth’s eyes on me again, and I made a bee-line for the
lavatory. When I emerged I took up a fresh position.
The train was emptying as we approached Kiel, and for a time I got my
head out of the window and enjoyed the draught. Then a little girl
standing by me asked me to pull up the window again. I had my second
sandwich.
We ran into Kiel at about 6 o’clock. There was no difficulty. A guard,
in answer to my question, pointed at the Flensburg train. The carriage I
got into was not lit at all and almost empty. What a relief to sit! A
girl came in to check my ticket, and I went to sleep. We went over the
canal in the dark. There were two men in my carriage. I woke up at some
wayside station and asked if it was Flensburg. They laughed and said
Flensburg was two hours away yet. I muttered sleepily that I was a
stranger, and pretended to drop off again.
I reached Flensburg about 10.30 p.m., and thought of the unforgettable
scene in _The Riddle of the Sands_. I was no less depressed than
Carruthers on that occasion. I was very thirsty, but it was a poky
little station and there was nothing in the shape of a waiting room or
coffee-stall. I lingered on the platform and saw a porter who appeared
to be closing down for the night. I asked him what time the train to
Tondern went next day. He first said 6 o’clock, but then reflected that
the next day was Sunday and there would not be a train till eleven. He
added that the train went from the other station. So there were two
stations in Flensburg! My sentry friend had not told me this. I asked
him where the other station was and he directed me. My German at this
juncture was so abominable that I think he must have been a Dane.
At the other station, which I found to be the main one, there was a
fairly large crowd in the booking hall. They were waiting for the
in-coming 11 o’clock train from the north. Entry to the platform and
waiting rooms was barred. The train came in, the crowd dissolved, and
the station was shut up for the night. I had got to put in twelve dreary
hours in this place.
I took risks that night in Flensburg, risks that might have been fatal
further south. I argued that here if anywhere one might expect to find a
scrubby-faced man with a nautical cap and overcoat. I walked for about
an hour past the quays, past the two main hotels, then up towards the
church and down again to the quays. I could find no public
drinking-fountain, which was what I was looking for, but I had learned
the rough geography of the place.
There was a low barrier leading on to one of the quays. The gate was
locked but I climbed the barrier and sat down on a bench. Behind me was
one of those pavilions such as are seen on an English pier-head; in
front, a steamer moored alongside. Both were quite deserted. Here at
least I could sit and find solitude.
I took off my boots and attended to one of my toes which I had rubbed
playing hockey the day before—what weeks ago it seemed! I went through
my pockets and—joy!—found my matches. I smoked a luxurious pipe. Then,
still in my socks, I boarded the steamer and searched her for water
without success. She was fitted up for passengers and for a moment I
entertained the idea of stowing myself away on her.
Just as I had finished putting on my boots again a man—a night-watchman
I suppose he was—came on to the quay from the left. He must have been
attracted by some movement. I confess I thought it was all up.
“What are you doing here?”
“Nothing.”
“But you have no business to be here at all.”
Silence implied assent. He beckoned me after him. He was not a Prussian,
this man, whatever else he was. Perhaps he was afraid of me. He appeared
to be taking me into some form of building on my right. I pretended to
be coming along after him, but I swerved to the right, scrambled over
the barrier and ran for 200 yards down the street. Fortunately there was
no one about. I was not followed. I was thankful I had got my boots on
in time.
I passed the first hotel and saw a woman with a man carrying her bag go
in and ask for a room. She got one. I followed in after her and asked
for a bed. The proprietor said he was full up and shut the door in my
face. Could a two days’ growth of beard make such a difference in a man?
I was rather hurt.
But worse was to follow. I entered another hotel and saw some German
sailors being given the keys of their bedrooms by a Fraulein. I asked
her for some coffee. “No.” “Water?” “No.” “Nothing to drink?” “No,
nothing.”
I came to my senses and fled....
I went up towards the church, which stands on the top of a steep hill.
There are some gardens sloping down the hill. I found an old sort of
summer-house in one of these and went to sleep. It was about 1 a.m., and
none too warm.
I was up at dawn and started again on my weary pilgrimage of the streets
of Flensburg. How I hated that place! I half thought of altering my plan
and doing the rest of the journey on foot. It was about 70 kilometres to
the frontier.
I passed three military policemen in half an hour and wondered
resentfully what they were doing in such large quantities on a _Sunday_
morning.
At about eight I got to the station, and ate my last sandwich. Assuming
that the porter had been right the previous night, I had got to put in
three hours more dreary waiting. There were no overhead notices, but I
noticed a useful-looking collection of time-tables stuck up on big
boards in a little alcove just out of the booking hall. If I could get
behind the rearmost of these I could put in much of my time unobserved.
People might come and people might go, but they would never dream that I
had been there all the time.
I examined the time-tables. I could make nothing of the Sunday trains,
but I found the name Ober-Jersthal. That had been the station given by
our informant at Stralsund as the last station outside the
_Grenz-Gebiet_. In the maps we had seen in the camp we had never been
able to verify this place. Ober-Jersthal must be on the main line
running up the east Schleswig coast. So far so good, but at what time
would this train go? It could not be the same train as the Tondern
train, for Tondern is west Schleswig.
I wandered on to the platform. The bookstall was open and I bought a
paper and also a Pocket Railway Guide. The Guide had a good map. I saw
from this that the Tondern and Ober-Jersthal lines branched off at
Tingleff—possibly the two trains went in one as far as Tingleff. I had
not long to wait for corroboration. At the cloak-room I heard a man ask
the attendant what time the train went for a station which I knew to be
north of Ober-Jersthal on the same line. The answer was 11.3. There
could be no doubt of it now. I booked for Ober-Jersthal.
[Illustration:
SKETCH MAP
OF
N.W. GERMANY AND FRONTIERS
Shaded area = Neutral country
X = Point where the author crossed the frontier
]
I had still an hour to wait. It passed somehow. I went into the waiting
room and got my first drink for 29 hours, a glass of beer; it was washy
stuff but went down wonderfully well. There were a lot of _Matrosen_
(sailors) in the waiting room. Some of them stared at me and I began to
have the Hamburg platform haunted sensation over again. I pretended to
read my paper fiercely for half an hour and then went on to the
platform. I began to regret that I had not had a shave that morning.
The train came in punctually. There was no incident till Tingleff, about
20 kilos northward. There I saw the passport officials waiting on the
platform. I had almost forgotten about this part of the business....
I took a sudden resolution and left the train. I reckoned that I had not
more than 40 miles to walk from this point, and by alighting here I
might dodge the passport men altogether. But I was undeceived. An
official was waiting at the entrance to the sub-way. He looked an
easy-going fellow and was engaged in conversation with someone. He took
my passport, glanced at it, and handed it back without a word. He did
not even look to compare my face with the photograph. The great moment
which Gilbert and I had rehearsed countless times had come and gone.
I hurried through the sub-way, and saw another passport official talking
to the ticket collector. I handed in my Ober-Jersthal ticket. The man
looked up in some surprise, but I was ready for him:
“I have shortened my journey.”
“_Ach! So._”
He asked no more questions. If he had, I doubt if I could have answered
them. I was conscious only of one great wish, to be rid of the railway
for good. I struck due north out of the station and found myself in a
_cul-de-sac_. I was so overjoyed to be quit of the rail that I plunged
into the fields. I had not gone very far before I had reason to repent.
There was water everywhere, and I made very heavy weather of it. My
objective was Lügumkloster, about 20 miles north-west from Tingleff, and
I reckoned that it could not be very long before I struck the main road.
After about two hours—it was now two o’clock in the afternoon—I found
the road. There were very few people about, and those I met gave me good
day civilly enough. If questioned at this point, I was going to have
been a South German staying with relatives in Flensburg and out for a
cross-country ramble—an improbable enough story.
My hopes had risen and it all seemed reasonably plain sailing now. The
people were not suspicious. I had my map with a few important names ...
my compass ... I might even do it in the next night.
I wondered exactly where old Gilbert was at this moment. It never even
occurred to me that he had been caught, but such, as afterwards
transpired, must have been the case[15].
[Footnote 15: Gilbert had been caught actually on the border the night
before, under the impression that he was already in Denmark. He was
thought at first to be a smuggler!]
Passing through one village I met some French prisoners. I gave them
good day and told them who I was. They invited me to come into their
room in the farm where they were working. They were able to tell me what
village I was in, Dollderup, and this was a great assistance. I thanked
them in execrable French, gave them one of my remaining cigarettes, and
told them what news I could—they had heard nothing for months. I don’t
think anything on the whole journey was more difficult than framing
those few simple French sentences.
The signposts made the journey easy after that. At 3 p.m. I had 18
kilometres to go to Lügumkloster. I turned off the road, lay down in
some young fir trees, took off my boots, ate some chocolate, and had
half an hour or more’s sleep.
I started again towards dusk. I was feeling very fit now and full of
hope. If only I didn’t muck it on the frontier....
The signposts did their duty nobly. There was a keen wind from the north
and the road was good. I had been out just two complete days.
In one village a soldier with a rifle came out of a house just as I
passed it. He replied to my “_Guten Abend_” courteously.
I reached Lügumkloster, I suppose, about half-past nine or ten. It is a
big rambling village, and I made a bad mistake here on leaving it. I
meant to take the Arrip-Arnum road, which runs roughly north-east. I
took a road running north-east, but after about an hour’s walking I
found it was leading me gradually more east than north—I had not noticed
that the wind had shifted from north to east. I decided to leave the
road and make due north on the compass, trusting to pick up the right
road later on. Then began a trying time. The ground was terribly wet and
intersected with continual wired ditches. I tore my clothes rather badly
here and I don’t think my trousers at the end of my journey would have
stood another rip. However, I kept due north, tacking as little as
possible to avoid the ditches, and eventually reached the road. It was,
I supposed, about 2 a.m. I estimated I was still quite ten miles from
the frontier. There was a strong wind, and I had not enough matches to
spare to look more than once or twice at my map. Added to this, the
signposts, previously so well-behaved, became infuriating. They only
mentioned names which I had never heard of, or at least had not
committed to memory.
_Slog! Slog! Slog!_ I was getting tired. A man passed me with a cart.
What on earth did _he_ think he was doing at that time of night?
There was lots of water about and I did not go thirsty. My cap made an
effective cup.
A light railway running parallel to the road—this was the _Klein Bahn_
(light railway) the fellow had told us of.
_Slog! Slog! Sl—._ What on earth was that? A sentry box on the roadside,
and in the box a sentry yawning and stretching himself. On each side of
the road a belt of barbed wire running east and west.
I took these things in vaguely, disconnectedly. Had I miscalculated and
was I over the border after all? He hadn’t even challenged....
A mile later I crawled into a little hollow by the roadside to rest and
get warm. I was getting strangely light-headed. I remember addressing
myself as a separate entity. I pulled myself together and sat down to
think. “I must go back and have another look at that wire. It can only
be a protective belt for military purposes.”
I went back. The wire was there sure enough. So was the sentry box, but
I didn’t go up to it. The wire was like the rear defence lines one had
seen in France.
I retraced my steps. I still had the idea of picking myself up from the
hollow where I had left myself.
I continued my way, praying for the night to end. With the dawn, I felt
I should be able to think clearly again.
“Arnum 4 kilometres.” The signposts were German enough, anyway.
Arnum, I had made out from my map, lay about three or four kilometres
away from the point of the salient where I meant to cross the border. It
was nearly dawn and I saw that I could not get over that night.
It was getting light as I reached the village. I left the road and
struck west across the fields, up on to some high ground.
Somewhere in front there was Denmark.
I chose a hiding place in some young firs and heather. I was sheltered
from the wind and was fairly comfortable.
One more whole day! What an age it seemed! I got out my railway map and
looked at my position. I could not be more than five or six kilometres
from the frontier. Somewhere in the valley to the north-west stretched
the line of sentries. I decided to sally forth while it was still light
in the late afternoon, take my bearings, and go over at dark.
As I lay there I heard footsteps. A boy came by singing and passed
within two yards of me. He didn’t see me. Just as well perhaps....
I took off my boots, rubbed my feet down, and had some chocolate.
About noon it started raining and went on for about three hours. I got
wet through, but welcomed the rain on the whole as it would get darker
sooner.
I was now thinking quite connectedly, and, it being impossible to sleep,
I went over in my mind again and again what I meant to do, and what I
knew already about the frontier.
I suppose it was about 5 when I started out. I reckoned there would be
about one more hour’s daylight. I steered due north-west across fields
and marsh land for about three kilometres. Suddenly, to my right—about
400 yards off—the sentries’ boxes came full in view. There was no
mistaking them, about 200 yards between most of them, and quite 300
yards between the two opposite me.
I plumped down in the heather where I was standing, and watched them. I
saw a sentry leave his box and walk about 20 yards up and down. I could
see nothing that looked like wire. Only marsh and heather in between....
Looking from where I was into Denmark, there was a farmhouse immediately
between the two sentry boxes. I could take my course on that—it would be
silhouetted long after dark.
I waited till it was quite dark, and then started off, taking no
risks—crawling. I came to a ditch with wire on each side of it. This was
the only wire I saw. When I judged I was well through the line, I got up
and walked to the farmhouse. A tall figure answered my knock. I began in
my best German....
He shook his head to indicate that he didn’t understand. I could have
kissed him.
At last we hammered it out.
“_Engelsk Offizier. Fangen. Gut._”
He beckoned me in with beaming face.
I had made good in just 72 hours. Beginners’ luck!
CAMBRIDGE: PRINTED BY J. B. PEACE, M.A., AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s note:
Page 33, ‘A.M.’ changed to ‘a.m.,’ “and garnished by 10 a.m.”
Page 76, ‘door-way’ changed to ‘doorway,’ “in their own doorway”
Page 77, second ‘the’ struck, “actually entered the tunnel.”
Page 92, ‘ryefield’ changed to ‘rye-field,’ “the rye-field was reached”
Page 111, ‘Lieutenant’ changed to ‘Leutnant,’ “the Feldwebel-Leutnant
Welman demanded”
Page 116, ‘he’ changed to ‘be,’ “It should be added that”
Page 137, ‘rye field’ changed to ‘rye-field,’ “through the rye-field”
Page 139, ‘rye field’ changed to ‘rye-field,’ “the rye-field to report”
Page 170, closing double quote inserted after ‘Prisoners?,’ “What?
Prisoners?””