Title: Three Times and Out
Author: McClung, Nellie L., 1873-1951
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Three Times and Out" ***


Thanks to A Celebration of Women Writers
http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/
for providing the source text.



THREE TIMES AND OUT

TOLD BY

PRIVATE SIMMONS

WRITTEN BY

NELLIE L. MCCLUNG

Author of SOWING SEEDS IN DANNY, IN TIMES LIKE THESE,
and THE NEXT OF KIN

With Illustrations


TORONTO

THOMAS ALLEN

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

1918



  To the companion who failed
  through no fault of his and
  no lack of courage
          TOM BROMLEY
  loyal friend and best of com-
  rades, this book is dedicated.



PREFACE


When a young man whom I had not seen until that day came to see me
in Edmonton, and told me he had a story which he thought was worth
writing, and which he wanted me to write for him, I told him I could
not undertake to do it for I was writing a story of my own, but that
I could no doubt find some one who would do it for him.

Then he mentioned that he was a returned soldier, and had been for
sixteen months a prisoner in Germany, and had made his escape--

That changed everything!

I asked him to come right in and tell me all about it--for like every
one else I have friends in the prison-camps of Germany, boys whom I
remember as little chaps in knickers playing with my children, boys
I taught in country schools in Manitoba, boys whose parents are my
friends. There are many of these whom we know to be prisoners, and
there are some who have been listed as "missing," who we are still
hoping against long odds may be prisoners!

I asked him many questions. How were they treated? Did they get
enough to eat? Did they get their parcels? Were they very lonely?
Did he by any chance know a boy from Vancouver called Wallen Gordon,
who had been "Missing" since the 2d of June, 1916? Or Reg Black from
Manitou? or Garnet Stewart from Winnipeg?

Unfortunately, he did not.

Then he began his story. Before he had gone far, I had determined to
do all I could to get his story into print, for it seemed to me to be
a story that should be written. It gives at least a partial answer
to the anxious questionings that are in so many hearts. It tells us
something of the fate of the brave fellows who have, temporarily,
lost their freedom--to make our freedom secure!

Private Simmons is a close and accurate observer who sees clearly
and talks well. He tells a straightforward, unadorned tale, every
sentence of which is true, and convincing. I venture to hope that
the reader may have as much pleasure in the reading of it as I had
in the writing.

NELLIE L. McCLUNG

Edmonton, October 24, 1918



CONTENTS

        I.  HOW IT STARTED
       II.  THROUGH BELGIUM
      III.  INTO GERMANY
       IV.  THE LAZARET
        V.  THE PRISON-CAMP
       VI.  ROSSBACH
      VII.  THE ESCAPE
     VIII.  OFF FOR SWITZERLAND!
       IX.  CAUGHT!
        X.  THE CELLS!
       XI.  THE STRAFE-BARRACK
      XII.  BACK TO CAMP
     XIII.  CELLELAGER
      XIV.  OFF FOR HOLLAND!
       XV.  CAUGHT AGAIN
      XVI.  THE INVISIBLE BROTHERHOOD
     XVII.  THE CELLS AT OLDENBUBG
    XVIII.  PARNEWINKEL CAMP
      XIX.  THE BLACKEST CHAPTER OF ALL
       XX.  ONCE AGAIN!
      XXI.  TRAVELLERS OF THE NIGHT
     XXII.  THE LONG ROAD TO FREEDOM
    XXIII.  OUT
            CONCLUSION



ILLUSTRATIONS

  PRIVATE SIMMONS
    From a photograph taken since his return to Canada
  OFFICER'S QUARTERS IN A GERMAN MILITARY PRISON
  GIESSEN PRISON-CAMP
  TED BROMLEY, IN RED CROSS OVERCOAT WITH PRISON
    NUMBER AND MARKED SLEEVE
  GERMAN PRISON STAMP
    These stamps are used to pay prisoners for their work and
    to be exchanged for any money they may have when captured
  TWO PAGES FROM PRIVATE SIMMONS'S DIARY
  MAP MADE BY PRIVATE SIMMONS OF THE FIRST ATTEMPT
  THE CHRISTMAS CARD WHICH THE GIESSEN PRISON AUTHORITIES
    SUPPLIED TO THE PRISONERS
  MAP MADE FROM PAPER WHICH CAME IN A PARCEL, WRAPPED AROUND
    A FRUIT-CAKE
  FRIEDRICHSFELD PRISON-CAMP IN WINTER
  MAP WHICH PRIVATE SIMMONS GOT FROM THE CANADIAN ARTIST AT
    GIESSEN, SHOWING ROUTES OF SECOND AND THIRD ATTEMPTS
  FRIEDRICHSFELD PRISON-CAMP IN SUMMER
  A PRISON POST-CARD FROM FRIEDRICHSFELD BEI WESEL, SHOWING
    COSMOPOLITAN GROUP OF PRISONERS
  POST-CARD SENT BY PRIVATE BROMLEY FROM THE PRISON-CAMP OF
    SOLTAU, SHOWING GRAVES OF PRISONERS



THREE TIMES AND OUT



CHAPTER I

HOW IT STARTED


"England has declared war on Germany!"

We were working on a pumphouse, on the Columbia River, at Trail,
British Columbia, when these words were shouted at us from the door
by the boss carpenter, who had come down from the smelter to tell us
that the news had just come over the wire.

Every one stopped work, and for a full minute not a word was spoken.
Then Hill, a British reservist who was my work-mate, laid down his
hammer and put on his coat. There was neither haste nor excitement in
his movements, but a settled conviction that gave me a queer feeling.
I began to argue just where we had left off, for the prospect of war
had been threshed out for the last two days with great thoroughness.
"It will be settled," I said. "Nations cannot go to war now. It would
be suicide, with all the modern methods of destruction. It will be
settled by a war council--and all forgotten in a month."

Hill, who had argued so well a few minutes ago and told us all the
reasons he had for expecting war with Germany, would not waste a word
on me now. England was at war--and he was part of England's war
machine.

"I am quitting, George," he said to the boss carpenter, as he pulled
his cap down on his head and started up the bank.

That night he began to drill us in the skating-rink.

I worked on for about a week, but from the first I determined to go
if any one went from Canada. I don't suppose it was all patriotism.
Part of it was the love of adventure, and a desire to see the world;
for though I was a steady-going carpenter chap, I had many dreams as
I worked with hammer and saw, and one of them was that I would travel
far and see how people lived in other countries. The thought of war
had always been repellent to me, and many an argument I had had
with the German baker in whose house I roomed, on the subject of
compulsory military training for boys. He often pointed out a
stoop-shouldered, hollow-chested boy who lived on the same street,
and told me that if this boy had lived in Germany he would have
walked straighter and developed a chest, instead of slouching through
life the way he was doing. He and his wife and the grown-up daughter
were devoted to their country, and often told us of how well the
working-people were housed in Germany and the affairs of the country
conducted.

But I think the war was as great a surprise to them as to us, and
although the two women told us we were foolish to go to fight--it was
no business of ours if England wanted to get into a row--it made no
difference in our friendly relations, and the day we left Clara came
to the station with a box of candy. I suppose if we had known as much
then as we do now about German diplomacy, we shouldn't have eaten it,
but we only knew then that Clara's candy was the best going, and so
we ate it, and often wished for more.

I have since heard, however, of other Germans in Canada who knew more
of their country's plans, and openly spoke of them. One of these,
employed by the Government, told the people in the office where he
worked that when Germany got hold of Canada, she would straighten out
the crooked streets in our towns and not allow shacks to be built on
the good streets, and would see to it that houses were not crowded
together; and the strangest part of it is that the people to whom he
spoke attached no importance whatever to his words until the war came
and the German mysteriously disappeared.

        *       *       *

I never really enlisted, for we had no recruiting meetings in Trail
before I left. We went to the skating-rink the first night, about
fifteen of us, and began to drill. Mr. Schofield, Member of the
Provincial Parliament, and Hill were in charge, and tested our
marksmanship as well. They graded us according to physical tests,
marksmanship, and ability to pick up the drill, and I was quite
pleased to find I was Number "One" on the list.

There was a young Italian boy named Adolph Milachi, whom we called
"Joe," who came to drill the first night, and although he could not
speak much English, he was determined to be a soldier. I do not know
what grudge little Joe had against the Germans, whether it was just
the love of adventure which urged him on, but he overruled all
objections to his going and left with the others of us, on the last
day of August.

I remember that trip through the mountains in that soft, hazy,
beautiful August weather; the mountain-tops, white with snow, were
wrapped about with purple mist which twisted and shifted as if never
satisfied with their draping. The sheer rocks in the mountain-sides,
washed by a recent rain, were streaked with dull reds and blues and
yellows, like the old-fashioned rag carpet. The rivers whose banks
we followed ran blue and green, and icy cold, darting sometimes so
sharply under the track that it jerked one's neck to follow them; and
then the stately evergreens marched always with us, like endless
companies of soldiers or pilgrims wending their way to a favorite
shrine.

When we awakened the second morning, and found ourselves on the wide
prairie of Alberta, with its many harvest scenes and herds of cattle,
and the gardens all in bloom, one of the boys said, waving his hand
at a particularly handsome house set in a field of ripe wheat, "No
wonder the Germans want it!"

        *       *       *

My story really begins April 24, 1915. Up to that time it had been
the usual one--the training in England, with all the excitement of
week-end leave; the great kindness of English families whose friends
in Canada had written to them about us, and who had forthwith sent
us their invitations to visit them, which we did with the greatest
pleasure, enjoying every minute spent in their beautiful houses; and
then the greatest thrill of all--when we were ordered to France.

The 24th of April was a beautiful spring day of quivering sunshine,
which made the soggy ground in the part of Belgium where I was fairly
steam. The grass was green as plush, and along the front of the
trenches, where it had not been trodden down, there were yellow
buttercups and other little spring flowers whose names I did not
know.

We had dug the trenches the day before, and the ground was so marshy
and wet that water began to ooze in before we had dug more than three
feet. Then we had gone on the other side and thrown up more dirt,
to make a better parapet, and had carried sand-bags from an old
artillery dug-out. Four strands of barbed wire were also put up
in front of our trenches, as a sort of suggestion of barbed-wire
entanglements, but we knew we had very little protection.

Early in the morning of the 24th, a German aeroplane flew low over
our trench, so low that I could see the man quite plainly, and could
easily have shot him, but we had orders not to fire--the object of
these orders being that we must not give away our position.

The airman saw us, of course, for he looked right down at us, and
dropped down white pencils of smoke to show the gunners where we
were. That big gray beetle sailing serenely over us, boring us with
his sharp eyes, and spying out our pitiful attempts at protection, is
one of the most unpleasant feelings I have ever had. It gives me the
shivers yet! And to think we had orders not to fire!

Being a sniper, I had a rifle fixed up with a telescopic sight, which
gave me a fine view of what was going on, and in order not to lose
the benefit of it, I cleaned out a place in a hedge, which was just
in front of the part of the trench I was in, and in this way I could
see what was happening, at least in my immediate vicinity.

We knew that the Algerians who were holding a trench to our left had
given way and stampeded, as a result of a German gas attack on the
night of April 22d. Not only had the front line broken, but, the
panic spreading, all of them ran, in many cases leaving their rifles
behind them. Three companies of our battalion had been hastily sent
in to the gap caused by the flight of the Algerians. Afterwards I
heard that our artillery had been hurriedly withdrawn so that it
might not fall into the hands of the enemy; but we did not know that
at the time, though we wondered, as the day went on, why we got no
artillery support.

Before us, and about fifty yards away, were deserted farm buildings,
through whose windows I had instructions to send shots at intervals,
to discourage the enemy from putting in machine guns. To our right
there were other farm buildings where the Colonel and Adjutant were
stationed, and in the early morning I was sent there with a message
from Captain Scudamore, to see why our ammunition had not come up.

I found there Colonel Hart McHarg, Major Odlum (now Brigadier-General
Odlum), and the Adjutant in consultation, and thought they looked
worried and anxious. However, they gave me a cheerful message for
Captain Scudamore. It was very soon after that that Colonel Hart
McHarg was killed.

The bombardment began at about nine o'clock in the morning, almost
immediately after the airman's visit, and I could see the heavy
shells bursting in the village at the cross-roads behind us. They
were throwing the big shells there to prevent reinforcements from
coming up. They evidently did not know, any more than we did, that
there were none to come, the artillery having been withdrawn the
night before.

Some of the big shells threw the dirt as high as the highest trees.
When the shells began to fall in our part of the trench, I crouched
as low as I could in the soggy earth, to escape the shrapnel bullets.
Soon I got to know the sound of the battery that was dropping the
shells on us, and so knew when to take cover. One of our boys to my
left was hit by a pebble on the cheek, and, thinking he was wounded,
he fell on the ground and called for a stretcher-bearer. When the
stretcher-bearer came, he could find nothing but a scratch on his
cheek, and all of us who were not too scared had a laugh, including
the boy himself.

I think it was about one o'clock in the afternoon that the Germans
broke through the trench on our right, where Major Bing-Hall was in
command; and some of the survivors from that trench came over to
ours. One of them ran right to where I was, and pushed through the
hole I had made in the hedge, to get a shot at the enemy. I called
to him to be careful, but some sniper evidently saw him, for in less
than half a minute he was shot dead, and fell at my side.

An order to "retreat if necessary" had been received before this, but
for some reason, which I have never been able to understand, was not
put into effect until quite a while after being received. When the
order came, we began to move down the trench as fast as we could, but
as the trench was narrow and there were wounded and dead men in it,
our progress was slow.

Soon I saw Robinson, Smith, and Ward climbing out of the trench and
cutting across the field. This was, of course, dangerous, for we were
in full view of the enemy, but it was becoming more and more evident
that we were in a tight corner. So I climbed out, too, and ran across
the open as fast as I could go with my equipment. I got just past the
hedge when I was hit through the pocket of my coat. I thought I was
wounded, for the blow was severe, but found out afterwards the bullet
had just passed through my coat pocket.

I kept on going, but in a few seconds I got a bullet right through
my shoulder. It entered below my arm at the back, and came out just
below the shoulder-bone, making a clean hole right through.

I fell into a shallow shell-hole, which was just the size to take me
in, and as I lay there, the possibility of capture first came to me.
Up to that time I had never thought of it as a possible contingency;
but now, as I lay wounded, the grave likelihood came home to me.

I scrambled to my feet, resolved to take any chances rather than be
captured. I have an indistinct recollection of what happened for the
next few minutes. I know I ran from shell-hole to shell-hole,
obsessed with the one great fear--of being captured--and at last
reached the reserve trench, in front. I fell over the parapet, among
and indeed right on top of the men who were there, for the trench was
packed full of soldiers, and then quickly gathered myself together
and climbed out of the trench and crawled along on my stomach to the
left, following the trench to avoid the bullets, which I knew were
flying over me.

Soon I saw, looking down into the trench, some of the boys I knew,
and I dropped in beside them. Then everything went from me. A great
darkness arose up from somewhere and swallowed me! Then I had a
delightful sensation of peace and warmth and general comfort.
Darkness, the blackest, inkiest darkness, rolled over me in waves
and hid me so well no Jack Johnson or Big Bertha could ever find me.
I hadn't a care or a thought in the world. I was light as a feather,
and these great strong waves of darkness carried me farther and
farther away.

But they didn't carry me quite far enough, for a cry shot through me
like a knife, and I was wide awake, looking up from the bottom of a
muddy trench. And the cry that wakened me was sounding up and down
the trench, "The Germans are coming!"

Sergeant Reid, who did not seem to realize how desperate the
situation was, was asking Major Bing-Hall what he was going to do.
But before any more could be said, the Germans were swarming over the
trench. The officer in charge of them gave us a chance to surrender,
which we did, and then it seemed like a hundred voices--harsh,
horrible voices--called to us to come out of the trench. "Raus" is
the word they use, pronounced "rouse."

This was the first German word I had heard, and I hated it. It is the
word they use to a dog when they want him to go out, or to cattle
they are chasing out of a field. It is used to mean either "Come
out!"--or "Get out!" I hated it that day, and I hated it still more
afterward.

There were about twenty of us altogether, and we climbed out of the
trench without speaking. There was nothing to be said. It was all up
with us.



CHAPTER II

THROUGH BELGIUM


It is strange how people act in a crisis. I mean, it is strange how
quiet they are, and composed. We stood there on the top of the
trench, without speaking, although I knew what had happened to us was
bitterer far than to be shot. But there was not a word spoken. I
remember noticing Fred McKelvey, when the German who stood in front
of him told him to take off his equipment. Fred's manner was halting,
and reluctant, and he said, as he laid down his rifle and unbuckled
his cartridge bag, "This is the thing my father told me never to let
happen."

Just then the German who stood by me said something to me, and
pointed to my equipment, but I couldn't unfasten a buckle with my
useless arm, so I asked him if he couldn't see I was wounded. He
seemed to understand what I meant, and unbuckled my straps and took
everything off me, very gently, too, and whipped out my bandage and
was putting it on my shoulder with considerable skill, I thought, and
certainly with a gentle hand--when the order came from their officer
to move us on, for the shells were falling all around us.

Unfortunately for me, my guard did not come with us, nor did I ever
see him again. One of the others reached over and took my knife,
cutting the string as unconcernedly as if I wanted him to have
it, and I remember that this one had a saw-bayonet on his gun, as
murderous and cruel-looking a weapon as any one could imagine, and
he had a face to match it, too. So in the first five minutes I saw
the two kinds of Germans.

When we were out of the worst of the shell-fire, we stopped to rest,
and, a great dizziness coming over me, I sat down with my head
against a tree, and looked up at the trailing rags of clouds that
drifted across the sky. It was then about four o'clock of as pleasant
an afternoon as I can ever remember. But the calmness of the sky,
with its deep blue distance, seemed to shrivel me up into nothing.
The world was so bright, and blue, and--uncaring!

I may have fallen asleep for a few minutes, for I thought I heard
McKelvey saying, "Dad always told me not to let this happen." Over
and over again, I could hear this, but I don't know whether McKelvey
had repeated it. My brain was like a phonograph that sticks at one
word and says it over and over again until some one stops it.

I think it was Mudge, of Grand Forks, who came over to see how I was.
His voice sounded thin and far away, and I didn't answer him. Then I
felt him taking off my overcoat and finishing the bandaging that the
German boy had begun.

Little Joe, the Italian boy, often told me afterwards how I looked
at that time. "All same dead chicken not killed right and kep' long
time."

Here those who were not so badly wounded were marched on, but there
were ten of us so badly hit we had to go very slowly. Percy Weller,
one of the boys from Trail who enlisted when I did, was with us, and
when we began the march I was behind him and noticed three holes
in the back of his coat; the middle one was a horrible one made by
shrapnel. He staggered painfully, poor chap, and his left eye was
gone!

We passed a dead Canadian Highlander, whose kilt had pitched forward
when he fell, and seemed to be covering his face.

In the first village we came to, they halted us, and we saw it was
a dressing-station. The village was in ruins--even the town pump
had had its head blown off!--and broken glass, pieces of brick, and
plaster littered the one narrow street. The dressing was done in
a two-room building which may have been a store. The walls were
discolored and cracked, and the windows broken.

On a stretcher in the corner there lay a Canadian Highlander, from
whose wounds the blood dripped horribly and gathered in a red pool
on the dusty floor. His eyes were glazed and his face was drawn with
pain. He talked unceasingly, but without meaning. The only thing I
remember hearing him say was, "It's no use, mother--it's no use!"

Weller was attended to before I was, and marched on. While I sat
there on an old tin pail which I had turned up for this purpose, two
German officers came in, whistling. They looked for a minute at the
dying Highlander in the corner, and one of them went over to him. He
saw at once that his case was hopeless, and gave a short whistle as
you do when blowing away a thistledown, indicating that he would soon
be gone. I remember thinking that this was the German estimate of
human life.

He came to me and said, "Well, what have you got?"

I thought he referred to my wound, and said, "A shoulder wound." At
which he laughed pleasantly and said, "I am not interested in your
wound; that's the doctor's business." Then I saw what he meant; it
was souvenirs he was after. So I gave him my collar badge, and in
return he gave me a German coin, and went over to the doctor and said
something about me, for he flipped his finger toward me.

My turn came at last. The doctor examined my pay-book as well as my
wound. I had forty-five francs in it, and when he took it out, I
thought it was gone for sure. However, he carefully counted it before
me, drawing my attention to the amount, and then returned it to me.

After my wound had been examined and a tag put on me stating what
sort of treatment I was to have, I was taken away with half a dozen
others and led down a narrow stone stair to a basement. Here on the
cement floor were piles of straw, and the place was heated. The walls
were dirty and discolored. One of the few pleasant recollections
of my life in Germany has been the feeling of drowsy content that
wrapped me about when I lay down on a pile of straw in that dirty,
rat-infested basement. I forgot that I was a prisoner, that I was
badly winged, that I was hungry, thirsty, dirty, and tired. I forgot
all about my wounded companions and the Canadian Highlander, and all
the suffering of the world, and drifted sweetly out into the wide
ocean of sleep.

Some time during the night--for it was still dark--I felt some one
kicking my feet and calling me to get up, and all my trouble and
misery came back with a rush. My shoulder began to ache just where it
left off, but I was so hungry that the thought of getting something
to eat sustained me. Surely, I thought, they are going to feed us!

We were herded along the narrow street, out into a wide road, where
we found an open car which ran on light rails in the centre of the
road. It was like the picnic trolley cars which run in our cities
in the warm weather. There were wounded German soldiers huddled
together, and we sat down among them, wherever we could find the
room, but not a word was spoken. I don't know whether they noticed
who we were or not--they had enough to think about, not to be
concerned with us, for most of them were terribly wounded. The one
I sat beside leaned his head against my good shoulder and sobbed as
he breathed. I could not help but think of the irony of war that had
brought us together. For all I knew, he may have been the machine
gunner who had been the means of ripping my shoulder to pieces--and
it may have been a bullet from my rifle which had torn its way along
his leg which now hung useless. Even so, there was no hard feeling
between us, and he was welcome to the support of my good shoulder!

Some time through the night--my watch was broken and I couldn't tell
the time exactly--we came to another village and got off the car. A
guard came and carried off my companion, but as I could walk, I was
left to unload myself. The step was high, and as my shoulder was very
stiff and sore, I hesitated about jumping down. A big German soldier
saw me, understood what was wrong, and lifted me gently down.

It was then nearly morning, for the dawn was beginning to show in the
sky, and we were taken to an old church, where we were told to lie
down and go to sleep. It was miserably cold in the church, and my
shoulder ached fearfully. I tried hard to sleep, but couldn't manage
it, and walked up and down to keep warm. I couldn't help but think
of the strange use the church--which had been the scene of so many
pleasant gatherings--was being put to, and as I leaned against the
wall and looked out of the window, I seemed to see the gay and
light-hearted Belgian people who so recently had gathered there.
Right here, I thought, the bashful boys had stood, waiting to walk
home with the girls... just the way we did in British Columbia, where
one church I know well stands almost covered with the fragrant
pines...

I fell into a pleasant reverie then of sunny afternoons and dewy
moonlit nights, when the sun had gone over the mountains, and the
stars came out in hundreds. My dream then began to have in it the
brightest-eyed girl in the world, who gave me such a smile one Sunday
when she came out of church... that I just naturally found myself
walking beside her.... She had on a pink suit and white shoes, and
wore a long string of black beads...

Then somebody spoke to me, and a sudden chill seized me and sent me
into a spasm of coughing, and the pain of my shoulder shot up into my
head like a knife... and I was back--all right--to the ruined church
in Belgium, a prisoner of war in the hands of the Germans!

The person who spoke to me was a German cavalry officer, who quite
politely bade me good-morning and asked me how I felt. I told him I
felt rotten. I was both hungry and thirsty--and dirty and homesick.
He laughed at that, as if it were funny, and asked me where I came
from. When I told him, he said, "You Canadians are terrible fools to
fight with us when you don't have to. You'll be sick of it before you
are through. Canada is a nice country, though," he went on; "I've
been in British Columbia, too, in the Government employ there--they
treated me fine--and my brother is there now, engineer in the
Dunsmuir Collieries at Ladysmith. Great people--the Canadians!"

And he laughed again and said something in German to the officer who
was with him.

When the sun came up and poured into the church, warming up its cold
dreariness, I lay down and slept, for I had not nearly finished the
sleep so comfortably begun in the basement the night before.

But in what seemed like three minutes, some one kicked my feet and
called to me to get up. I got to my feet, still spurred by the hope
of getting something to eat. Outside, all those who could walk were
falling in, and I hastened to do the same. Our guards were mounted
this time, and I noticed that their horses were small and in poor
condition. We were soon out of the village and marching along a
splendid road.

The day was bright and sunny, but a searching wind blew straight
in our faces and made travelling difficult. It seemed to beat
unmercifully on my sore shoulder, and I held my right wrist with
my left hand, to keep the weight off my shoulder all I could.

I had not gone far when I began to grow weak and dizzy. The thirst
was the worst; my tongue was dry and swollen, and it felt like a
cocoa doormat. I could see rings of light wherever I looked, and
the ground seemed to come up in waves. A guard who rode near me had
a water-bottle beside him which dripped water. The cork was not in
tight as it should have been, and the sight of these drops of water
seemed to madden me. I begged him for a drink, and pointed to my
parched tongue; but he refused, and rode ahead as if the sight of
me annoyed him!

Ahead of us I could see the smoke of a large town, and I told myself
over and over again that there would be lots of water there, and food
and clean clothes, and in this way I kept myself alive until we
reached Roulers.



CHAPTER III

INTO GERMANY


Roulers is a good-sized town in West Flanders, of about thirty
thousand population, much noted for its linen manufacture; and has a
great church of St. Michael with a very high tower, which we could
see for miles. But I do not remember much about the look of the town,
for I could hardly drag my feet. It seemed as if every step would be
my last. But I held on some way, until we reached the stopping-place,
which happened to be an unused school. The men who had not been
wounded had arrived several hours ahead of us.

When, at last, I sat down on one of the benches, the whole place
seemed to float by me. Nothing would stand still. The sensation was
like the water dizziness which makes one feel he is being rapidly
propelled upstream. But after sitting awhile, it passed, and I began
to recognize some of our fellows. Frost, of my own battalion, was
there, and when I told him I had had nothing to eat since the early
morning of the day before, he immediately produced a hardtack biscuit
and scraped out the bottom of his jam tin. They had been served with
a ration of war-bread, and several of the boys offered me a share of
their scanty allowance, but the first mouthful was all I could take.
It was sour, heavy, and stale.

The school pump had escaped the fate of the last pump I had seen, and
was in good working order, and its asthmatic creaking as it brought
up the stream of water was music in my ears. We went out in turns and
drank like thirsty cattle. I drank until my jaws were stiff as if
with mumps, and my ears ached, and in a few minutes my legs were tied
in cramps.

While I was vainly trying to rub them out with my one good hand, Fred
McKelvey came up and told me a sure cure for leg-cramp. It is to turn
the toes up as far as possible, and straighten out the legs, and it
worked a cure for me. He said he had taken the cramps out of his legs
this way when he was in the water.

I remember some of the British Columbia boys who were there.
Sergeants Potentier, George Fitz, and Mudge, of Grand Forks; Reid,
Diplock, and Johnson, of Vancouver; Munroe and Wildblood, of
Rossland; Keith, Palmer, Larkins, Scott, and Croak. Captain
Scudamore, my Company Captain, came over to where I sat, and kindly
inquired about my wounds. He wrote down my father's address, too,
and said he would try to get a letter to him.

There was a house next door--quite a fine house with a neat paling
and long, shuttered windows, at which the vines were beginning to
grow. It looked to be in good condition, except that part of the
verandah had been torn away. The shutters were closed on its long,
graceful windows, giving it the appearance of a tall, stately woman
in heavy mourning.

When we were at the pump, we heard a gentle tapping, and, looking up,
we saw a very handsome dark-eyed Belgian woman at one of the windows.
Instinctively we saluted, and quick as a flash she held a Union Jack
against the pane!

A cheer broke from us involuntarily, and the guards sprang to
attention, suspecting trouble. But the flag was gone as quickly as
it came, and when we looked again, the shutters were closed and the
deep, waiting silence had settled down once more on the stately house
of shutters.

But to us it had become suddenly possessed of a living soul! The
flash of those sad black eyes, as well as the glimpse of the flag,
seemed to call to us to carry on! They typified to us exactly what
we were fighting for!

After the little incident of the flag, it was wonderful how bright
and happy we felt. Of course, I know, the ministrations of the pump
helped, for we not only drank all we wanted, but most of the boys had
a wash, too; but we just needed to be reminded once in awhile of what
the real issues of the war were.

Later in the day, after we had been examined by another medical man,
who dressed our wounds very skillfully, and gently, too, we came back
to the school, and found there two heavily veiled Belgian women. They
had bars of chocolate for us, for which we were very grateful. They
were both in deep mourning, and seemed to have been women of high
social position, but their faces were very pale and sad, and when
they spoke their voices were reedy and broken, and their eyes were
black pools of misery. Some of the boys afterwards told me that their
daughters had been carried off by the Germans, and their husbands
shot before their eyes.

I noticed the absence of children and young girls on the streets.
There were only old men and women, it seemed, and the faces of these
were sad beyond expression. There were no outbursts of grief; they
seemed like people whose eyes were cried dry, but whose spirits were
still unbroken.

Later in the day we were taken to the station, to take the train for
the prison-camp at Giessen. Of course, they did not tell us where we
were going. They did not squander information on us or satisfy our
curiosity, if they could help it.

The station was full of people when we got there, and there seemed
to be a great deal of eating done at the stations. This was more
noticeable still in German stations, as I saw afterwards.

Our mode of travelling was by the regular prisoner train which had
lately--quite lately--been occupied by horses. It had two small,
dirty windows, and the floor was bare of everything but dirt. We were
dumped into it--not like sardines, for they fit comfortably together,
but more like cordwood that is thrown together without being piled.
If we had not had arms or legs or heads, there would have been just
room for our bodies, but as it was, everybody was in everybody's way,
and as many of us were wounded, and all of us were tired and hungry,
we were not very amiable with each other.

I tried to stand up, but the jolting of the car made me dizzy, and
so I doubled up on the floor, and I don't know how many people sat
on me. I remember one of the boys I knew, who was beside me on the
floor, Fairy Strachan. He had a bad wound in his chest, given him by
a dog of a German guard, who prodded him with a bayonet after he was
captured, for no reason at all. Fortunately the bayonet struck a rib,
and so the wound was not deep, but not having been dressed, it was
very painful.

I could not sleep at all that night, for the air was stifling, and
somebody's arm or foot or head was always bumping into me. I wonder
if Robinson Crusoe ever remembered to be thankful for fresh air and
room to stretch himself! We asked the guards for water, for we soon
grew very thirsty, and when we stopped at a station, one of the boys,
looking out, saw the guard coming with a pail of water, and cried
out, "Here's water--boys!" The thought of a drink put new life in us,
and we scrambled to our feet. It was water, all right, and plenty
of it, but it was boiling hot and we could not drink it; and we
could not tell from the look of opaque stupidity on the face of the
guard whether he did it intentionally or not. He may have been a
boiling-water-before-meals advocate. He looked balmy enough for
anything!

[Illustration: Officers' Quarters in a German Military Prison]

At some of the stations the civilians standing on the platform filled
our water-bottles for us, but it wasn't enough. We had only two
water-bottles in the whole car. However, at Cologne, a boy came
quickly to the car window at our call, and filled our water-bottles
from a tap, over and over again. He would run as fast as he could
from the tap to the window, and left a bottle filling at the tap
while he made the trip. In this way every man in the car got enough
to drink, and this blue-eyed, shock-headed lad will ever live in
grateful memory.

The following night after midnight we reached Giessen, and were
unloaded and marched through dark streets to the prison-camp, which
is on the outskirts of the city. We were put into a dimly lighted
hut, stale and foul-smelling, too, and when we put up the windows,
some of our own Sergeants objected on account of the cold, and shut
them down. Well, at least we had room if we hadn't air, and we
huddled together and slept, trying to forget what we used to believe
about the need of fresh air.

As soon as the morning came, I went outside and watched a dull red,
angry sky flushing toward sunrise. Red in the morning sky denotes
wind, it is said, but we didn't need signs that morning to proclaim a
windy day, for the wind already swept the courtyard, and whipped the
green branches of the handsome trees which marked the driveway. My
spirits rose at once when I filled my lungs with air and looked up at
the scudding clouds which were being dogged across the sky by the wind.

A few straggling prisoners came out to wash at the tap in the
courtyard, and I went over to join them, for I was grimy, too, with
the long and horrible ride. With one hand I could make but little
progress, and was spreading the dirt rather than removing it, until a
friendly Belgian, seeing my difficulty, took his cake of soap and his
towel, and washed me well.

We were then given a ration of bread about two inches thick, and a
drink of something that tasted like water boiled in a coffee-pot, and
after this we were divided into ten groups. Those of us who knew each
other tried hard to stay together, but we soon learned to be careful
not to appear to be too anxious, for the guards evidently had
instructions to break up previous acquaintanceships.

The wounded were marched across the compound to the "Revier," a dull,
gray, solid-looking building, where again we were examined and
graded. Those seriously wounded were sent to the lazaret, or hospital
proper. I, being one of the more serious cases, was marched farther
on to the lazaret, and we were all taken to a sort of waiting-room,
and taken off in groups to the general bathroom to have a bath,
before getting into the hospital clothes.

With me was a young bugler of the Fifth Royal Highlanders, Montreal,
a little chap not more than fifteen, whose pink cheeks and curly hair
would have made an appeal to any human being: he looked so small and
lonesome and far from home. A smart young military doctor jostled
against the boy's shattered arm, eliciting from him a cry of pain,
whereupon he began to make fun of the little bugler, by marching
around him, making faces. It gave me a queer feeling to see a
grown-up man indulging in the tactics of a spoiled child, but I have
heard many people express the opinion, in which I now heartily agree,
that the Germans are a childish sort of people. They are stupidly
boastful, inordinately fond of adulation and attention, and peevish
and sulky when they cannot have their own way. I tried to imagine how
a young German boy would have been treated by one of our doctors, and
laughed to myself at the absurdity of the thought that they would
make faces at him!

The young bugler was examined before I was, and as he was marched out
of the room, the doctor who had made the faces grabbed at his kilt
with an insulting gesture, at which the lad attempted to kick him.
The doctor dodged the kick, and the Germans who were in the room
roared with laughter. I hated them more that minute than I had up to
that time.

The Belgian attendants who looked after the bathing of us were kind
and polite. One of them could speak a little English, and he tried
hard to get information regarding his country from us.

"Is it well?" he asked us eagerly. "My country--is it well?"

We thought of the shell-scarred country, with its piles of
smouldering ashes, its pallid women with their haunted faces, the
deathlike silence of the ruined streets. We thought of these things,
but we didn't tell him of them. We told him the war was going on in
great shape: the Allies were advancing all along the line, and were
going to be in Berlin by Christmas. It was worth the effort to see
his little pinched face brighten. He fairly danced at his work
after that, and when I saw him afterwards, he eagerly asked--"My
country--is it well?" I do not know why he thought I knew, or maybe
he didn't think so. But, anyway, I did my best. I gave him a glowing
account of the Allied successes, and painted a gloomy future for the
Kaiser, and I again had my reward, in his glowing face.

Everything we had was taken from us except shoes, socks, cap, and
handkerchief, and we did not see them again: neither did we get
another bath, although I was six weeks in the hospital.

The hospital clothes consisted of a pajama suit of much-faded
flannelette, but I was glad to get into it, and doubly glad to get
rid of my shirt and tunic, which were stiff on one side with dried
blood. From the lazaret, where I had my bath, I could see the gun
platform with its machine guns, commanding every part of the Giessen
Prison. The guard pointed it out to me, to quiet my nerves, I
suppose, and to scare me out of any thought of insubordination.
However, he need not have worried--I was not thinking of escaping
just then or starting an insurrection either. I was quite content to
lie down on the hard straw bed and pull the quilt over me and take
a good long rest.



CHAPTER IV

THE LAZARET


The lazaret in which I was put was called "M.G.K.," which is to say
Machine Gun Company, and it was exactly like the other hospital huts.
There were some empty beds, and the doctor seemed to have plenty of
time to attend to us. For a few days, before my appetite began to
make itself felt, I enjoyed the rest and quiet, and slept most of the
time. But at the end of a week I began to get restless.

The Frenchman whose bed was next to mine fascinated me with his
piercing black eyes, unnaturally bright and glittering. I knew
the look in his eyes; I had seen it--after the battle--when the
wounded were coming in, and looked at us as they were carried by on
stretchers. Some had this look--some hadn't. Those who had it never
came back.

And sometimes before the fighting, when the boys were writing home,
the farewell letter that would not be mailed unless--"something
happened"--I've seen that look in their faces, and I knew... just as
they did... the letter would be mailed!

Emile, the Frenchman, had the look!

He was young, and had been strong and handsome, although his face was
now thin and pinched and bloodless, like a slum child's; but he hung
on to life pitifully. He hated to die--I knew that by the way he
fought for breath, and raged when he knew for sure that it was going
from him.

In the middle of his raging, he would lean over his bed and peer
into my face, crying "L'Anglaise--l'Anglaise," with his black eyes
snapping like dagger points. I often had to turn away and put my
pillow over my eyes.

But one afternoon, in the middle of it, the great silence fell on
him, and Emile's struggles were over.

        *       *       *

Our days were all the same. Nobody came to see us; we had no books.
There was a newspaper which was brought to us every two weeks,
printed in English, but published in German, with all the German fine
disregard for the truth. It said it was "printed for Americans in
Europe." The name of it was "The Continental Times," but I never
heard it called anything but "The Continental Liar." Still, it was
print, and we read it; I remember some of the sentences. It spoke of
an uneasy feeling in England "which the presence of turbaned Hindoos
and Canadian cowboys has failed to dispel." Another one said, "The
Turks are operating the Suez Canal in the interests of neutral
shipping." "Fleet-footed Canadians" was an expression frequently
used, and the insinuation was that the Canadians often owed their
liberty to their speed.

But we managed to make good use of this paper. I got one of the
attendants, Ivan, a good-natured, flat-footed Russian, to bring me
a pair of scissors, and the boy in the cot next to mine had a stub
of pencil, and between us we made a deck of cards out of the white
spaces of the paper, and then we played solitaire, time about, on
our quilts.

        *       *       *

I got my first parcel about the end of May, from a Mrs. Andrews whose
son I knew in Trail and who had entertained me while I was in London.
I had sent a card to her as soon as I was taken. The box was like a
visit from Santa Claus. I remember the "Digestive Biscuits," and how
good they tasted after being for a month on the horrible diet of
acorn coffee, black bread, and the soup which no word that is fit for
publication could describe.

I also received a card from my sister, Mrs. Meredith, of Edmonton,
about this time. I was listed "Missing" on April 29th, and she sent a
card addressed to me with "Canadian Prisoner of War, Germany," on it,
on the chance that I was a prisoner. We were allowed to write a card
once a week and two letters a month; and we paid for these. My people
in Canada heard from me on June 9th.

        *       *       *

I cannot complain of the treatment I received in the lazaret. The
doctor took a professional interest in me, and one day brought in two
other doctors, and proudly exhibited how well I could move my arm.
However, I still think if he had massaged my upper arm, it would be
of more use to me now than it is.

Chloroform was not used in this hospital; at least I never saw any
of it. One young Englishman, who had a bullet in his thigh, cried
out in pain when the surgeon was probing for it. The German doctor
sarcastically remarked, "Oh, I thought the English were _brave_."

To which the young fellow, lifting his tortured face, proudly
answered, "The English _are_ brave--and _merciful_--and they use
chloroform for painful operations, and do this for the German
prisoners, too."

But there was no chloroform used for him, though the operation was
a horrible one.

There was another young English boy named Jellis, who came in after
the fight of May 8th, who seemed to be in great pain the first few
days. Then suddenly he became quiet, and we hoped his pain had
lessened; but we soon found out he had lock-jaw, and in a few days
he died.

        *       *       *

From the pasteboard box in which my first parcel came, I made a
checker-board, and my next-door neighbor and I had many a game.

In about three weeks I was allowed to go out in the afternoons, and
I walked all I could in the narrow space, to try to get back all my
strength, for one great hope sustained me--I would make a dash for
liberty the first chance I got, and I knew that the better I felt,
the better my chances would be. I still had my compass, and I guarded
it carefully. Everything of this nature was supposed to be taken from
us at the lazaret, but I managed, through the carelessness of the
guard, to retain the compass.

The little corral in which we were allowed to walk had a barbed-wire
fence around it--a good one, too, eight strands, and close together.
One side of the corral was a high wall, and in the enclosure on the
other side of the wall were the lung patients.

One afternoon I saw a young Canadian boy looking wistfully through
the gate, and I went over and spoke to him. He was the only one who
could speak English among the "lungers." The others were Russians,
French, and Belgians. The boy was dying of loneliness as well as
consumption. He came from Ontario, though I forget the name of the
town.

"Do you think it will be over soon?" he asked me eagerly. "Gee, I'm
sick of it--and wish I could get home. Last night I dreamed about
going home. I walked right in on them--dirt and all--with this
tattered old tunic--and a dirty face. Say, it didn't matter--my
mother just grabbed me--and it was dinner-time--they were eating
turkey--a great big gobbler, all brown--and steaming hot--and I sat
down in my old place--it was ready for me--and just began on a leg
of turkey..."

A spasm of coughing seized him, and he held to the bars of the gate
until it passed.

Then he went on: "Gee, it was great--it was all so clear. I can't
believe that I am not going! I think the war must be nearly over--"

Then the cough came again--that horrible, strangling cough--and I
knew that it would be only in his dreams that he would ever see his
home! For to him, at least, the war was nearly over, and the day of
peace at hand.

Before I left the lazaret, the smart-Alec young German doctor who had
made faces at the little bugler blew gaily in one day and breezed
around our beds, making pert remarks to all of us. I knew him the
minute he came in the door, and was ready for him when he passed my
bed.

He stopped and looked at me, and made some insulting remark about
my beard, which was, I suppose, quite a sight, after a month of
uninterrupted growth. Then he began to make faces at me.

I raised myself on my elbow, and regarded him with the icy composure
of an English butler. Scorn and contempt were in my glance, as much
as I could put in; for I realized that it was hard for me to look
dignified and imposing, in a hospital pajama suit of dirt-colored
flannelette, with long wisps of amber-colored hair falling around
my face, and a thick red beard long enough now to curl back like a
drake's tail.

I knew I looked like a valentine, but my stony British stare did the
trick in spite of all handicaps, and he turned abruptly and went out.

The first week of June, I was considered able to go back to the
regular prison-camp. A German guard came for me, and I stepped out in
my pajamas to the outer room where our uniforms were kept. There were
many uniforms there--smelling of the disinfectants--with the owners'
names on them, but mine was missing. The guard tried to make me take
one which was far too short for me, but I refused. I knew I looked
bad enough, without having elbow sleeves and short pants; and it
began to look as if I should have to go to bed until some good-sized
patient came in.

But my guard suddenly remembered something, and went into another
hut, bringing back the uniform of "D. Smith, Vancouver." The name
was written on the band of the trousers. D. Smith had died the day
before, from lung trouble. The uniform had been disinfected, and hung
in wrinkles. My face had the hospital pallor, and, with my long hair
and beard, I know I looked "snaggy" like a potato that has been
forgotten in a dark corner of the cellar.

When we came out of the lazaret, the few people we met on the road to
the prison-camp broke into broad grins; some even turned and looked
after us.



CHAPTER V

THE PRISON-CAMP


The guard took me to Camp 6, Barrack A, where I found some of the
boys I knew. They were in good spirits, and had fared in the matter
of food much the same as I had. We agreed exactly in our diagnosis
of the soup.

I was shown my mattress and given two blankets; also a metal bowl,
knife, and fork.

Outside the hut, on the shady side, I went and sat down with some of
the boys who, like myself, were excused from labor. Dent, of Toronto,
was one of the party, and he was engaged in the occupation known as
"reading his shirt"--and on account of the number of shirts being
limited to one for each man, while the "reading" was going on, he sat
in a boxer's uniform, wrapped only in deep thought.

Now, it happened that I did not acquire any "cooties" while I was in
the army, and of course in the lazaret we were kept clean, so this
was my first close acquaintanceship with them. My time of exemption
was over, though, for by night I had them a-plenty.

I soon found out that insect powder was no good. I think it just made
them sneeze, and annoyed them a little. We washed our solitary shirts
regularly, but as we had only cold water, it did not kill the eggs,
and when we hung the shirt out in the sun, the eggs came out in full
strength, young, hearty, and hungry. It was a new generation we had
to deal with, and they had all the objectionable qualities of their
ancestors, and a few of their own.

Before long, the Canadian Red Cross parcels began to come, and I got
another shirt--a good one, too, only the sleeves were too long. I
carefully put in a tuck, for they came well over my hands. But I soon
found that these tucks became a regular rendezvous for the "cooties,"
and I had to let them out. The Red Cross parcels also contained
towels, toothbrushes, socks, and soap, and all these were very
useful.

After a few weeks, with the lice increasing every day, we raised such
a row about them that the guards took us to the fumigator. This was
a building of three rooms, which stood by itself in the compound.
In the first room we undressed and hung all our clothes, and our
blankets too, on huge hooks which were placed on a sliding framework.
This framework was then pushed into the oven and the clothes were
thoroughly baked. We did not let our boots, belts, or braces go, as
the heat would spoil the leather. We then walked out into the next
room and had a shower bath, and after that went into the third room
at the other side of the oven, and waited until the framework was
pushed through to us, when we took our clothes from the hooks and
dressed.

This was a sure cure for the "cooties," and for a few days, at least,
we enjoyed perfect freedom from them. Every week after this we had a
bath, and it was compulsory, too.

[Illustration: Giessen Prison-Camp]

As prison-camps go, Giessen is a good one. The place is well drained;
the water is excellent; the sanitary conditions are good, too; the
sleeping accommodations are ample, there being no upper berths such
as exist in all the other camps I have seen. It is the "Show-Camp,"
to which visitors are brought, who then, not having had to eat the
food, write newspaper articles telling how well Germany treats her
prisoners. If these people could see some of the other camps that I
have seen, the articles would have to be modified.

        *       *       *

News of the trouble in Ireland sifted through to us in the
prison-camp. The first I heard of it was a letter in the "Continental
Times," by Roger Casement's sister, who had been in Germany and
had visited some of the prison-camps, and was so pleased with the
generous treatment Germany was according her prisoners. She was
especially charmed with the soup!!! And the letter went on to tell
of the Irish Brigade that was being formed in Germany to fight the
tyrant England. Every Irish prisoner who would join was to be given
the privilege of fighting against England. Some British prisoners
who came from Limburg, a camp about thirty miles from Giessen, told
us more about it. Roger Casement, himself, had gone there to gather
recruits, and several Irishmen had joined and were given special
privileges accordingly. However, there were many Irishmen who did
_not_ join, and who kept a list of the recruits--for future
reference, when the war was over!

The Irishmen in our camp were approached, but they remained loyal.

        *       *       *

The routine of the camp was as follows: Reveille sounded at six. We
got up and dressed and were given a bowl of coffee. Those who were
wise saved their issue of bread from the night before, and ate it
with the coffee. There was a roll-call right after the coffee, when
every one was given a chance to volunteer for work. At noon there was
soup, and another roll-call. We answered the roll-call, either with
the French word "Présent" or the German word "Hier," pronounced the
same as our word. Then at five o'clock there was an issue of black
bread made mostly from potato flour.

I was given a light job of keeping the space between A Barrack and B
Barrack clean, and I made a fine pretense of being busy, for it let
me out of "drill," which I detested, for they gave the commands in
German, and it went hard with us to have to salute their officers.

On Sundays there was a special roll-call, when every one had to give
a full account of himself. The prisoners then had the privilege of
asking for any work they wanted, and if the Germans could supply it,
it was given.

None of us were keen on working; not but what we would much rather
work than be idle, but for the uncomfortable thought that we were
helping the enemy. There were iron-works near by, where Todd,
Whittaker, Dent, little Joe, and some others were working, and it
happened that one day Todd and one of the others, when going to have
teeth pulled at the dentist's, saw shells being shipped away, and
upon inquiry found the steel came from the iron mines where they were
working. When this became known, the boys refused to work! Every sort
of bullying was tried on them for two days at the mines, but they
still refused. They were then sent back to Giessen and sentenced to
eighteen months' punishment at Butzbach--all but Dent, who managed
some way to fool the doctor pretending he was sick!

That they fared badly there, I found out afterwards, though I never
saw any of them.

Some of the boys from our hut worked on the railroad, and some went
to work in the chemical works at Griesheim, which have since been
destroyed by bombs dropped by British airmen.

John Keith, who was working on the railroad,--one of the best-natured
and inoffensive boys in our hut,--came in one night with his face
badly swollen and bruised. He had laughed, it seemed, at something
which struck him as being funny, and the guard had beaten him over
the head with the butt of his rifle. One of our guards, a fine old,
brown-eyed man called "Sank," told the guard who had done this what
he thought of him. "Sank" was the "other" kind of German, and did all
he could to make our lives pleasant. I knew that "Sank" was calling
down the guard, by his expression and his gestures, and his frequent
use of the word "blödsinnig."

Another time one of the fellows from our hut, who was a member of a
working party, was shot through the legs by the guard, who claimed he
was trying to escape, and after that there were no more working
parties allowed for a while.

Each company had its own interpreter, Russian, French, or English.
Our interpreter was a man named Scott from British Columbia, an
Englishman who had received part of his education at Heidelberg. From
him I learned a good deal about the country through which I hoped
to travel. Heidelberg is situated between Giessen and the Swiss
boundary, and so was of special interest to me. I made a good-sized
map, and marked in all the information I could dig out of Scott.

The matter of escaping was in my mind all the time, but I was careful
to whom I spoke, for some fellows' plans had been frustrated by their
unwise confidences.

The possession of a compass is an indication that the subject of
"escaping" has been thought of, and the question, "Have you a
compass?" is the prison-camp way of saying, "What do you think of
making a try?"

One day, a fellow called Bromley who came from Toronto, and who was
captured at the same time that I was, asked me if I had a compass. He
was a fine big fellow, with a strong, attractive face, and I liked
him, from the first. He was a fair-minded, reasonable chap, and we
soon became friends. We began to lay plans, and when we could get
together, talked over the prospects, keeping a sharp lookout for
eavesdroppers.

[Illustration: Tom Bromley / In Red Cross overcoat with prison number
and marked sleeve]

There were difficulties!

The camp was surrounded by a high board fence, and above the boards,
barbed wire was tightly drawn, to make it uncomfortable for reaching
hands. Inside of this was an ordinary barbed-wire fence through which
we were not allowed to go, with a few feet of "No Man's Land" in
between.

There were sentry-boxes ever so often, so high that the sentry could
easily look over the camp. Each company was divided from the others
by two barbed-wire fences, and besides this there were the sentries
who walked up and down, armed, of course.

There were also the guns commanding every bit of the camp, and
occasionally, to drive from us all thought of insurrection, the
Regular Infantry marched through with fixed bayonets. At these times
we were always lined up so we should not miss the gentle little
lesson!

        *       *       *

One day, a Zeppelin passed over the camp, and we all hurried out
to look at it. It was the first one I had seen, and as it rode
majestically over us, I couldn't help but think of the terrible use
that had been made of man's mastery of the air. We wondered if it
carried bombs. Many a wish for its destruction was expressed--and
unexpressed. Before it got out of sight, it began to show signs of
distress, as if the wishes were taking effect, and after considerable
wheeling and turning it came back.

Ropes were lowered and the men came down. It was secured to the
ground, and floated serenely beside the wood adjoining the camp....
The wishes were continued....

During the afternoon, a sudden storm swept across the camp--rain and
wind with such violence that we were all driven indoors....

When we came out after a few minutes--probably half an hour--the
Zeppelin had disappeared. We found out afterwards that it had broken
away from its moorings, and, dashing against the high trees, had been
smashed to kindling wood; and this news cheered us wonderfully!

        *       *       *

A visitor came to the camp one day, and, accompanied by three or four
officers, made the rounds. He spoke to a group of us who were outside
of the hut, asking us how many Canadians there were in Giessen. He
said he thought there were about nine hundred Canadians in Germany
altogether. He had no opportunity for private conversation with us,
for the German officers did not leave him for a second; and although
he made it clear that he would like to speak to us alone this
privilege was not granted. Later we found out it was Ambassador James
W. Gerard.

It soon became evident that there were spies in the camp. Of course,
we might have known that no German institution could get along
without spies. Spies are the bulwark of the German nation; so in the
Giessen camp there were German spies of all nationalities, including
Canadian.

But we soon saw, too, that the spies were not working overtime on
their job; they just brought in a little gossip once in a while--just
enough to save their faces and secure a soft snap for themselves.

One of these, a Frenchman named George Clerque, a Sergeant Major in
the French Army, was convinced that he could do better work if he
had a suit of civilian clothes; and as he had the confidence of the
prison authorities, the suit was given him. He wore it around for a
few days, wormed a little harmless confidence out of some of his
countrymen, and then one day quietly walked out of the front
gate--and was gone!

Being in civilian dress, it seemed quite likely that he would reach
his destination, and as days went on, and there was no word of him,
we began to hope that he had arrived in France.

The following notice was put up regarding his escape:


NOTICE!

Owing to the evasions recently done, we beg to inform the prisoners
of war of the following facts. Until present time, all the prisoners
who were evased, have been catched. The French Sergt. Major George
Clerque, speaking a good German and being in connection in Germany
with some people being able to favorise his evasion, has been
retaken. The Company says again, in the personal interests of the
prisoners, that any evasion give place to serious punition (minima)
fortnight of rigourous imprisonment after that they go in the
"Strafbaracke" for an indeterminate time.

GIESSEN, den 19th July, 1915.


Although the notice said he had been captured we held to the hope
that he had not, for we knew the German way of using the truth only
when it suits better than anything they can frame themselves. They
have no prejudice against the truth. It stands entirely on its own
merits. If it suits them, they will use it, but the truth must not
expect any favors.

The German guards told us quite often that no one ever got out of
Germany alive, and we were anxious to convince them that they were
wrong. One day when the mail came in, a friend of George Clerque
told us he had written from France, and there was great, but, of
necessity, quiet rejoicing.

That night Bromley and I decided that we would volunteer for farm
service, if we could get taken to Rossbach, where some of the other
boys had been working, for Rossbach was eighteen miles south of
Giessen--on the way to Switzerland. We began to save food from our
parcels, and figure out distances on the map which I had made.

The day came when we were going to volunteer--Sunday at roll-call. Of
course, we did not wish to appear eager, and were careful not to be
seen together too much. Suddenly we were called to attention, and a
stalwart German soldier marched solemnly into the camp. Behind him
came two more, with somebody between them, and another soldier
brought up the rear. The soldiers carried their rifles and full
equipment, and marched by in front of the huts.

We pressed forward, full of curiosity, and there beheld the tiredest,
dustiest, most woe-begone figure of a man, whose clothes were in
rags, and whose boots were so full of holes they seemed ready to drop
off him. He was handcuffed and walked wearily, with downcast eyes--

It was George Clerque!

[Illustration: German Prison Stamp]



CHAPTER VI

ROSSBACH


It was September 25th that we left the prison-camp and came to
Rossbach--eighteen miles south on the railway. The six of us, with
the German guard, had a compartment to ourselves, and as there was
a map on the wall which showed the country south of Rossbach, over
which we hoped to travel, I studied it as hard as I could without
attracting the attention of the guard, and afterwards entered on my
map the information I had gained.

It was rather a pretty country we travelled through, with small farms
and fairly comfortable-looking buildings. The new houses are built of
frame or brick, and are just like our own, but the presence of the
old stone buildings, gray and dilapidated, and old enough to belong
to the time of the Crusaders, kept us reminded that we were far from
home.

However, we were in great humor that morning. Before us was a Great
Adventure; there were dangers and difficulties in the way, but at
the end of the road was Liberty! And that made us forget how rough
the going was likely to be. Besides, at the present time we were
travelling south--toward Switzerland. We were on our way.

At Wetzlar, one of the stations near Giessen, a kind-faced old German
came to the window and talked to us in splendid English.

"I would like to give you something, boys," he said, "but"--he
shrugged his shoulders--"you know--I daren't."

The guard pretended not to hear a word, and at that moment was waving
his hand to a group of girls--just the regular station-goers, who
meet the trains in Canada. This was, I think, the only place I saw
them, for the women of Germany, young and old, are not encouraged to
be idle or frivolous.

"I just wish I could give you something," the old man repeated,
feeling in his pocket as if looking for a cigar.

Then Clarke, one of our boys, leaned out of the window and said,
"I'll tell you what we would like best of all, old man--if you
happen to have half a dozen of them on you--we'll take tickets to
Canada--six will do--if you happen to have them right with you!
And we're ready to start right now, too!"

The German laughed and said, "You'd better try to forget about
Canada, boys."

        *       *       *

The guards who brought us to Rossbach went straight back to Giessen,
after handing us over to the guards there, and getting, no doubt, an
official receipt for us, properly stamped and signed.

Rossbach has a new town and an old, and, the station being in the new
town, we were led along the road to the old town, where the farming
people live. It is an old village, with the houses, pig-pens, and
cow-stables all together, and built so close that it would be quite
possible to look out of the parlor window and see how the pigs are
enjoying their evening meal or whether the cow has enough bedding.

There have been no improvements there for a hundred years, except
that they have electric lighting everywhere, even in the pig-pens.
There were no lights in the streets, though, I noticed, and I saw
afterwards that a street light would be a foolish extravagance,
for the people go to bed at dark. They have the real idea of
daylight-saving, and do not let any of it escape them.

The guards took us around to the houses, and we created considerable
interest, for strangers are a sensation at Rossbach; and, besides,
prisoners are cheap laborers, and the thrifty German farmer does not
like to miss a bargain.

The little fellows were the first choice, for they looked easier to
manage than those of us who were bigger. Clarke was taken by a woman
whose husband was at the front, and who had five of as dirty children
as I ever saw at one time. We asked one little boy his age, which he
said was "fünf," but we thought he must be older--no child could get
as dirty as that in five years!

I was left until almost the last, and when a pleasant-looking old
gentleman appeared upon the scene, I decided I would take a hand in
the choosing, so I said, "I'll go with you."

I was afraid there might be another large family, all with colds in
their heads, like the five which Clarke had drawn, waiting for me, so
that prompted me to choose this benevolent-looking old grandfather.

The old man took me home with him to one of the best houses in the
village, although there was not much difference between them. His
house was made of plaster which had been whitewashed, and had in it a
good-sized kitchen, where the family really lived, and an inner room
which contained a large picture of the Royal Family, all in uniform,
and very gorgeous uniforms, too. Even the young daughter had a
uniform which looked warlike enough for a Lieutenant-Colonel's. There
was also a desk in this room, where the father of the family--for
the old man who brought me in was the grandfather--conducted his
business. He was some sort of a clerk, probably the reeve of the
municipality, and did not work on the farm at all. There was a fine
home-made carpet on the floor, but the room was bare and cheerless,
with low ceiling, and inclined to be dark.

When we entered the kitchen, the family greeted me cordially, and I
sat down to dinner with them. There were three girls and one brother,
who was a soldier and home on leave.

Bromley went to work for a farmer on the other side of the
village, but I saw him each night, for we all went back to a large
three-storied building, which may once have been a boarding-house, to
sleep each night, the guard escorting us solemnly both to and from
work each day. This was a very good arrangement for us, too, for we
had to be through work and have our supper over by eight o'clock each
night.

After our prison diet, the meals we had here were ample and almost
epicurean. We had soup--the real thing--made from meat, with plenty
of vegetables; coffee with milk, but no sugar; cheese, homemade but
very good; meat, both beef and pork; eggs in abundance; but never any
pastry; and lots of potatoes, boiled in their skins, and fried.

There were plenty of fruit-trees, too, in Rossbach, growing along the
road, and, strange to say, unmolested by the youngsters. The trees
appear to belong to the municipality, and the crop is sold by auction
each year to the highest bidder. They are quite ornamental, too,
standing in a straight row on each side of the road.

The farmers who lived in this village followed the oldest methods of
farming I had ever seen, though I saw still more primitive methods in
Hanover. Vegetables, particularly potatoes and mangels, were grown in
abundance, and I saw small fields of stubble, though what the grain
was I do not know. I saw a threshing-machine drawn by a tractor going
along the road, and one of the girls told me it was made in England.
The woman who had the farm next to the one I was on was a widow,
her husband having been killed in the war, and she had no horses at
all, and cultivated her tiny acres with a team of cows. It seems
particularly consistent with German character to make cows work! They
hate to see anything idle, and particularly of the female sex.

Each morning we rode out to the field, for the farms are scattered
over a wide area, and three-acre and five-acre fields are the average
size. The field where we went to work digging potatoes was about
a mile distant from the house, and when I say we rode, I mean the
brother and I--the girls walked. I remonstrated at this arrangement,
but the girls themselves seemed to be surprised that it should be
questioned, and the surly young brother growled something at me which
I knew was a reflection on my intelligence.

When we got into the field and began to dig potatoes, good,
clear-skinned yellow ones, Lena Schmidt, one of the girls, who was a
friend of the family, though not a relation, I think, began to ask me
questions about Canada (they put the accent on the third syllable).
Lena had been to Sweden, so she told me proudly, and had picked up
quite a few English words. She was a good-looking German girl, with
a great head of yellow hair, done in braids around her head. The
girls were all fairly good-looking though much tanned from outdoor
work. Lena had heard women worked in the house, and not outside, in
Canada--was it true?

I assured her it was true.

"But," said Lena, "what do they do in house--when bread is made and
dish-wash?"

I told her our women read books and played the piano and made
themselves pretty clothes and went visiting and had parties, and
sometimes played cards.

Of course it was not all told as easily as this sounds.

I could see that Lena was deeply impressed, and so were the two
others when she passed it on. Then she began to question me again.

"Are there many women in Canada--women in every house--like here?"

I told her there were not nearly so many women in Canada as here;
indeed, there were not enough to go around, and there were lots of
men who could not get married for that reason.

When Lena passed that on, excitement reigned, and German questions
were hurled at me! I think the three girls were ready to leave home!
I gently reminded them of the war and the complications it had caused
in the matter of travelling. They threw out their hands with a
gesture of despair--there could be no Canada for them. "Fertig," they
said--which is the word they use to mean "no chance," "no use to try
further."

Lena, however, having travelled as far as Sweden, and knowing,
therefore, something of the world's ways, was not altogether without
hope.

"The war--will be some day done!" she said--and we let it go at that.

Lena began to teach me German, and used current events as the basis
of instruction. Before the end of the first day I was handling
sentences like this--"Herr Schmidt expects to have his young child
christened in the church next Sunday at 2 o'clock, God willing."

Helene Romisch, the daughter of the house, had a mania for knowing
every one's age, and put the question to me in the first ten minutes
of our acquaintance. She had evidently remembered every answer she
had ever received to her questions, for she told me the age of every
one who passed by on the road, and when there was no one passing she
gave me a list of the family connections of those who had gone, or
those who were likely to go, with full details as to birthdays.

I think it was Eliza, the other girl, who could speak no English and
had to use Lena as interpreter, who first broached the tender subject
of matrimony.

Was I married?

I said, "No."

Then, after a few minutes' conference--

Had I a girl?

"No--I hadn't," I told them.

Then came a long and heated discussion, and Lena was hard put to it,
with her scanty store of English words, and my recently acquired
German, to frame such a delicate question. I thought I knew what it
was going to be--but I did not raise a hand to help.

Why hadn't I a girl? Did I not like girls? or what?

I said I did like girls; that was not the reason. Then all three
talked at once, and I knew a further explanation was going to be
demanded if Lena's English could frame it. This is the form in which
the question came:

"You have no girl, but you say you like girls; isn't it all right to
have a girl?"

Then I told them it was quite a proper thing to have a girl; I had no
objections at all; in fact, I might some day have a girl myself.

Then Lena opened her heart, seeing that I was not a woman-hater, and
told me she had a beau in Sweden; but I gathered from her manner of
telling it that his intentions were somewhat vague yet. Eliza had
already admitted that she had a "fellow," and had shown me his
picture. Helene made a bluff at having one, too, though she did not
seem able to give names or dates. Then Lena, being the spokeswoman,
told me she could get a girl for me, and that the young lady was
going to come out to the potato digging. "She see you carry
water--she like you," declared Lena. This was interesting, too, and
I remembered that when I was carrying water from the town pump the
first day I was there, I had seen a black-eyed young lady of about
sixteen standing in the road, and when I passed she had bade me
"Good-day" in splendid English.

On Saturday, Fanny Hummel, for that was the black-eyed one's name,
did come out. The three girls had a bad attack of giggles all the
time Fanny and I were talking, for Fanny could speak a little
English, having studied a year at Friedberg. She had a brother in
the army who was an officer, and she told me he could speak English
"perfect." As far as her English would go, she told me about
Friedberg and her studies there, but when I tried to find out what
she thought about the war, I found that Fanny was a properly trained
German girl, and didn't think in matters of this kind.

When the day's work was over, Fanny and I walked back to town with
the three girls following us in a state of partial collapse from
giggles. That night, Lena wanted to know how things stood. Was Fanny
my girl? I was sorry to break up such a pleasant little romance, but
was compelled to state with brutal frankness that Fanny was not my
girl!

I do not know how Fanny received this report, which I presumed would
be given to her the next day, for the next day was the one we had
selected for our departure.



CHAPTER VII

THE ESCAPE


Sunday, October 3d, was the day we had chosen as our "going-away"
day. We did no work on Sundays, and so had a full day's rest.
Besides, we had a chance for a bath on Sunday, and knew we needed
every advantage we could get, for it was a long way to Switzerland.

The day had been sunny and bright, but toward evening big, heavy
clouds rolled up from the southwest, and the darkness came on early.
This. suited our purpose, and it was hard for Bromley and me to keep
our accustomed air of unconcern.

By a fortunate arrangement, we were occupying a room downstairs in
the old boarding-house, which made our escape less difficult. The
upstairs sleeping-place would hold only three more when the six of us
arrived from Giessen the week previous, and that left three of us for
a downstairs room. For this, Bromley and I, and a young Englishman
called Bherral were chosen.

The walls of the house were of plaster, and the windows had a double
barring of barbed wire, stapled in; but plaster does not make a very
secure bedding for staples, and we figured it would not be hard to
pry them out.

[Illustration: Two Pages from Private Simmons's Diary]

There was a light outside which burned all night at the corner of the
house, and by it the windows were brightly illumined. This made our
exit rather difficult. The doors were all locked, and there were
about a dozen guards who slept in another room adjoining ours. Some
of them slept, we knew, and we hoped they all did.

None of the prisoners at this place had ever attempted to escape, and
so the guard had become less vigilant. I suppose they figured it out
that if any of us were determined to go, we would make the start from
the field where we were working, and where there were no guards at
all.

But they made a fine bluff at being awake all night, for we heard
them walking up and down in the early evening. However, we reasoned
that they were not any keener on sitting up than any of the rest of
us would be if we didn't have to; and it turned out that our faith
in them was justified.

Although we did not have to work on Sunday, those who had to work in
the mines had no seventh day of rest, and the night-shift went out
each night about ten-thirty when the day-shift men came in. We had
decided on eleven-thirty as the hour for our departure, giving the
guard one hour in which to settle down after this disturbance.

We were lying on our mattresses, apparently wrapped in a heavy
slumber, but in reality eagerly listening to every sound.... We heard
the night-workers going out, and the day-men coming in and going
heavily to rest.... A guard seemed restless for a while and tramped
up and down the creaking floor... but at last the only sound to be
heard was the deep breathing of tired men.

I heard Bromley gently reaching for his clothes, and I did not lose
any time in getting into mine. Bherral and a little Frenchman, who
were in our room, were wide awake and full of fear. They had tried
to dissuade us.

But the guards, all unsuspecting, slept on.

They slept the sweet sleep of childhood while we pushed out the
strands of barbed wire which protected the window; they slept while
Bromley slipped cautiously to the ground, and while I handed him down
the overcoats, boots, and parcels of food (which we had been saving
for a month); they slept while I slid through the window and dropped
to the ground, too.

Just then the wind caught the window, which was on a hinge, and
slammed it noisily against the wall.

We grabbed our belongings, and ran!



CHAPTER VIII

OFF FOR SWITZERLAND!


We ran as if the whole German Army were in pursuit. Our feet did not
seem to touch the ground. I believe if we could have held that pace
we should have been in Switzerland in the morning!

Reaching a little hollow, we slackened our pace and listened. There
was not a sound from behind. Either there was no more wind, or the
boys had closed the window from within. We figured that they would do
this, and open it before morning so they could claim they had not
heard us go. Then we put on our boots.

The night was at its blackest, and a drizzling rain began to fall.
This was in our favor, for nobody was likely to be about on such a
night. When we saw we were not pursued, we took time to arrange our
packs. I carried my compass, which I had been able to secrete during
numerous searchings, and my map, a pair of socks, pipe, tobacco,
matches in a tin box, an empty beer-bottle, and several things to
eat, saved from our parcels,--chocolate, tinned meat, biscuits,
cheese, and bread. Bromley had a pack similar to mine, and when
we got them ready and our overcoats on, we started off in a
southeasterly direction, guided by the light from the place we had
left. We walked as fast as we could in the darkness, which was heavy
enough to hide in, but made progress very difficult, for we could not
see each other or one step before us. We tripped over a railway track
once, and if there had been any one near they might have heard us.

But in spite of the rain, which fell with steady insistence and began
to weigh down our overcoats; in spite of the blackness which made the
travelling unbelievably difficult; in spite of the fact that we were
in a land of enemies, playing a desperate game against terrible odds,
we were happier than either of us had been since being taken to
Germany, for a weight had been rolled off our souls. We were on our
way to freedom!

When we found it necessary to consult the compass, I took off my
overcoat and lay flat on the ground with my compass and matches
ready. Bromley put my coat over my head and shoulders, tucking it
well in around me, so no light could shine through. Then I struck
a match, and in its light made the observation, always taking into
consideration the fact that in that part of Europe the compass points
sixteen or seventeen degrees west of due north.

We were careful to avoid the main roads and to seek out the
seldom-travelled, ones, for we knew that our only chance was in not
being seen at all, as we wore our own Canadian uniforms, which would
brand us at once for what we were. Added to that, we could not form
a single German sentence if we were challenged. Of course, I could
say "that Herr Schmidt expected to have his young child baptized in
the church next Sunday, God willing," but I felt that that was not
altogether the proper reply to make to the command--"Halt! Wer da?"

The villages were very thick here, and our chief difficulty was to
keep out of them. Once we ventured rather close to the road which ran
near the railroad, and heard a number of people talking. They were
travellers who had alighted from the train which had raced past us
in the darkness a few minutes before. The station is often quite a
distance from the village, and these were the passengers walking back
to their homes--the village which we had been avoiding.

We dropped to the ground, and the people went by, one old man
singing. I knew he was old, for his voice was cracked and thin, but
of great sweetness, and he sang an aria from a musical comedy which
was popular then, called "The Joy of Life." I had heard a doctor in
the lazaret singing it.

When the sound had grown fainter in the distance, we came out of our
hiding-place and went on.

"It seems hard," said Bromley, "to be fighting with people who can
sing like that. I can't work up any ill-will to that good old soul,
going home singing--and I don't believe he has any ill-will to us.
I couldn't fight the Germans if they were all like this old chap
and Sank!"

"You wouldn't need to," I said. "There would not have been any
fighting."

And then we strained our ears to listen to the song, not a word of
which we understood, though to us the music was full of good-will
and joy.

"We've got to keep farther out," I said at last. "We are sure to run
into some one and then it will be all up with us!"

We found, at last, after much stumbling over rough ground, a road
quite grass-grown and apparently abandoned. We followed it for about
a mile, making good progress, until we came to a stream over which
there was a bridge. We hesitated a minute before going over, but the
place was as silent as a cemetery, and seemed perfectly safe. So we
cautiously went over, keeping a sharp outlook all the time. When we
were over the bridge, we found ourselves in the one street of another
village.

We stopped for a minute and listened. There was not a sound. We then
went forward. Most of the streets of the villages are paved with
cobblestones, but these were not, and our boots made no sound on the
dirt road. Not even a dog barked, and just as we were at the farther
end of it, the village clock rang the hour of three!

"That's all right for once," I said, "but it's risky; I don't think
we'd better try it again. Some barking dog is sure to awake."

Soon after that the east grew red with morning, and we struck
straight into the woods to find shelter. We soon found ourselves in
high rushes growing out of swampy ground, and as we plunged along, we
came to a high woven-wire fence, which we supposed marked the bounds
of a game preserve.

We quickened our pace, although the going was bad, for the light was
growing and we knew these German peasants are uncomfortably early in
their habits. We came on a garden, carefully fenced with rails, and
helped ourselves to a few carrots and turnips to save our supply of
food, and, finding near there a fairly thick wood, decided to camp
for the day.

That was Monday, October 4th, and was a miserable day with sudden
bursts of sunshine that made our hearts light with the hope of
getting both warm and dry; but the sunshine no sooner came than it
was gone, and then a shower of rain would beat down on us.

However, we managed to make our feet comfortable with the extra pair
of socks, and we ate some carrots, bread, and cheese. But it was so
cold, we could not sleep.

We were glad when it grew dark enough for us to start out again. We
found we were in a well-cultivated district; almost every acre was in
garden, potatoes and sugar beets, whose stalks rustled and crackled
as we went through them, and this made our going slower than it
otherwise would have been. There were a few late apples on the trees,
but they were poor, woody ones. I do not know whether they were a
sample of the crop or just the culls that were not considered worth
picking. But we were glad of them, and filled our pockets.

The streams which we came to gave us considerable trouble. We were
not exactly dry, but then we could have been wetter, and so we hunted
for bridges, thereby losing much time and taking grave chances of
being caught. We were new in the matter of escaping, and had a lot
to learn. Now we know we should have waded through without losing a
minute.

That morning, just before stopping-time, in crossing a railway
Bromley tripped over a signal wire, which rang like a burglar alarm
and seemed to set a dozen bells ringing. We quickened our pace, and
when the railway man came rushing out of his house and looked wildly
up and down the track, we were so far away he could not see us!

We kept well to the east, for we knew the location of Frankfort
and that we must avoid it. Bromley had difficulty in keeping his
direction, and I began to suspect that he thought I was lost, too. So
I told him the direction the road ran, and then made an observation
with the compass to convince him, but many a time in the long, black
middle of the night, I thought I detected a disposition to doubt in
his remarks.

When the North Star shone down on us, we could find our way without
trouble, but when the night was clouded, as most of the nights were,
it became a difficult matter.

The third night there was a faintly light patch in the sky, by which
I guided my course and did not use my compass at all. Bromley had
evidently not noticed this, and declared that no human being could
keep his direction on as black a night as this. The faint light in
the sky continued to hold, and I guided our course by it until we
came to a road. Here Bromley insinuated that I had better use my
compass (I was thinking the same thing, too). I assured him it was
not necessary, for I knew the road was running east and west. It was,
I knew, if the light patch in the sky had not shifted.

When we made the observation with the compass, we found it was so;
and Bromley asked me, wonderingly, how I could do it. I told him it
was a sort of sixth sense that some people had. After that he trusted
me implicitly. This saved him a lot of anxiety, and also made it
easier for me.

Soon after this we got into a miry part of the country, with the
woods so thick and the going so bad that we knew we could not make
any progress. It was a veritable dismal swamp, where travellers could
be lost forever.

As we stumbled along in this swampy place, we came to a narrow-gauge
railway, which we gladly followed until we saw we were coming to a
city. This we afterwards knew to be the city of Hanau. Just in the
gray dawn, we left the track and took refuge in a thick bush, where
we spent the day. This was October 5th.

Our first work was to change our socks, spreading the ones we took
off on a tree to dry. We then carefully rubbed our feet until they
were dry, and put on the dry socks. We soon learned that we must
leave our boots off for a while each day, to keep our feet in good
condition. The pressure of the boots, especially with the dampness,
made the feet tender and disposed to skin.

This day was a showery one, too, but the sun shone for about an hour
in the morning, and when Bromley lay down to sleep, I decided to go
out and see what sort of country we were in. I wanted to check up my
map, too, for if it were correct, we should be near the Main River.

I made my way cautiously to the edge of the wood, marking the way by
breaking the top of a twig here and there, to guide me safely back
to Bromley. Ordinary travellers can call to each other, but the ways
of escaping prisoners must all be ways of quietness, although their
paths are not all paths of peace!

I saw a beautiful little lodge, vine-covered, with a rustic fence
around it, with blue smoke curling out of its red-brick chimney, and
I just knew they were having bacon and eggs and coffee for breakfast.

Two graceful deer, with gentle eyes, looked out at me from a tangle
of willows, and then I knew the brown lodge was the game-keeper's
house. A hay meadow, green with after-grass, stretched ahead of me,
but there was no sign of the Main River.

I had kept well under cover, I thought, but before long I had the
uncomfortable feeling that some one was following me; the crackling
of the bushes, which ceased when I stopped, and began again when I
went on, seemed very suspicious. I abruptly changed my course, making
a wide circle, and was able to elude my pursuer and find my way back
to Bromley.

I had an uneasy feeling that I had been too careless, and that some
one had seen me. However, I lay down to sleep, for I was dead tired,
and we had a splendid hiding-place in the thick bush.

I do not know how long I slept; it seemed only a few minutes when a
bugle-call rang out. We wakened with a start, for it went through us
like a knife.

We heard loud commands, and knew there was a company of soldiers
somewhere near, and I gathered from my recent observations that
these sounds came from the hay meadow in front of us.

We did not connect the demonstration with our presence until the
soldiers began shouting and charging the wood where we lay. Then we
knew we were what the society papers call the "raison d'être" for
all this celebration.

We lay close to the earth and hardly dared to breathe. The soldiers
ran shouting and firing (probably blank cartridges) in every
direction. Through the brush I saw their feet as they passed--not
ten feet from where we lay.

The noise they made was deafening; evidently they thought if they
beat the bushes sufficiently hard, they could scare us out like
rabbits, and I knew they were watching the paths and thin places
in the woods. But we lay tight, knowing it was our only safety.

Soon the noise grew fainter, and they passed on to try the woods we
had just come through, and we, worn with fatigue, fell asleep.

In the afternoon they gave our woods another combing. They seemed
pretty sure we were somewhere near! But they did not come quite so
close to us as they had in the morning.

However, we had heard enough to convince us that this was a poor
place to linger, and when it got real dark, we pushed on south across
the hay meadow. This meadow was full of ditches which were a little
too wide to jump and were too skwudgy in the bottom to make wading
pleasant. They delayed us and tired us a great deal, for it was a
tough climb getting out of them.

At last we decided to take the road, for the night was dark enough to
hide us, and by going slowly we thought we could avoid running into
any one.

We had not gone very far when we heard the sound of wagons, and when
we stopped to listen we could hear many voices, and knew our road was
bringing us to a much-used thoroughfare. In the corner formed by the
intersecting roads there was a thick bush of probably ten acres, and
I could not resist the desire to scout and see what sort of country
we were in. So I left Bromley, carefully marking where he was by all
the ways I could, and then went out to the edge of the bush. I went
along the edge of the road, keeping well into the bush. It was too
dark to see much, but I could make out that there was a well-wooded
country ahead of us. I came back to the exact place where I had left
Bromley, or at least where I thought I had left him, but not a trace
of him could I see. Of course, I dared not call, so I gave a soft
whistle, as near like a bird-call as I could. Bromley reached out his
hand and touched me! He was right beside me. That gave me the comfort
of knowing how well the darkness and bushes hide one if he is
perfectly still.

We thought this road led to the river Main, and decided to keep close
to it so we could get across on the bridge. We followed along the
road until it branched into two roads. We took the right branch
first, but as it turned more and more sharply to the west, we
concluded it was the road to Frankfort, and retraced our steps to the
place where we had picked it up, and went the other way. There was
heavy forest along the road, and it seemed to us to run southeast by
east. We wanted to go south, so we turned off this road through a
chance hay meadow, and then through the forest, until we found a sort
of road which ran south.

All German forests have roads, more or less distinct, traversing them
according to some definite plan, but they do not necessarily follow
the cardinal points of the compass. We followed the south road, which
was little used, until we came to a stream. There was no way of
getting across it, so we followed its bank until it flowed into the
Kinzig River. We knew by our map this must be the Kinzig River.

We tried to find a path along the Kinzig, but there did not seem
to be any, and the underbrush was impenetrable. We decided to wait
until morning came, took some chocolate and biscuits and filled our
beer-bottle in the stream. Then we found a comfortable bank, and put
some brush under our heads and slept. But not very soundly, for we
did not want to miss that misty light which comes about an hour
before sunrise.

We wakened just as the light began to show in the east, and, stiff
and cold, with our teeth chattering, we started on our way to find
some means of getting across the Kinzig. Bridge, boat, or raft,
anything would do us, provided only it came soon, before the
daylight.

In a few minutes we came to a foot-bridge, with a well-beaten path
running down to it and up the opposite bank. So we made a dash across
it. We knew enough, though, to get off the path at once, for we could
see it was a well-travelled one. We struck into the wood, keeping our
southerly direction, but soon came out on another road, and as the
light was too strong now for us, we went back into the woods and kept
hidden.

That was Wednesday, October 6th. Again it rained; not in showers this
time with redeeming shots of sunshine, but a dull, steady, miserable
rain that wet us clear through to the skin. Still, we ate our cheese
and bread, and opened a tin of sardines, and managed to put the
day in. We were near a town, and could hear people driving by all
day long. We were kept so on the alert that we had no time to feel
uncomfortable. However, we were very glad when the darkness came and
we could stretch our legs and get warm again.

We had great difficulty to clear the town and the railway yards
ahead of us, but at last found a road leading south, and followed it
through the forest. In one place, as I was going along ahead, intent
on keeping the road, which seemed to be heaped up in the middle,
I heard a cry behind me, and almost jumped across the road in my
excitement. Instinctively I began to run, but a second cry arrested
me, for it was Bromley's voice. I ran back and found he had fallen
into a hole in the road. The heaped-up appearance I had noticed was
the dirt thrown out of a six-foot drain, in which they were laying
water-pipes, and into this Bromley had fallen. He was not hurt at
all, but jarred a little by the fall.

We knew we had passed the Hesse boundary, and were now in Bavaria.

Our one beer-bottle did not hold nearly enough water, and in our long
walk through the forest on this night we suffered from thirst. We had
thought we should be able to find cows to milk, but on account of the
people living in villages, there was but little chance of this.

When we got out of the forest we found ourselves in an open country.
We came to a good-sized stream, and crossed the bridge and to our
horror found ourselves in a town of considerable size. The streets
were dark, but from one or two windows lights shone. We pushed
rapidly on, and thought we were nearly through, when a little upstart
of a fox-terrier came barking out at us from a doorway. We stepped
into a space between two houses, and just then a cat crossed the
street and he transferred his attentions to her.

"I always did like cats," Bromley whispered.

We came out again and went on, breathing out our condemnation of all
German dogs. And we were not done with them yet! For before we got
out another cur flew at us and raised enough noise to alarm the town.
I believe the only thing that saved us was this dog's bad character.
Nobody believed he had anything--he had fooled them so often--and so,
although he pursued us until we slipped down an alley and got into a
thick grove, there was not even a blind raised. He ran back, yelping
out his disappointment, and the bitterest part of it would be that no
one would ever believe him--but that is part of the liar's
punishment.

We got out of the town as soon as we could, and pushed on with all
haste; we were afraid that news of our escape had been published, and
that these people might be on the lookout for us. The telephone poles
along the roads we were travelling kept us reminded of the danger we
were in.

Loaded apple-trees growing beside the road tempted us to stop and
fill our pockets, and as we were doing so a man went by on a bicycle.
We stepped behind the tree just in time to avoid being seen, and
although he slackened his pace and looked hard at the place where we
were, he evidently thought it best to keep going.

We met two other men later in the night, but they apparently did not
see us, and we went on.

We left the road after that, and plunged into the woods, for the
daylight was coming.

During the day of October 7th we stayed close in the woods, for we
knew we were in a thickly settled part of the country. Lying on the
ground, we could see a German farmer gathering in his sugar beets,
ably assisted by his women-folk. We could also hear the children from
a school near by, playing "Ring-a-ring-a-röselein."

The rain that day was the hardest we had yet encountered, but in the
afternoon the sun came out and we got some sleep. At dusk we started
out again, on a road which had forest on one side and open country on
the other. We could see the trains which ran on the main line from
Hanau to Aschaffenburg. The Main River was at our right. Soon the
forest ended abruptly, and we found ourselves in an open country, and
with a railroad to cross.

As we drew near, the dog at the station gave the alarm. We stepped
into a clump of trees and "froze." The man at the station came
rushing out and looked all around, but did not see us, and went back.
We then made a wide detour and crawled cautiously over the road on
our hands and knees, for this road had rock ballast which would have
crunched under our feet.

We then went on through the village, where another dog barked at us,
but couldn't get any support from his people, who slept on. We were
worried about the time, for neither of us had a watch, and we
suspected that it was near morning. We hurried along, hoping to find
a shelter, but the country seemed to be open and treeless. A thick
mist covered the ground and helped to hide us, but it might lift at
any minute.

We struck straight east at last, in the hope of finding woods.
Through the mist we saw something ahead of us which when we came
nearer proved to be a hill. Hoping it might be wooded on the top, we
made for it with all haste. When we reached the top we found no
woods, but an old cellar or an excavation of a building. It was seven
or eight feet deep, and the bottom was covered with rubbish. Into it
we went, glad of any sort of shelter.

When daylight came, we looked cautiously over the edge, and saw we
were near a village; also we saw that about two hundred yards away
there was a good thick wood, but it was too late now to think of
changing our position. There was a potato patch on the face of the
hill, with evidence of recent digging. About eight o'clock we heard
voices. Women were digging the potatoes.

Our feet were very sore that day, on account of the rain and of our
not being able to keep our boots off enough each day, but we lay
perfectly lifeless and did not even speak, for fear of attracting
the attention of the potato-diggers. We wished it would rain and
drive the potato-diggers in. But about nine o'clock a worse danger
threatened us. We heard firing, and could hear commands given to
soldiers. Soon it dawned on us that they were searching the wood for
us.

The hours dragged on. We were cramped and sore of feet, hungry, and
nervous from lack of sleep, but managed to remain absolutely
motionless.

About three o'clock a five-year-old boy belonging to the
potato-digging party, strolled up to the top of the hill. Bromley saw
him first, and signed to me. He loitered around the top of the cellar
a few minutes, threw some stones and dirt down, and then wandered
away. There was nothing to indicate that he had seen us.

But in a few moments a woman and little girl came. The woman looked
straight at us, and made away at full speed. We knew she had seen us.
Then we heard the soldiers coming, shouting. It was not a pleasant
time to think of.

When they surrounded the place, we stood up, and surrendered.

There was nothing else to do.



CHAPTER IX

CAUGHT!


At first it seemed as if there were a platoon of soldiers: they were
everywhere I looked, and there were more coming! They were, for the
most part, young fellows from the training camp at Aschaffenburg,
and it was not every day they got a chance to catch a couple of
prisoners. So it was done with a flourish!

The Captain instructed us to put up our hands, and two of the
soldiers searched us. They were welcome to my map, because already I
was thinking of making another, but I did not like to see my compass
go--I kept wondering how I would ever get another.

There was no hostility in their attitude toward us, either from the
soldiers or the civilians. The potato-diggers, mostly women, went
straight back to their work as if they had done their share and
now some one else could "carry on." Prisoners or no prisoners, the
potatoes had to be dug.

A few children gathered around us, but they kept back at a respectful
distance and made no remarks. Where the military are concerned, the
civilian population do not interfere, even by words or looks.

The village women who gathered around us had most apathetic,
indifferent, sodden faces; I don't believe they knew what it was all
about. They were no more interested in what was going on than the
black-and-white Holstein cows that grazed in the meadow near by.

[Illustration: Map made by Private Simmons of the First Attempt]

I spoke of this afterwards to Bromley.

"But you must remember," he said, "they knew enough to go and tell on
us. That wasn't so slow."

We could see that the soldiers were greatly pleased with their catch,
by the way they talked and gesticulated. Every one was pleased but
us! Then the commander, addressing his men in what we took to be a
congratulatory speech, called for volunteers. We knew the word.

I looked at Bromley, and saw the same thought in his face, but his
sense of humor never failed him.

"Cheer up, Sim!" he said. "They are just calling for volunteers to
shoot us. The boys must have something to practise on."

We laughed about it afterwards, but I must say I did not see much
fun in it that minute. But it was only volunteers to take us into
Aschaffenburg. The commander wished to spread the joy and gladness as
far as it would go, and I think it was fully a dozen who escorted us
to Aschaffenburg, about a mile and a half away.

They marched us through the principal streets, where I saw the sign
"Kleiderfabrik" many times. The people stopped to look at us, but I
saw no evidence of hostility. I am not sure that the majority of the
people knew who we were, though of course they knew we were
foreigners.

There was one person, however, who recognized us, for as we were
marching past one of the street-corners, where a group had gathered,
a voice spoke out in excellent English, "Canadians, by Jove! And two
fine big chaps, too!"

The voice was friendly, but when I turned to look I could not see who
had spoken.

Their pride in showing us off was "all right for them," but pretty
hard on us, for it was a long time since we had slept, and we did not
enjoy being paraded through the city just for fun. We knew we were in
for it, and wanted to know just what they were going to do with us.

At last they drew up with great ceremony before the Military
Headquarters, where there was more challenging, by more guards. I
think another guard fell in behind to see that we did not bolt, and
we were conducted into the presence of the Supreme Commander of that
Military District.

He sat at a high desk in the centre of the room. There were several
clerks or secretaries in the room, all in uniform, and there seemed
to be considerable business going on when we came in, for numerous
typewriters were going and messengers were moving about. I noticed
there was not a woman in the room.

When we entered and were swung up to the Commander's desk, with a few
words of introduction, there was complete silence.

The soldiers who brought us in stepped back in a straight line, all
in step, and waited to be congratulated, with that conscious air of
work well done that a cat has when she throws down a mouse and stands
around to hear the kind words which will be spoken.

The Supreme Commander was a grizzled man, with bushy gray eyebrows
which were in great need of being barbered, red cheeks, and a
curled-up mustache. He spoke through an interpreter.

We were asked our names, ages, previous occupation, when captured,
and the most important questions of all, "Why were we fighting
against Germany?" and, "Why did we want to leave Germany?"

I was questioned first, and after I had answered all the minor
questions, I told him I enlisted in the Canadian Army because we
considered ourselves part of the British Empire, and besides, Great
Britain's share in the war was an honorable one which any man might
well be proud to fight for. I said we were fighting for the little
nations and their right to live and govern themselves. I told him it
was the violation of Belgium that had set Canada on fire.

When this was passed on by the interpreter, I could see it was not
well received, for the old man's eyebrows worked up and down and he
said something which sounded like "Onions."

Then he asked me what did Canada hope to get out of the war? I said,
"Nothing"--Canada would gain nothing--but we had to maintain our
self-respect, and we couldn't have kept that if we had not fought.
"But," I said, "the world will gain a great deal from the war, for
it will gain the right to live at peace."

At the mention of peace, some of the officers laughed in contempt,
but at a glance from the Supreme Commander, the laugh was checked
with great suddenness!

He then asked me why I wanted to get out of Germany.

I told him no free man enjoyed being a prisoner, and besides, I was
needed in the army.

All these answers were taken down by two secretaries, and Bromley was
put through the same list of questions.

He told them no one in Canada had to fight, no one wanted to fight,
because we are peaceable people, but we believe a little nation had a
right to live, and we had been taught that the strong must defend the
weak.

When they asked him why he wanted to get away from Germany, he told
them he had a wife and two children in Canada, and he wanted to see
them: whereupon the Commander broke out impatiently, "This is no time
for a man to think of his wife and children!"

When the Supreme Commander was through with us, we were taken to the
station and put on the train for Giessen, escorted by a Sergeant
Major, who had an iron cross ribbon on his coat, and two privates.

We got a drink at a tap in the station and ate some bread and cheese
from our pack, which they had not taken away from us, but they did
not offer us anything to eat.

On the train, where we had a compartment to ourselves, one of the
privates bought some fruit, and gave us a share of it. Our German
money had been taken away from us when they searched us, and we
had nothing but prison-stamps, which are of no use outside the
prison-camp. One of the privates was a university man, and in broken
English tried to tell us why Germany had to enter the war, to save
herself from her enemies. I thought his reasoning was more faulty
than his English, but believed in his sincerity.

He told us that every nation in the whole world hated Germany and
was jealous of "him," and that England was the worst of all. He said
England feared and hated the Bavarians most of all, and that all
Bavarian prisoners were shot. I tried to convince him that this was
not so; but he was a consistent believer and stuck to it. He said
when Germany won the war "he" would be very kind to all the countries
"he" conquered, and do well for them. He told us he hated England,
but not all "Engländers" were bad!

At Hanau we changed cars and had a few minutes to wait, and our
guards walked up and down with us. The station was crowded with
people, and the lunch-tables were crowded, although it was getting
late in the evening.

At Friedberg we had an hour's wait, and we saw the same thing.
Beer-drinking and eating was going on in a big lunch-room, but the
patrons were ninety per cent men. The Sergeant Major with the iron
cross did not bother us at all, and at Friedberg he devoted himself
to the young lady who sold cigars, beer, and post-cards in the
station.

We asked our friend who could speak a little English what they were
saying, but he, being a university man and of high degree socially,
gave us to understand that the Sergeant Major was lowering his
dignity to flirt with the girl behind the counter. He said it was all
"verrücktheit" (craziness). We were of the opinion that it was the
girl who was stepping down!

When we got into Giessen, they took us on the street-car to the
prison-camp, and we were glad, for it had been a long day for us, and
the thought of longer ones ahead was not cheering.

We were taken to the hut where the prison-guards sleep, and were
given a room at the very end, where we would surely be safe. We were
tired enough not to give any trouble, and when they left us, we threw
ourselves down without undressing and slept till morning.

At nine o'clock we were taken before the officers of our own Company,
and put through the same questions. The answers were written down, as
before. We were then marched away to the Strafe-Barrack.

The Strafe-Barrack had in it about thirty prisoners, but it was not
nearly full. These were all kept at one end of the hut, and at the
other end there were three men whose official standing was somewhat
of a mystery to us at first. Two of them were Belgians, a private and
a Sergeant, and one was a British Sergeant. They were dressed like
ordinary prisoners, but seemed to be able to go about at will.

We soon caught on to the fact that they were spies, whose business
it was to watch the prisoners and repeat anything that would be of
interest to the authorities. During the five days we were kept there,
waiting for "cells," we found them quite friendly.



CHAPTER X

THE CELLS!


On the morning of the fifth day two cells were reported empty, and
we were taken to them.

The cells are in a wooden building inside the camp, and in the
building we were in there were ten of them, divided from each other
by wooden partitions whose cracks are battened with strips of wood to
prevent light from coming through. There are two windows, one over
the door and one in the outside wall. These have a solid wooden door
which can be shut over them, excluding every ray of light.

The cells are about six feet by eight in size, and have a wooden
platform to sleep on. There is no bedding of any kind. There is one
shelf, on which a pitcher of drinking-water stands, and there is an
electric button by which the guard can be called.

We were allowed to keep all our clothing, including our overcoats,
and I managed to hold on to a stub of a pencil and a piece of stout
string.

When the guard brought me in and told me to "make myself at home" or
words to that effect, and went out, locking the door, I sat down on
the wooden platform, and looked around.

It was as black as the infernal regions--I might as well have had my
eyes shut, for all I could see. However, I kept on looking. There was
no hurry--I had time to spare. I had more time than I had ever had
before.

Soon I noticed that in the partition at my right there was a place
where the darkness was broken, and a ray of light filtered through.
As I watched it, into the light spot there came two glistening points
which looked very much like a pair of eyes.

I did not move, for I could hear the guards moving up and down the
gangway, but I could hardly wait until I heard the gates of the
gangway close. Then I went to the crack and whispered.

"Hello!"

"Hello!" came back the answer; and looking through the crack I saw
a lighted cell, and in it a man, the owner of the two bright eyes I
had seen.

"What are you?" came a whisper.

"Canadian," I answered; "in for trying to escape."

By putting my ear to the crack, I could hear when he whispered.

"I am a Frenchman," he said in perfect English; "Malvoisin is my
name, and this is my second attack of cells--for escaping--but I'll
make it yet. Have you the rings? No? Well, you'll get them. Look at
me."

I could see that his uniform had stripes of bright red wagon paint
on the seams, and circles of it on the front of the tunic and on
his trousers, with a large one on the back of the tunic between the
shoulders.

"You'll get these when you get into the Strafe-Barrack," he said.

"How long shall I be there?" I asked.

"Nobody knows," he answered. "If they like you, they may keep you!
It's an indeterminate sentence.... That's a good cell you have. I was
in that cell the last time, and I fixed it up a little."

"What did you do to it?" I asked.

"There's a built-in cupboard over at the other side, where you can
keep your things!"

"Things!" I said--"what things? I've nothing but a pencil and a
string."

"The boys will bring you stuff," he said; and then he gave me
instructions.

"Write a note," he said. "Here's a piece of paper," shoving a
fragment of newspaper through the crack. "Write a note addressed to
one of your friends, tell him you are in cells, but get out every day
to lavatory in Camp 8--they'll bring you food, and books."

"Books!" I said. "What good would books be to me in this black hole?"

"I am just coming to that," he whispered back; "there's a crack like
this with a movable batten over on the other side. You can stand on
the platform, pull down the strip of wood, and get in quite a decent
light from the other cell. It is a light cell like mine; and right
above it you'll find the board that is loose in the ceiling; you can
pull it down and slip your book into the space and then let it up
again."

I stepped over to the other side, and found everything just as he
said. Life grew brighter all at once, and the two weeks of "cells"
were robbed of a great part of their terror.

I set to work to pull a nail with my cord, and was able to do
it after considerable labor, but there was no hurry at all. It
all helped to put the long hours in! With the nail I made the
reading-crack larger, in anticipation of the books which were to
come, but was careful not to have it too big for the strip of wood
to cover when it was swung back into place.

When morning came I got my issue of bread, the fifth part of a small
round loaf, which was my allowance for the day. Then for ten minutes
we all swept out our cells and were taken out to the lavatory. I had
my note ready, and when the guard was not looking, slipped it into
the hand of a Frenchman who was standing near me.

The lavatory was in the same building as Camp 8 Lavatory, and was
divided from theirs by a wall with an opening in it, through which
parcels might be passed between the strands of barbed wire.

The Frenchman delivered my note quite safely, and the next morning I
found several little packages on the floor of the lavatory. Bromley
and I managed to get out at the same time, and as the guard did not
understand English, we were able to say a few words to each other.

The boys sent us things every day--chocolate, biscuits, cheese,
cigarettes, matches, and books. We wore our overcoats to the lavatory
each day, so we could use the pockets to carry back our parcels
without detection. We were also careful to leave nothing in the cell
that would attract the attention of the guard, and Malvoisin and I
conserved matches by lighting one cigarette with the other one,
through the crack.

Bromley had no reading-crack in his room, but with a nail and string
soon made himself one.

Standing on the platform, I could open the reading-crack and get
several inches of light on my book. I read three or four books in
this way, too, making them last just as long as I could.

On the fourth day I had light in my cell. The two windows were opened
and the cell was aired. On the light day I got more to eat, too,
coffee in the morning, and soup in the evening. On that night I had
a mattress and blankets, too.

Toward the end of my two weeks I had hard luck. The cell next to
mine, on which I depended for the light to read by, was darkened. I
was right in the middle of "The Harvester." I tried it by the crack
between my cell and that of Malvoisin, but the light was too dim and
made my eyes ache. However, after two days a light-cell prisoner was
put in, and I was able to go on with my story.

Malvoisin did all he could to make my punishment endurable. On
account of his cell being lighted, he could tell, by the sunlight
on the wall, what time it was, and passed it on to me, and when I
couldn't read because the cell next to mine was dark, he entertained
me with the story of his adventures--and they were many!

His last escape had been a marvellous one--all but the end. When
outside of the grounds, on a digging party, he had entertained the
guards so well, by showing them fancy steps in dancing, that they had
not noticed that he was circling closer and closer to a wood. Then,
when he had made some grotesque movement, which sent the staid
German guards into paroxysms of laughter, he had made a dash for the
wood. The soldiers at once surrounded the place, but Malvoisin had
gone up a tree. The guards fired through the woods, calling on him
to surrender, while he sat safe and happy in one of the highest
branches, watching the search for him. The searching of the wood
continued for two days, but he remained in his nest in the tree,
coming down at night to get the food he had buried in the ground
while on the digging party.

They gave up the search then, and he started for Switzerland. He got
a suit of painter's clothes at one place--overalls and smock--by
going through a window where the painters had been working, and with
his knowledge of German was passing himself off for a painter, and
working toward home. But his description was in the newspapers, and
a reward offered for his capture. His brilliant black eyes and the
scar on his cheek gave him away, and one of his fellow-workmen became
suspicious, and for the sake of the reward notified the military.

But he said he would be sure to reach home next time!

He had a week longer punishment than we had, and so when our two
weeks were up we left him there.

When I said "Good-bye" to him through the crack, and tried to tell
him how much he had done for me, he laughed light-heartedly and
called back, "Good-bye, old man, I'll meet you in Paris--if not
sooner!"



CHAPTER XI

THE STRAFE-BARRACK


When they took us to the Strafe-Barrack, the Company painter was
summoned and put on our rings, which stamped us as desperate
characters who would have to be watched. There was something to me
particularly distasteful about the rings, for I hated to have my
Canadian uniform plastered with these obnoxious symbols. But I did
not let the guards see that it bothered me at all, for we knew that
the object of all their punishment was to break our spirits.

The Strafe-Barrack was supposed to finish the work begun in the
cells. It followed up the weakening of our bodies and minds, caused
by the fourteen days' solitude and starvation, and was intended to
complete the job with its deadly monotony and inaction.

We got no parcels; so the joy of expectation was eliminated. We did
not know how long we were in for, so we could not even have the
satisfaction of seeing the days pass, and knowing we were nearing
the end! We had no books or papers; even the "Continental Times" was
denied us! We got the same food as they had in the prison-camp, and
we had a mattress to sleep on, and two blankets.

So far as physical needs were concerned, we were as well off as any
of the fellows, but the mental stagnation was calculated, with real
German scientific reasoning, to break us down to the place where we
could not think for ourselves. They would break down our initiative,
they thought, and then we should do as they told us. As usual in
dealing with spiritual forces, they were wrong!

In the morning we swept the floor of the hut, and spread up our
beds and had our breakfast. Then we sat on stools for an indefinite
period, during which time we were not supposed to speak or move. It
was the duty of the guards to see that we obeyed these rules. It is
a mean way to treat a human being, but it sent us straight back upon
our own mental resources, and I thought things out that I had never
thought about before. Little incidents of my childhood came back to
me with new significance and with a new meaning, and life grew richer
and sweeter to me, for I got a longer view of it.

It had never occurred to me, any more than it does to the average
Canadian boy, to be thankful for his heritage of liberty, of free
speech, of decency. It has all come easy to us, and we have taken all
the apples which Fortune has thrown into our laps, without thinking.

But in those long hours in the Strafe-Barrack I thought of these
things: I thought of my father and mother... of the good times we had
at home... of the sweet influences of a happy childhood, and the
inestimable joy of belonging to a country that stands for fair play
and fair dealing, where the coward and the bully are despised, and
the honest and brave and gentle are exalted.

I thought and thought and thought of these things, and my soul
overflowed with gratitude that I belonged to a decent country. What
matter if I never saw it again? It was mine, I was a part of it, and
nothing could ever take it from me!

Then I looked at the strutting, cruel-faced cut-throat who was our
guard, and who shoved his bayonet at us and shook his dirty fist in
our faces to try to frighten us. I looked at his stupid, leering face
and heavy jowl, and the sloped-back forehead which the iron heel had
flattened with its cruel touch. He could walk out of the door and out
of the camp, at will, while I must sit on a chair without moving, his
prisoner!

Bah! He, with the stupid, _verboten_ look in his face, was the
bondsman! I was free!

There were other guards, too, decent fellows who were glad to help
us all they dared. But the fear of detection held them to their
distasteful work. One of them, when left in charge of us as we
perched on our chairs, went noisily out, in order to let us know he
was going, so that we could get off and walk about and talk like
human beings, and when he came back--he had stayed out as long as
he dared--I think he rattled the door to warn us of his coming!

Then the head spy, the Belgian private, who had his headquarters in
the Strafe-Barrack, showed us many little kindnesses. He had as his
batman one of the prisoners whose term of punishment had expired,
and Bromley, who was always quick-witted and on the alert, offered
himself for the job, and was taken, and in that way various little
favors came to us that we should not otherwise have had.

Being ring-men, there were no concessions for us, and the full rigor
of the _strafe_ would have fallen on us--and did at first; but when
Bromley got to be batman, things began to loosen a little for us and
we began to get _part_ of our parcels.

The head spy claimed more than the usual agent's commission for all
these favors, but we did not complain, for according to the rules we
were not entitled to any.

The process regarding the parcels was quite simple. Spies in the
parcel party, working under the Belgian, brought our parcels to his
room at the end of the Strafe-Barrack. He opened them and selected
what he wanted for himself, giving Bromley what was left.

Sometimes, in his work of batman, Bromley got "tired," and wanted
help, suggesting that a friend of his be brought in to assist him.
I was the friend, and in this way I was allowed to go up to the
Belgians' room to sweep, or do something for them, and then got
a chance at our parcels. At night, too, when the guard had gone
and the lights were out, we got a chance to eat the things we had
secreted under the mattress; but generally we kept our supplies in
the Belgians' room, which was not in danger of being searched.

Bromley, as usual, made a great hit in his new position of batman.
He had a very smooth tongue, and, finding the British Sergeant
susceptible to flattery, gave him plenty of it, and when we got
together afterwards, many a laugh I had over his description of the
British Sergeant's concern for his appearance, and of how he sent
home to England for his dress uniform.

We got out together when we went back to our own Company to get extra
clothes. We stayed out about as long as we liked, too, and when we
came back, we had the Belgian with us, so nothing was said. The
strafe-barrack keepers, even the bayonet man, had a wholesome fear
of the Belgian.

This Belgian was always more or less of a mystery to us. He was
certainly a spy, but it was evident he took advantage of his position
to show many kindnesses to the other prisoners.

        *       *       *

There was one book which we were allowed to read while in
Strafe-Barrack, and that was the Bible. There were no Bibles
provided, but if any prisoner had one, he might retain it. I don't
think the Germans have ever got past the Old Testament in their
reading, and when they read about the word of the Lord coming to some
one and telling him to rise up early and go out and wipe out an enemy
country--men, women, and children--they see themselves, loaded with
_Kultur_, stamping and hacking their way through Belgium.

I read the Books of the Kings and some other parts of the Old
Testament, with a growing resentment in my heart every time it said
the "Lord had commanded" somebody to slay and pillage and steal. I
knew how much of a command they got. They saw something they wanted,
a piece of ground, a city, perhaps a whole country. The king said,
"Get the people together; let's have a mass-meeting; I have a message
from God for the people!" When the people were assembled, the king
broke the news: "God wants us to wipe out the Amalekites!" The king
knew that the people were incurably religious. They would do anything
if it can be made to appear a religious duty. Then the people gave a
great shout and said: "The Lord reigneth. Let us at the Amalekites!
If you're waking, call me early"--and the show started.

The Lord has been blamed for nearly all the evil in the world, and
yet Christ's definition of God is love, and He goes on to say, "Love
worketh no ill to his neighbor."

I can quite understand the early books in the Bible being written by
men of the same cast of mind as the Kaiser, who solemnly and firmly
believed they were chosen of God to punish their fellow-men, and
incidentally achieve their ambitions.

But it has made it hard for religion. Fair-minded people will not
worship a God who plays favorites. I soon quit reading the Old
Testament. I was not interested in fights, intrigues, plots, and
blood-letting.

But when I turned to the teachings of Christ, so fair and simple,
and reasonable and easy to understand, I knew that here we had the
solution of all our problems. Love is the only power that will
endure, and when I read again the story of the Crucifixion, and
Christ's prayer for mercy for his enemies because he knew they did
not understand, I knew that this was the principle which would bring
peace to the world. It is not force and killing and bloodshed and
prison-bars that will bring in the days of peace, but that Great
Understanding which only Love can bring.

I was thinking this, and had swung around on my chair, contrary to
rules, when the guard rushed up to me with his bayonet, which he
stuck under my nose, roaring at me in his horrible guttural tongue.

I looked down at the point of his bayonet, which was about a quarter
of an inch from my tunic, and let my eyes travel slowly along its
length, and then up his arm until they met his!

I thought of how the image of God had been defaced in this man, by
his training and education. It is a serious crime to destroy the
king's head on a piece of money; but what word is strong enough to
characterize the crime of taking away the image of God from a human
face!

The veins of his neck were swollen with rage; his eyes were red like
a bull's, and he chewed his lips like a chained bulldog. But I was
sorry for him beyond words--he was such a pitiful, hate-cursed,
horrible, squirming worm, when he might have been a man. As I looked
at him with this thought in my mind the red went from his eyes, his
muscles relaxed, and he lowered his bayonet and growled something
about "Englishe schwein" and went away.

"Poor devil," I thought. I watched him, walking away.... "Poor
devil,... it is not his fault."...

Malvoisin came to the Strafe-Barrack a week after we did, and I could
see that the guards had special instructions to watch him.

None of the ring-men were allowed to go out on the digging parties
from the Strafe-Barrack, since Malvoisin had made his get-away in
front of the guards, and for that reason, during the whole month we
were there, we had no chance at all for exercise.

Malvoisin was thin and pale after his three weeks' confinement in
cells, but whenever I caught his eye he gave me a smile whose
radiance no prison-cell could dim. When he came into the room, every
one knew it. He had a presence which even the guards felt, I think.
We went out a week before him, and we smuggled out some post-cards
which he had written to his friends and got them posted, but whether
they got by the censor, I do not know. The last I saw of him was the
day he got out of Strafe-Barrack. He walked by our hut, on the way
to his Company. He was thinner and paler still, but he walked as
straight as ever, and his shoulders were thrown back and his head
was high! His French uniform was in tatters, and plastered with
the obnoxious rings. A guard walked on each side of him. But no
matter--he swung gaily along, singing "La Marseillaise."

I took my hat off as he went by, and stood uncovered until he
disappeared behind one of the huts, for I knew I was looking at
something more than a half-starved, pale, ragged little Frenchman.
It was not only little Malvoisin that had passed; it was the
unconquerable spirit of France!



CHAPTER XII

BACK TO CAMP


After the monotony of the cells and the Strafe-Barrack, the camp
seemed something like getting home for Christmas. All the boys,
McKelvey, Keith, Clarke, Johnston, Graham, Walker, Smith, Reid,
Diplock, Palmer, Larkins, Gould, Salter, Mudge, and many others whom
I did not know so well, gathered around us and wanted to know how we
had fared, and the story of our attempt and subsequent punishment
formed the topic of conversation for days.

All the time we had been in retirement, we were not allowed to write
letters or cards, and I began to fear that my people would be very
anxious about me. I had given cards to returning "strafers" to post,
but I was not sure they had ever got out of Germany. Many parcels had
come for me from other friends, too, and the big problem before me
now was to find some way to acknowledge them. A card a week, and a
letter twice a month, does not permit of a very flourishing
correspondence.

A decent German guard consented to take Bromley and me to the
building where the parcels were kept for men who were in punishment,
and we, being strong in faith, took a wheelbarrow with us. Of course,
we had received a number of parcels through our friend the spy, but
we hoped there would be many more. However, I got only one, a good
one from G. D. Ellis, Weston, England, and that saved me from a hard
disappointment. I saw there, stacked up in a pile, numerous parcels
for Todd, Whittaker, Little Joe, and others, who were serving their
sentences at Butzbach. I reported this to our Sergeant Major, and the
parcels were opened. Some of the stuff was spoiled, but what was in
good condition was auctioned off among us and the money sent to them.

A letter came to me from my sister, Mrs. Ralph Brown, of Buchanan,
Saskatchewan, saying they were worried about me because they had not
heard from me, and were afraid I was not receiving my parcels. Then
I decided I would have to increase my supply of cards. The Russian
prisoners had the same number of cards we had, but seldom wrote any.
Poor fellows, they had nobody to write to, and many of them could not
write. So with the contents of my parcels I bought up a supply of
cards. I had, of course, to write them in a Russian's name, for if
two cards went into the censor's hands from M. C. Simmons, No. 69,
Barrack A, Company 6, something would happen.

So cards went to my friends from "Pte. Ivan Romanoff" or "Pte. Paul
Rogowski," saying he was quite well and had seen M. C. Simmons
to-day, who was grateful for parcel and had not been able to write
lately, but would soon. These rather mystified some of the people who
received them, who could not understand why I did not write directly.
My cousin, Mamie Simmons, and Mrs. Lackie, of Dereham Centre,
Ontario, wrote a letter back to the Russian whose card they had
received, much to his joy and surprise.

One of my great desires at this time was to have a compass, for
Bromley and I were determined to make another attempt at escape, just
as soon as we could, and many an hour I spent trying to find a way
to get the information out to my friends that I wanted a compass. At
last, after considerable thinking, I sent the following card to a
friend of mine with whom I had often worked out puzzles, and who I
felt would be as likely to see through this as any one I could think
of.

This was the message:

DEAR JIM:--I send you this card along with another to come later,
which please pass on to Fred. In next parcel, send cheese, please.

Yours as ever

M. C. SIMMONS

In the address I slipped in the words--"Seaforth Wds." This I hoped
the censor would take to mean--"Seaforth Woods"; and which I hoped my
friend would read to mean--"See fourth words"; and would proceed to
do so.

After I had sent this away, I began to fear it might miscarry and
resolved to try another one. I wrote a letter to my brother Flint,
at Tillsonburg, Ontario, in which I used these words, "I want you
to look into this for me"; later on in the letter, when speaking of
quite innocent matters which had nothing to do with "compasses," I
said, "Look into this for me and if you cannot manage it alone, get
Charley Bradburn to help you."

I took the envelope, which had a bluish tint inside and steamed it
open, both the ends and bottom flap, and when it was laid open, I
wrote in it in a very fine hand, these words: "I tried to escape, but
was caught and my compass taken away from me. Send me another; put it
in a cream cheese."

When the envelope was closed, this was almost impossible to see. I
knew it was risky, for if I had been found out, I would have been
"strafed" for this, just as hard as if I had tried to escape.
However, I posted my letter and heard nothing more about it.

I had, through the kindness of friends, received a number of books,
Mr. Brockington, of Koch Siding, British Columbia, and Miss Grey,
of Wimbledon, England, having been very good to me in this way;
and as many of the parcels of the other boys contained books, too,
we decided to put our books together, catalogue them, and have a
library. One of the older men became our librarian, and before we
left Giessen I think we had a hundred volumes.

The people who sent these books will never know the pleasure they
gave us! The games, too, which the Red Cross sent us were never idle,
and made many a happy evening for us.

At night we had concerts, and many good plays and tableaux put on by
the boys. There was a catchy French love song, "Marie," which was a
great favorite with the boys. From this we began to call the Kilties
"Marie," and there were several harmless fights which had this for a
beginning. The Kilties had a hard time of it, and had to get another
dress before they could be taken on a working party. The Germans did
not consider the kilt a "decent dress" for a man.

The parcels were an endless source of delight, and I was especially
fortunate in having friends who knew just what to send. Mrs. Palmer,
of Plymouth, sent me bacon; Mrs. Goodrich, my sister, and Mrs.
Goodrich, Sr., of Vancouver, sent fruit-cakes; Mrs. Hill, wife of
the British reservist who gave me my first drill in British Columbia,
sent oatmeal, and his sisters, Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Hamer, made candy.
Lee Davison, of Trail, whose brother is now a prisoner in Germany,
sent me tobacco, and so did Harold Andrews, of Trail, and Billy
Newell, of Koch Siding.

The distribution of the mails was a time of thrills. One of the
Sergeants called it out, while every one crowded eagerly around.

Poor Clarke, one of the brightest, merriest-hearted boys we had,
seldom got a letter, but he was right on hand every time, and when
there was no letter for him, would tear his hair dramatically and
cry,--

"Gott strafe England."

Clarke had the good gift of making everybody laugh. I remember once
seeing him patching his trousers with a Union Jack, and singing,
"We'll never let the Old Flag fall!"

        *       *       *

The German respect for the military caste was well shown in the
punishment of a Russian officer who had offended them by something he
had done or had not done. He was sent to our hut--as a punishment. He
had a room to himself, a batman, the privilege of sending out to buy
food, as much as he liked. His punishment consisted in having to live
under the same roof and breathe the same air as common soldiers. He
was a very good fellow, and told us many things about his country.
Incidentally we found out that his wages as a Lieutenant in the
Russian Army were one hundred and fifty dollars a year!

        *       *       *

Bromley and I had not worked at all since coming out of
Strafe-Barrack. Being ring-men gave us immunity from labor. They
would not let us outside of the compound. Even if we volunteered
for a parcel party, the guard would cry "Weg!"--which is to say,
"Go back."

This made all our time leisure time, and I put in many hours making
maps, being as careful as possible not to let the guards see me. I
got the maps in a variety of ways. Some of them had been smuggled in
in parcels, and some of the prisoners had brought them in when they
came.

A Canadian soldier, who was a clever artist, and had a room to
himself where he painted pictures for some of the Germans, gave me
the best one, and from these I got to know quite a lot about the
country. From my last experience I knew how necessary it was to have
detailed knowledge of the country over which we must travel to reach
the border.

My interest in maps caused the boys to suspect that I was determined
to escape, and several broached the subject to me. However, I did not
wish to form an alliance with any one but Bromley. We considered two
was enough, and we were determined to go together.

        *       *       *

One day, in the late fall, when the weather was getting cold, an
American, evidently connected with the Embassy, came to see us, and
asked us about our overcoats. The German officers in charge of the
camp treated him with scant courtesy, and evidently resented his
interference. But as a result of his visit every person who did not
already have a Red Cross or khaki coat got a German coat.

        *       *       *

Just before Christmas Day we got overcoats from the Red Cross, dark
blue cloth, full length and well lined. They had previously sent each
of us a blanket.

The treatment of overcoats was to cut a piece right out of one
sleeve, and insert a piece of yellowish-brown stuff, such as is shown
in Bromley's photograph. We knew that coats were coming for us, and
were particularly anxious to get them before they were disfigured
with the rings which they would put on or with this band of cloth. If
we could get the coats as they came from the Red Cross, they would
look quite like civilian's coats, and be a great help to us when we
made our next escape. Bromley and I had spent hard thinking on how we
could save our coats.

Larkins, one of the boys who worked in the parcels office, watched
for our overcoats, and when they came he slipped them into the stack
which had been censored, and in that way we got them without having
them interfered with. But even then we were confronted with a greater
difficulty. The first time we wore them the guards would notice we
had no rings, and that would lead to trouble. The piece of cloth on
the arm was not so difficult to fix. Two of the boys whose coats were
worn out gave us the pieces out of their coats, which we _sewed on_,
instead of inserting. The rings had been put on in brown paint lately
instead of red, and this gave Bromley an idea. We had a tin of cocoa,
saved from our parcels, and with it we painted rich brown rings on
our new coats. We were careful not to wear these coats, for we knew
the cocoa rings were perishable, but we had our old overcoats to wear
when we needed one. This saw us past the difficulty for a while.

        *       *       *

On Christmas Day we had the privilege of boiling in the cook-house
the puddings which came in our parcels, and we were given a Christmas
card to send instead of the ordinary cards--that was the extent of
the Christmas cheer provided for us.

        *       *       *

Soon after Christmas there was a party of about four hundred picked
out to be sent away from Giessen; the ring-men were included, and all
those who had refused to work or given trouble. Bromley and I were
pretty sure we should be included, and in anticipation of the journey
touched up the cocoa rings on our coats. They were disposed to flake
off. I also prepared for the projected move by concealing my maps.

I put several in the pasteboard of my cap and left no trace, thanks
be to the needle and thread I had bought in the army canteen, and
my big one I camouflaged as a box of cigarettes. A box of Players'
Cigarettes had been sent to me, which I had not yet broken into. I
carefully removed the seal, being careful to break it so that it
could be put back again without detection. Then I cut my map into
pieces corresponding to the size of a cigarette, and, emptying out
the tobacco from a few, inserted the section of map instead, and put
them carefully in with the label showing. I then closed the box and
mended the band so that it looked as if it had not been broken. I
felt fairly safe about this.

[Illustration: The Christmas Card which the Giessen Prison
Authorities supplied to the Prisoners]

The day came when we were to leave. Sometimes Bromley and I were on
the list, sometimes we were not. We did not really know until our
names were called.

Our cocoa rings were fresh and fine, and we walked out with innocent
faces. I don't know why they suspected me, but the Company officer,
with two soldiers, came over to me where I stood at the end of a
double line. At the word from the officer, the soldiers tore off my
pack, opened my coat, examined the rings on my tunic which were,
fortunately, of the durable red paint, guaranteed not to crock or
run. I thought for sure they would search me, which I did not fear at
all, for my maps I considered safe, but I did not want them fooling
around me too much, for my cocoa rings would not stand any rough
treatment. I wished then I had put sugar in the cocoa to make them
stick better.

But after considerable argument, they left me. Just before the
officer walked away, he shook a warning finger at me and said,
"Fini--dead--fertig," which was his French, English, and German for
the game idea: "If you don't behave yourself, you are a dead man!"

He directed the soldiers to keep a strict watch on us, and one of
them volunteered the opinion that we should have rings in our noses!



CHAPTER XIII

CELLELAGER


The attention given to me by the prison-guards would have been
disconcerting to a less modest man than I am. A soldier sat with me
all the way on the train. I could not lose him! He stuck to me like
a shadow. When I stood up, he stood up. When I changed my seat, he
changed his. And he could understand English, too, so Bromley and I
could not get a word in. He seemed to me--though I suppose that was
simply imagination--to be looking at my rings, and I knew my pack's
string was rubbing them. I hardly knew what to do. At last I hastily
removed my pack, folded my overcoat so that the rings would not show,
and hung it up, but as the train lurched and rolled, I was fearful
of the effect this would have on the rings. I fancied I smelled dry
cocoa, and seemed to see light brown dust falling on the seat. Why
hadn't I thought to put sugar in it when I mixed it up?

When we reached the camp, which was called Cellelager, we found we
had come to one which was not in the same class as Giessen. The
sleeping-accommodations were insufficient for the crowd of men, and
there was one bunk above the other. There was one canteen for the
whole camp (instead of one in each hut as we had in Giessen), and
here we could buy cakes, needles, thread, and buttons, also apples.
The food was the same, except that we had soup in the morning instead
of coffee, and it was the worst soup we had yet encountered. As an
emetic, it was an honest, hard-working article which would bring
results, but it lacked all the qualifications of a good soup. I tried
it only once.

We were delighted to see no rings except what we had in our party.
The Commandant of the camp did not take any notice of them, so we
were able to remove all traces of them from our new overcoats, and
when Steve Le Blanc, from Ottawa, gave me a nice navy-blue civilian
coat, I gave my ringed tunic to one of the boys, who forthwith passed
himself off for a ring-man, to avoid being sent out to work.

I found, however, he only enjoyed a brief exemption, for his record,
all written down and sent along with him, showed his character had
been blameless and exemplary, and the rings on his coat could not
save him. It was "Raus in!" and "Raus out!" every day for him! In
this manner did his good deeds find him out.

There was a football ground at this camp, and a theatre for the
prisoners to use, but in the week we were there I saw only one game
of football.

At the end of a week we were moved again, most of us. They did not,
of course, tell us where we were going, but as they picked out all
of us who had ever tried to escape--and all those who had refused to
work--we were pretty sure it was not a "Reward of Merit" move.

We were awakened at a very early hour and were started off to the
station, loaded with stuff. We had blankets, wash-basin, empty
mattress, and wooden clogs. The boys did not take kindly to the
wooden clogs, and under cover of the darkness--for it was long before
daylight--they threw them away. The road to the station the next
morning must have looked as if a royal wedding party had gone by.

This time we were glad to be able to see where we were going,
although it was a dismal, barren country we travelled through,
with many patches of heather moor and marsh. The settlements were
scattered and the buildings poor. But even if we did not think much
of the country, we liked the direction, for it was northwest, and
was bringing us nearer Holland.

At Bremen, the second largest seaport in Germany, we stayed a couple
of hours, but were not let out of our car, so saw nothing of the
city.

At about four o'clock in the afternoon, we arrived in Oldenburg, and
began our eight-mile march to Vehnemoor Camp, which is one of the
Cellelager group and known as Cellelager VI. We were glad to dispose
of our packs by loading them on a canal-boat, which we pulled along
by ropes, and we arrived at the camp late in the evening.

This camp had but a few prisoners in it when we came, but there were
nearly four hundred of us, and we filled it to overflowing. There
were three tiers of bunks where the roof was high enough to admit
of it, and that first night we were there we slept on our empty
mattresses. However, we still had our Red Cross blanket and the two
German blankets apiece, and we managed to keep warm. There were two
rooms with two peat stoves in each room.

The camp was built beside a peat bog, on ground from which the peat
had been removed, and there was no paving of any kind around it. One
step from the door brought us to the raw mud, and the dirt inside the
camp was indescribable. There were no books or papers; the canteen
sold nothing but matches, notepaper, and something that tasted
remotely like buckwheat honey.

The first morning the Commandant addressed us, through an
interpreter. He told us he had heard about us. There was dead
silence at that; we were pretty sure we knew what he had heard. Then
he told us that some of us had refused to work and some had tried
to escape; he was grieved to hear these things! He hoped they would
not happen again. It was foolish to act this way, and would meet
with punishment (we knew that). If we would retain his friendship,
we must do as we were told. There was no other way to retain his
friendship. He repeated that. Some of us felt we could get along
without his friendship better than without some other things. We
noticed from the first that he didn't seem sure of himself.

Then came roll-call!

None of us like the thought of getting out to work in this horrible
climate, cold, dark, and rainy, and the roll-call brought out the
fact that we had very few able-bodied men. He had a list of our
names, and we were called in groups into an office. Bromley and I
gave our occupations as "farmers," for we hoped to be sent out to
work on a farm and thus have an opportunity of getting away.

Most of the Canadians were "trappers," though I imagine many of them
must have gained their experience from mouse-traps. Many of the
Englishmen were "boxers" and "acrobats." There were "musicians,"
"cornetists," and "trombone artists," "piano-tuners," "orchestra
leaders," "ventriloquists," "keepers in asylums," "corsetiers,"
"private secretaries," "masseurs," "agents," "clerks," "judges of
the Supreme Court," and a fine big fellow, a Canadian who looked as
if he might have been able to dig a little, gave his occupation as
a "lion-tamer."

The work which we were wanted to do was to turn over the sod on the
peat bogs. It looked as if they were just trying to keep us busy,
and every possible means was tried by us to avoid work.

The "lion-tamer" and three of his companions, fine, vigorous young
chaps, stayed in bed for about a week, claiming to be sick. They got
up for a while every afternoon--to rest. The doctor came three times
a week to look us over, but in the intervening days another man, not
a doctor, who was very good-natured, attended to us.

One day nine went on "sick parade"; that is, lined up before the
medical examiner and were all exempted from work. The next day there
were ninety of us numbered among the sick, and we had everything from
galloping consumption to ingrowing toe-nails, and were prepared to
give full particulars regarding the same. But they were not asked
for, for armed guards came in suddenly and we were marched out to
work at the point of the bayonet.

Steve Le Blanc, one of the party, who was a splendid actor, spent the
morning painfully digging his own grave. He did it so well, and with
such faltering movements and so many evidences of early decay, that
he almost deceived our own fellows. He looked so drawn and pale that
I was not sure but what he was really sick, until it was all over.
When he had the grave dug down to the distance of a couple of feet,
the guard stopped him and made him fill it in again, which he did,
and erected a wooden cross to his own memory, and delivered a
touching funeral oration eulogizing the departed.

We all got in early that day, but most of us decided we would not try
the "sick parade" again.

This was in the month of January, which is the rainy season, and
there was every excuse for the boys' not wanting to work--besides the
big reason for not wanting to help the Germans.

One night, when some of our fellows came in from work, cold, wet, and
tired, and were about to attack their supper of black bread and soup,
the mail came in, and one of the boys from Toronto got a letter from
a young lady there who had been out on the Kingston Road to see an
Internment Camp. He let me read the letter. She had gone out one
beautiful July day, she said, and found the men having their evening
meal under the beeches, and they did so enjoy their strawberries and
ice-cream; and they had such lovely gardens, she said, and enough
vegetables in them to provide for the winter. The conclusion of the
letter is where the real sting came: "I am so glad, dear Bert, that
you are safe in Germany out of the smoke and roar and dirt of the
trenches. It has made me feel so satisfied about you, to see these
prisoners. I was worrying a little about you before I saw them. But
now I won't worry a bit. I am glad to see prisoners can be so happy.
I will just hope you are as well cared for as they are.... Daddy and
Mother were simply wild about Germany when they were there two years
before the war. They say the German ways are so quaint and the
children have such pretty manners, and I am afraid you will be
awfully hard to please when you come back, for Daddy and Mother were
crazy about German cooking."

I handed the letter back, and Bert and I looked at each other. He
rolled his eyes around the crowded room, where five hundred men were
herded together. Two smoking stoves, burning their miserable peat,
made all the heat there was. The double row of berths lined the
walls. Outside, the rain and sleet fell dismally. Bert had a bowl of
prison soup before him, and a hunk of bread, black and heavy. He was
hungry, wet, tired, and dirty, but all he said was, "Lord! What _do_
they understand?"

        *       *       *

Every day we devised new ways of avoiding going to work. "Nix arbide"
(no work) was our motto. The Russians, however, never joined us in
any of our plans, neither did they take any part in the fun. They
were poor, melancholy fellows, docile and broken in spirit, and the
guards were much harsher with them than with us, which was very
unjust, and we resented it.

We noticed, too, that among our own fellows those who would work were
made to work, while the "lion-tamer" and his husky followers lay in
bed unmolested. His latest excuse was that the doctor told him to lie
in bed a month--for he had a floating kidney. Of course the doctor
had not said anything of the kind, but he bluffed it out.

One morning when the guards were at their difficult task of making up
a working party, they reported that they were twenty-five men short.
Every one had been at roll-call the night before, the guards were on
duty, no one could have got away. Wild excitement reigned. Nobody
knew what had happened to them. After diligent searching they were
found--rolled up in their mattresses.

They were all quickly hauled forth and sent out to work. The mattress
trick had worked well until too many had done it, on this morning.

The morning was a troublesome time, and we all felt better when it
had passed; that is, if we had eluded or bluffed the guard. Bromley
and I had a pretty successful way of getting very busy when the
digging party was being made up. We would scrub the table or grab a
gadbroom and begin to sweep, and then the guards, thinking this work
had been given to us, would leave us alone!

As time went on, the Commandant became more and more worried. I think
he realized that he had a tough bunch to handle. If he had understood
English, he could have heard lots of interesting things about his
Kaiser and his country--particularly in the songs. The "lion-tamer"
and his three followers generally led the singing, sitting up in
their bunks and roaring out the words.

The singing usually broke out just after the guards had made an
unsuccessful attempt to pull the bedclothes off some of the boys who
had determined to stay in bed all day; and when the few docile ones
had departed for the peat bog, the "shut-ins" grew joyful to the
point of singing.

This was a hot favorite:

  "O Germany, O Germany;
   Your fate is sealed upon the sea.
   Come out, you swine, and face our fleet;
   We'll smash you into sausage-meat."

Another one had a distinctly Canadian flavor:

  "Kaiser Bill, Kaiser Bill, you'd better be in hell, be in hell!
   When Borden's beauties start to yell, start to yell,
   We'll hang you high on Potsdam's palace wall--
   You're a damned poor Kaiser after all."

They had another song telling how they hated to work for the Germans,
the refrain of which was "Nix arbide" (I won't work).

The Commandant came in one day to inspect the huts. The "bed-ridden"
ones were present in large numbers, sitting up enjoying life very
well for "invalids." The Commandant was in a terrible humor, and
cried out "Schweinstall"--which is to say "pig-pen"--at the sight of
the mattresses. He didn't like anything, and raged at the way the
fellows had left their beds. It might have seemed more reasonable, if
he had raged at the way some of them had not left their beds! The men
he was calling down were the gentle ones, those who were out working.
But to the "lion-tamer" and his followers, who were lazily lying in
their beds, laughing at him, he said never a word.

We knew enough about Germany and German methods to know this sort
of a camp could not last. Something was going to happen; either we
should all be moved, or there would be a new Commandant and a new set
of guards sent down. This Commandant had only handled Russians, I
think, and we were a new sort of Kriegsgefangenen (prisoners of war).
Bromley and I wanted to make our get-away before there was a change,
but we had no compass--my card had not been answered.

There was a man named Edwards, who was captured May 8th, a Princess
Pat, who once at Giessen showed me his compass and suggested that we
go together next time. He was at Vehnemoor, too, and Bromley and I,
in talking it over, decided to ask Edwards and his friend to join us.
Then the four of us got together and held many conferences. Edwards
had a watch and a compass; I had maps, and Edwards bought another
one. We talked over many plans, and to Edwards belongs the honor of
suggesting the plan which we did try.

The difficulties in the way of escaping were many. The camp-ground
was about three hundred feet long and seventy-five feet wide,
surrounded by a barbed-wire fence about ten feet high. The fence had
been built by putting strong, high posts in the ground and stretching
the wire on with a wire-stretcher, so that it could not be sprung
either up or down. The bottom wires were very close together. Inside
of this was an ordinary barbed-wire fence with four or five strands,
through which we were forbidden to go.

Outside the camp at the northwest corner was the hut where the guards
lived when not on duty, and beside this hut was the kennel where the
watch-dog was kept. He was a big dog, with a head like a husky! The
camp was lighted by great arc-lights about sixty feet apart. German
soldiers were stationed outside and all around the camp, and were
always on the alert.

We planned to go on Friday night, but an unforeseen event made that
impossible. A very dull German soldier had taken out about a dozen
Frenchmen to work on the moor. Two of them had slipped away some time
during the afternoon, and he did not notice he was short until he
got in. Then great excitement prevailed, and German soldiers were
sent out in pursuit. We watched them going out, dozens of them, and
decided this was a poor time to go abroad. The moon was nearly full
and the clouds which had filled the sky all day, were beginning to
break, all of which was against us.

On Saturday, just as we feared, an extra guard of about twenty-five
men was sent in from Oldenburg, and as the guard changed every two
hours, and this was about 5.30 o'clock in the evening when they came,
we reasoned that the double guard would go on at seven. After the
guard had been doubled, there would be but little chance for us.

It was now or never!



CHAPTER XIV

OFF FOR HOLLAND!


The eastern fence was the one we had marked as our point of
departure, and, Saturday being wash-day, there was nothing suspicious
in the fact that we had hung our clothes there to dry. They had to be
hung somewhere.

The boys were expecting parcels that night, for a canal-boat had come
up from Oldenburg, and every one was out in the yard. Several of the
boys were in our confidence, and we had asked them to stroll up and
down leisurely between the hut and the east fence.

Just at the last minute the fourth man, Edwards's friend, came to me
and said:--

"Sim, we will never make it. The guards will see us, and they'll
shoot us--you know they'll just be glad to pot us to scare the
others. It is madness to think we can get away from here with these
lights shining."

I told him I thought we had a chance, but did not try to persuade
him. Of course, we all knew we were taking a grave risk, but then,
why shouldn't we? It was the only way out.

"Don't go, Sim," he said earnestly.

I told him we were going, but if he felt as he said, it would be
better for him not to come, and already I could see that Edwards, who
was in the group of strollers, had dropped on his stomach and was
filing the lower wire of the inner fence, and when the wire broke he
crawled through to the other fence.

I joined the party of strollers then, and walking toward the fence,
could see what Edwards was doing.

With his left hand he held the bottom wire and filed it close to the
post, which did much to deaden the sound, but when the wire broke, to
my strained ears the crack was loud enough to alarm the guard. But
the sound of our voices must have covered it over, for all went well.

We walked back again leisurely, though to my excited imagination the
sound of the filing deadened every other sound. We were back to the
fence again when I heard the whang of the second wire, and at that I
dropped to the ground and began to crawl after Edwards.

The light from the arc-lights caught the horseshoes on the heels of
Edwards's boots, and they flashed to my eyes and seemed to me to
shine like the headlights of an engine! It seemed to me as if the
guards must see them.

On he went--on--and on I followed, and behind me came Bromley. I
could hear him breathe above the beating of my own heart.

Crawling is a slow and terrible way to travel when every instinct
cries out to run. But for about twenty yards we crawled like
snakes--changing then to the easier method of creeping on hands
and knees.

Then three shots rang out, and it seemed as if our hearts stopped
beating--but we kept on going! Our first thought was, of course, that
we had been discovered. But no other sound came to us, and, looking
back to the _Lager_, we could still see the men moving carelessly
about.

The bog was traversed by many ditches, and had a flat but uneven
surface, with tufts of grass here and there. It gave us no shelter,
but the winter night had fallen, and we were glad of the shelter
afforded by the darkness. We knew the moon would be up before long,
and we wanted to be as far away from the camp as possible before that
happened.

I had gone out to work for a couple of days, to get a knowledge of
the country, and I knew from my map that there was a railway at the
edge of the bog, and as this would be the place where they would
expect to catch us, we wanted to get past it as soon as possible. But
the ditches, filled with water cold as ice, gave us great trouble.
Generally we could jump them, but sometimes they were too wide and we
had to scramble through the best we could.

About eight o'clock the moon came up, a great ball of silver in a
clear blue sky, and turned the stagnant water of the bog to pools of
silver. It was a beautiful night to look at, but a bad night for
fugitives. Bromley, being a little heavier than either Edwards or I,
broke through the crust of the bog several times, and had difficulty
in getting out.

About midnight, with the heavy going, he began to show signs of
exhaustion. His underwear, shrunken with cold-water washing, bound
his limbs, and he told us he could not keep up. Then we carried his
overcoat and told him we would stop to rest just as soon as we
crossed the track, if we could find a bush, and he made brave efforts
to keep up with us.

"You'll be all right, Tom, when we get out of the swamp," we told
him.

About half-past two we reached the railroad, and finding a close
thicket of spruce on the other side, we went in and tried to make
Bromley comfortable. He fell fast asleep as soon as he got his head
down, and it was evident to Edwards and me that our comrade was in
poor shape for a long tramp. Still we hoped that a day's rest would
revive him. He slept most of the day and seemed better before we
started out.

The day was dry and fine, but, of course, we were wet from the hard
going across the bog, and it was too cold to be comfortable when not
moving.

We could hear the children playing, and the wagons passing on a road
near by, and once we heard the whistle of a railway train--but no one
came near the wood.

At nightfall we stole out and pushed off again. Bromley made a brave
attempt to keep going, but the mud and heavy going soon told on him,
and he begged us to go on and leave him.

"If you don't go on, boys," he said, "we'll all be taken. Leave me,
and you two will have a chance. I can't make it, boys; I can only
crawl along."

We came to a road at last and the going was easier. Bromley found he
could get along more easily, and we were making pretty fair time when
we saw something dark ahead of us. I was of the opinion that we
should go around it, but Bromley could not stand any more travelling
across country, and we pushed on.

The dark object proved to be a house, and it was only one of many,
for we found ourselves in a small town. Then we took the first road
leading out of the town, and, walking as fast as we could, pushed
quietly out for the country, Edwards ahead, I next, and Bromley
behind.

I heard some one whistling and thought it was Bromley, and waited for
him to come up to tell him to keep quiet, but when he came beside me,
he whispered, "They are following us."

We went on.

Soon a voice behind us called, "Halt!"

"It's no use, Sim--they have us," Bromley whispered.

Ahead of us was a little bush, toward which we kept going. We did not
run, because we thought that the people who were following us were
not sure who we were, and therefore would not be likely to shoot.
Bromley knew he could not stand a race for it in his condition, but,
knowing him as I do, I believe he would have made the effort; but I
think he saw that if he went back and surrendered, it would give us
more time to get away.

"Go on, Sim," he whispered to me.

We had agreed that if anything happened to one of us, the others were
to go on. We could not hope to help each other against such numbers.

When we got opposite the wood, we made a dash for it.

I think it was then that Bromley went back and gave himself up. I
often wondered what he told them about the other men they had seen.
Whatever he thought was best for our safety, I am sure of that, for
Bromley was a loyal comrade and the best of chums.

        *       *       *

We lay there for a while, wondering what to do. We were about in the
middle of a very small grove, and knew it was a poor place to stay
in, for it was a thin wood, and the daylight was not far distant.

Edwards, who was right beside me, whispered that he had just seen a
soldier climb a tree and another one handing him a gun. This decided
us to crawl to the edge of the wood again. But when we reached it,
Edwards, who was ahead, whispered back to me that he saw three
civilians right in front of us.

This began to look like a tight corner.

We determined to take a chance on the civilians' not being armed, and
make a dash for it. We did, and "the civilians" turned out to be a
group of slim evergreens. We saw a forest ahead, and made for it. The
ground was sandy and poor, and the trees were scattered and small,
and grew in clumps. The going was not hard, but the loss of Bromley
had greatly depressed us.

Once we met a man--ran right into him--and probably scared him just
as much as he did us. He gave us a greeting, to which we grunted a
reply, a grunt being common to all languages.

We saw the headlight of a train about three o'clock in the morning,
reminding us of the railroad to the south of us.

Coming to a thick spruce grove, we decided to take cover for the day.
The morning was red and cloudy, with a chilly wind crackling the
trees over our heads, but as the day wore on, the wind went down and
the sun came out. It was a long day, though, and it seemed as if the
night would never come. It was too cold to sleep comfortably, but we
got a little sleep, some way.

When we started out at night, we soon came to a ditch too wide to
jump, and as our feet were dry we did not want to wet our socks, so
took them off and went through. January is a cold month for wading
streams, and a thin crust of ice was hard on the feet. They felt
pretty numb for a while, but when we had wiped them as dry as we
could and got on our socks and boots again, they were soon all right.
But our care for our feet did not save them, for the muddy ground,
full of bog-holes, which we next encountered, made us as wet and
miserable as we could be.

One large town--it may have been Sögel--gave us considerable trouble
getting around it.

The time of year made the going bad. There were no vegetables in the
gardens or apples on the trees; no cows out at pasture. Even the
leaves were gone from the trees, thus making shelter harder to find.
The spruce trees and Scotch fir were our stronghold, and it was in
spruce thickets we made our hiding-places by day.

The advantage of winter travel was the longer nights, and although
it had been raining frequently, and the coldest, most disagreeable
rains, the weather was dry during the time we were out. But the going
was heavy and bad, and when the time came to rest, we were completely
done out.

We had put ourselves on short rations because we had not been able to
save much; we had no way of carrying it except in our pockets, and we
had to be careful not to make them bulge. We had biscuits, chocolate,
and cheese, but not being able to get even a raw turnip to supplement
our stores, we had to save them all we could.

On January 25th, our third day out, the bush was so short we had to
lie all day to remain hidden. We could not once stand up and stretch,
and the day was interminably long. A bird's nest, deserted now, of
course, and broken, hung in a stunted Scotch fir over my head, and as
I lay looking at it I thought of the hard struggle birds have, too,
to get along, and of how they have to be on the watch for enemies.

Life is a queer puzzle when a person has time to figure it out. We
make things hard for each other. Here we were, Ted and I, lying all
day inactive, not because we wanted to, but because we had to, to
save our lives. Lying in a patch of scrub, stiff, cold, and hungry,
when we might have been clearing it out and making of it a farm which
would raise crops and help to feed the people! Hunger sharpens a
man's mind and gives him a view of things that will never come when
the stomach is full; and as we lay there under scrub, afraid even
to speak to each other, afraid to move, for a crackling twig might
attract some dog who would bark and give the alarm, I took a short
course in sociology.... The Catholics are right about having the
people come fasting to mass, for that is the time to get spiritual
truths over to them!

Hunger would solve all the capital and labor troubles in the world;
that is, if the employers could be starved for a week--well, not a
whole week--just about as long as we had--say, two biscuits a day for
three days, with nothing better ahead. But hunger is just a word of
two syllables to most people. They know it by sight, they can say it
and write it, but they do not know it.

At these times the thought of liberty became a passion with us.
Still, we never minimized the danger nor allowed ourselves to become
too optimistic. We knew what was ahead of us if we were caught: the
cells and the Strafe-Barrack, with incidentals.

On the fourth day we crossed an open patch of country, lightly
wooded, and then came to a wide moor which offered us no protection
whatever. Our only consolation was that nobody would be likely to
visit such a place. There was not even a rabbit or a bird, and the
silence was like the silence of death.

I knew from my map that we had to cross the river Ems, and I also
knew that this would probably be the deciding factor in our escape.
If we got over the Ems, we should get the rest of the way.

About two o'clock in the morning we reached the Ems. It is a big
river in normal times, but it was now in flood, as we could see by
the trees which stood in the water, as well as by the uprooted ones
that floated down the stream. Swimming was out of the question.

We hunted along the bank that morning, but could find nothing, and as
daylight was coming, we had to take cover.

All day we remained hidden in a clump of spruce and looked out upon
the cruel sweep of water that divided us from liberty. The west wind
came softly to us, bringing sounds from the Holland border, which we
knew from our map was only four or five miles away! We heard the
shunting of cars and the faint ringing of bells.

We discussed every plan. We would search the riverbank for a boat,
though we were afraid the German thoroughness would see to it that
there was no boat on this side of any of their border rivers. Still,
they could not watch everything, and there might be one.

Failing that, we would make a raft to carry our clothes, and swim it.
We had a knife, but no rope. I remember in "Swiss Family Robinson"
how easily things came to hand when they were needed, and I actually
looked in the dead grass at my feet to see if by any chance I might
find a rope or wire--or something.

But there were no miracles or fairies--no fortunate happenings for
us; and when night came on again we scoured the bank for a boat, but
in vain. Never a boat could we see.

We then drew together some of the driftwood that lay on the shore,
but when we tried it in the water it would hardly float its own
weight. I felt the hopelessness of this plan, but Ted worked on like
a beaver, and I tried to believe he had more hope than I had. But
suddenly he looked at me, as he stopped, and I felt that our last
plan was gone!

"It's no use," he said.

There was only the bridge left, and that, we knew, was very
dangerous. Still, there was a chance. It might not be guarded--the
guard might be gone for a few minutes. And all the time the murmurs
came to us on the wind from the Holland border, and sounded friendly
and welcoming.

We started out to find the bridge.

We were better dressed than Bromley and I had been, for we had on the
dark blue overcoats, but not being able to speak the language was
dead against us.

"Even if they do get us, Sim," Ted said, "we'll try it again--if we
live through the punishment."

"All right," I said, "I'm game."



CHAPTER XV

CAUGHT AGAIN


The bridge was a fine iron one without lights. The road which led
to it was not much travelled, and it looked as if it might carry us
over--without accident. Anyway, it was our only chance.

We walked on to the bridge, taking care to make no noise, and
striking a gait that was neither slow nor fast.

We were nine tenths of the way over the bridge, with hope springing
in our tired hearts at each step. Away to the west, straight ahead of
us, distant lights twinkled. We thought they were in Holland, and
they beckoned to our tired hearts like the lights of home.

We were only about ten feet from the other side of the bridge,
when... suddenly a light was flashed on us, a great dazzling light
that seemed to scorch and wither us. It seemed to burn our
prison-clothes into our very souls. I'm sure the rings on my knees
showed through my overcoat!

Into the circle of light three German soldiers came, with rifles
levelled.

They advanced upon us until their bayonets were touching us. And
again we saw our dream of freedom fade!

The soldiers took us in charge and marched us to Lathen, a town near
by, where part of the hotel was used as barracks. They showed us no
hostility; it was just part of their day's work to gather in escaping
prisoners.

There was a map on the wall, and when they asked us where we came
from, we showed them Canada on the map of the North American
Continent. They were decent-looking young fellows and asked us many
questions about Canada.

Although it was about midnight there seemed to be people on the
streets, which were brilliantly lighted. A Sergeant Major came in,
with a gendarme, who had two women with him. They were well-dressed
looking women, but I kept wondering what they were doing out so late.

The Sergeant Major and the policeman lacked the friendliness of the
privates, and the former began the conversation by saying, "England
ist kaputt." The Sergeant Major repeated his statement, with greater
emphasis, and I put more emphasis on my reply, and there we stuck! It
did not seem that we could get any farther. It seemed a place to say,
"Time will tell."

The gendarme was a coarse, beer-drinking type, and I kept wondering
how two such fine-looking women came to be with him. The younger and
handsomer one was not his wife, I knew--he was so attentive to her.
The other one may have been, though she was evidently his superior
in every way. Still, even in our own country very fine women are
sometimes careless about whom they marry.

The Sergeant Major poured out a volume of questions in German, to
which we replied, "Nix forstand."

Then the gendarme thought something was being overlooked, and he
suggested that we be searched. I was afraid of that, and had taken
the precaution of hiding the compass as well as I could, by putting
it in the bottom of the pasteboard box that held our shaving-stick.
The stick had been worn down, leaving room for the compass at the
bottom of the box.

The soldier who searched us did not notice the compass, and handed
the shaving-stick back to me, and I breathed easier. But the gendarme
had probably done more searching than the soldier, and asked me for
it. He immediately let the stick fall out, and found the compass,
which he put in his pocket, with a wink at the others... and it was
gone.

All our little articles were taken from us and put into two parcels,
which we were allowed to carry, but not keep, and which were
eventually returned to us, and, whether it was done by carelessness
or not I do not know, but by some fortunate circumstance my maps were
left in my pay-book case and put in the package, but I did not see
them until after my punishment was over.

[Illustration: Map made from Paper which came in a Parcel, wrapped
around a Fruit-Cake / Notice the stain caused by the cake. This is
the map that was hidden in the cigarette-box]

My notebook attracted the attention of the gendarme, and he took
it from me. I had made entries each day, and these he read aloud,
translating them into German as he went, much to the apparent
entertainment of the two women, who laughed at him, with a forced
gaiety which confirmed my diagnosis of their relationship. I think
he was crediting me with entries I had never made, for the central
figure seemed to be one "Rosie Fräulein," whom I did not have the
pleasure of meeting.

We could see that although the privates were friendly, there was no
semblance of friendliness in either the gendarme or the Sergeant
Major. I think they would have gladly shot us on the spot--if they
had dared. They were pronounced cases of anglophobia.

The gendarme at last broke out into English, cutting his words off
with a snarl:

"What do you fellows want to get back for anyway? England is no good!
England is a liar, and a thief."

When he said this, I could see Edwards's face grow white and his eyes
glitter. He was breathing hard, like a man going up a steep hill, and
his hands were opening and closing. He walked over to the gendarme
and glared in his face,--"What do I want to get back for?" he
repeated in a steady voice, stretched tight like a wire, "I'll tell
you--this is not any ordinary war, where brave men fight each other.
This is a war against women and children and old men. I have fought
with the Boers in Africa, but I bore them no ill-will--they fought
like men and fought with men. I've been through Belgium--I've seen
what you have done. I have boys of my own--little fellows--just
like the ones you cut the hands off--and I will tell you why I want
to get back--I want to serve my country and my God--by killing
Germans--they're not fit to live!"

The women drew back in alarm, though I do not think they understood
the words. Instinctively I drew up beside Edwards, for I thought it
was the end; but to our surprise the brutal face of the gendarme
relaxed into a broad grin, and he turned to the women and Sergeant
Major and made some sort of explanation. We did not know what was
coming, and then a controversy took place between the two men as to
what should be done with us. The gendarme wanted to take us, but the
ladies protested, and at last we were led away by the two privates,
carrying our two little packages of belongings.

We went into an adjoining room, where a coal fire burned in a small
round heater, whose glow promised comfort and warmth. The privates
very kindly brought us a drink of hot coffee and some bread, and
pulled two mattresses beside the stove and told us to go to sleep.
Then they went out and brought back blankets, and with friendly looks
and smiles bade us good-night, incidentally taking our shoes with
them.

"The Germans are a spotty race," said Ted, as we lay down. "Look at
these two fellows--and then think of those two mugs that any decent
man would want to kill at sight!"--He pointed to the room where we
had left the gendarme and the Sergeant Major. "Oh--wouldn't I enjoy
letting a bit of daylight through that policeman's fat carcass!"

Next morning, when we awakened, our guards came again and brought us
some more coffee and bread. It was a bright morning, of sunshine,
with a frost which glistened on the pavement and the iron railing
surrounding the building we were in.

The streets were full of people, and streamers of bunting festooned
the buildings. Children were on the streets, carrying flags, and the
place had a real holiday appearance.

"Suppose this is all in our honor, Sim," Ted said as he looked out of
the window. "I wonder how they knew we were coming--we really did not
intend to."

One of the guards, who had a kodak and was taking pictures of the
celebration, asked us if he could take our pictures. So we went out
to the front door, which was hung with flags, and had a picture
taken.

"What are the flags up for?" we asked him.

"It is the birthday of the All-Highest," he replied proudly.

Ted said to me, so the guard could not hear, "Well, the old man has
my sincere wishes--that it may be his last."

During the forenoon we were taken by rail to Meppen. The Sergeant
Major came with us, but did not stay in the compartment with the
guards and us. On the way the guard who had taken our photograph
showed us the proof of it, and told us he would send us one, and
had us write down our addresses. He must have been a photographer
in civil life, for he had many splendid pictures with him, and
entertained us by showing them to us. I remember one very pretty
picture of his young daughter, a lovely girl of about fourteen years
of age, standing under an apple-tree.

Before the Sergeant Major handed us over to the military authorities
at Meppen, he told them what Edwards had said about wanting to go
back to kill Germans, but he did not tell all that Edwards had said.
However, they treated us politely and did not seem to bear us any
ill-will.

In the civil jail at Meppen to which we were taken, and which is a
fine building with bright halls and pleasant surroundings, we were
put in clean and comfortable cells. There was a bed with mattress and
blankets, which in the daytime was locked up against the wall, toilet
accommodations, drinking-water, chair, table, wash-basin, and comb.
It looked like luxury to us, and after a bowl of good soup I went to
sleep.

I wakened the next morning much refreshed and in good spirits. The
guard was polite and obliging, and when I said, "Guard, I like your
place," his face broke into a friendly grin which warmed my heart.
Ted had spoken truly when he said the Germans were a "spotty race."
It is a spotty country, too, and one of the pleasant spots to us was
the civil jail at Meppen.

Of course, to men who had been sleeping in beds and eating at tables
and going in and out at their own pleasure, it would have been a
jail; but to us, dirty, tired, hungry, red-eyed from loss of sleep,
and worn with anxiety, it was not a jail--it was a haven of rest. And
in the twenty-four hours that we spent there we made the most of it,
for we well knew there were hard times coming!



CHAPTER XVI

THE INVISIBLE BROTHERHOOD


A special guard was sent from Vehnemoor to bring us back, and we had
to leave our comfortable quarters at Meppen and go back with him.

The guard took a stout rope and tied us together, my right wrist to
Edwards's left, and when we were securely roped up, he tried to
enlighten us further by dancing around us, shouting and brandishing
his gun, occasionally putting it against our heads and pretending he
was about to draw the trigger. This was his way of explaining that he
would shoot us if we didn't behave ourselves.

We tried to look back at him with easy indifference, and when he saw
that he had not succeeded in frightening us, he soon ceased to try.
However, from the wicked looks he gave us, we could see that he would
be glad to shoot us--if he had a reasonable excuse.

At the station in Meppen, where he took us fully an hour before train
time, as we stood in the waiting-room with the guard beside us, the
people came and looked curiously at us. The groups grew larger and
larger, until we were the centre of quite a circle. We did not enjoy
the notoriety very much, but the guard enjoyed it immensely, for was
he not the keeper of two hardened and desperate men?

We noticed that the majority of the women were dressed in black. Some
of them were poor, sad, spiritless-looking creatures who would make
any person sorry for them; and others I saw whose faces were as hard
as the men's. The majority of them, however, seemed to be quite
indifferent; they showed neither hostility nor friendliness to us.

We changed cars at Leer, where on the platform a drunken German
soldier lurched against us, and, seeing us tied together, offered to
lend us his knife to cut the cord, but the guard quickly frustrated
his kind intention.

At Oldenburg we were herded through the crowded station and taken out
on the road for Vehnemoor, the guard marching solemnly behind us. He
knew we had no firearms, and we were tied together, but when Ted put
his free hand in his pocket to find some chocolate, as we walked
along, the guard screamed at him in fear. He seemed to be afraid we
would in some way outwit him.

But he was quite safe from us; not that we were afraid of either him
or his gun, for I think I could have swung suddenly around on him and
got his gun away from him, while Edwards cut our cords with the knife
which was in my little package. I think he knew that we could do
this, and that is why he was so frightened.

But there was one big reason which caused us to walk quietly and
peaceably forward to take our punishment, and that was the river Ems,
with its cruel sweep of icy water and its guarded bridges. We knew it
was impossible to cross it at this season of the year, so the guard
was safe. We would not resist him, but already we were planning our
next escape when the flood had subsided and the summer had come to
warm the water.

He had a malicious spirit, this guard, and when we came to Vehnemoor
and were put in our cells, he wanted our overcoats taken from us,
although the cells were as cold as outside. The Sergeant of the guard
objected to this, and said we were not being punished, but only held
here, and therefore we should not be deprived of our coats. Several
times that night, when we stamped up and down to keep from freezing,
I thought of the guard and his desire that our coats should be taken
from us, and I wondered what sort of training or education could
produce as mean a spirit as that! Surely, I thought, he must have
been cruelly treated, to be so hard of heart--or probably he knew
that the way of promotion in the German army is to show no softness
of spirit.

But the morning came at last, and we were taken before the
Commandant, and wondered what he would have to say to us. We were
pretty sure that we had not "retained his friendship."

He did not say much to us when we were ushered into his little
office and stood before his desk. He spoke, as before, through an
interpreter. He looked thin and worried, and, as usual, the questions
were put to us--"Why did we want to leave?" "What reason had we? Was
it the food, or was it because we had to work?"

[Illustration: Friedrichsfeld Prison-Camp in Winter]

We said it was not for either of these; we wanted to regain our
freedom; we were free men, and did not want to be held in an enemy
country; besides, we were needed!

We could see the Commandant had no interest in our patriotic
emotions. He merely wanted to wash his hands of us, and when we said
it was not on account of the poor food, or having to work, I think he
breathed easier. Would we sign a paper--he asked us then--to show
this? And we said we would. So the paper was produced and we signed
it, after the interpreter had read and explained it to us.

In the cells the food was just the same as we had had before, in the
regular prison-camp. They seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of
that soup. We wondered if there was a flowing well of it somewhere in
the bog. The food was no worse, but sometimes the guards forgot us.
The whole camp seemed to be running at loose ends, and sometimes the
guards did not come near us for half a day, but we were not so badly
off as they thought, for we got in things from our friends.

On the first morning, when we were taken to the lavatory, we saw some
of the boys. They were very sorry to know we had been caught, and
told us Bromley had been sent to Oldenburg a few days before, for his
punishment. They also told us that the night we escaped, no alarm had
been given, although the guards may have noticed the hanging wires.
Several of the boys had had the notion to go when they saw the wires
down, but they were afraid of being caught. The general opinion was
that the guards knew we had gone, but did not give the alarm until
morning, because they had no desire to cross the bog at night.

Our method of getting stuff to the cell was simple. I wore my own
overcoat to the lavatory, and hung it up inside. When I went to get
it, I found another coat was hanging beside it, which I put on and
wore back to the cell. In the pocket of the "other coat" I found
things--bread, cheese, sardines, biscuits, and books. The next day I
wore the other coat, and got my own, and found its pockets equally
well supplied. It was a fellow called Iguellden, whose coat I had
on alternate days. He watched for me, and timed his visit to the
lavatory to suit me. Of course, the other boys helped him with the
contributions. Edwards was equally well supplied. In the prison-camp
the word "friend" has an active and positive quality in it which it
sometimes lacks in normal times.

On the second night in the cell I suffered from the cold, for it was
a very frosty night, and as the cells were not heated at all, they
were quite as cold as outside.

I was stamping up and down, with my overcoat buttoned up to the neck
and my hands in my pockets, trying to keep warm, when the new guard
came on at seven o'clock. He shouted something at me, which I did not
understand, but I kept on walking. Then he pounded on the wall with
the butt of his rifle, crying, "Schlafen! schlafen!"

To which I replied, "Nix schlafen!" (I can't sleep!)

I then heard the key turn in the door, and I did not know what might
be coming.

When he came in, he blew his breath in the frosty air, and asked,
"Kalt?"

I did not think he needed to take my evidence--it certainly was
"kalt."

Then he muttered something which I did not understand, and went out,
returning about twenty minutes later with a blanket which he had
taken from one of the empty beds in the _Revier_. I knew he was
running a grave risk in doing this, for it is a serious offense for
a guard to show kindness to a prisoner, and I thanked him warmly. He
told me he would have to take it away again in the morning when he
came on guard again, and I knew he did not want any of the other
guards to see it. My word of thanks he cut short by saying, "Bitte!
bitte! Ich thue es gerne" (I do it gladly); and his manner indicated
that his only regret was that he could not do more.

I thought about him that night when I sat with the blanket wrapped
around me, and I wondered about this German soldier. He evidently
belonged to the same class as the first German soldier I had met
after I was captured, who tried to bandage my shoulder when the
shells were falling around us; to the same class as good old Sank
at Giessen, who, though he could speak no English, made us feel his
kindness in a hundred ways; to the same class as the German soldier
who lifted me down from the train when on my way to Roulers. This
man was one of them, and I began to be conscious of that invisible
brotherhood which is stronger and more enduring than any tie of
nationality, for it wipes out the differences of creed or race
or geographical boundary, and supersedes them all, for it is a
brotherhood of spirit, and bears no relation to these things.

To those who belong to it I am akin, no matter where they were born
or what the color of their uniform!

Then I remembered how bitterly we resented the action of a British
Sergeant Major at Giessen, who had been appointed by the German
officer in charge to see after a working party of our boys. Working
parties were not popular--we had no desire to help the enemy--and one
little chap, the Highland bugler from Montreal, refused to go out.
The German officer was disposed to look lightly on the boy's offense,
saying he would come all right, but the British Sergeant Major
insisted that the lad be punished--and he was.

I thought of these things that night in the cell, and as I slept,
propped up in the corner, I dreamed of that glad day when the
invisible brotherhood will bind together all the world, and men will
no more go out to kill and wound and maim their fellow-men, but their
strength will be measured against sin and ignorance, disease and
poverty, and against these only will they fight, and not against each
other.

When I awakened in the morning, stiff and cramped and shivering, my
dream seemed dim and vague and far away--but it had not entirely
faded.

That day the guard who brought me soup was a new one whom I had not
seen before, and he told me he was one of the twenty-five new men who
had been sent down the night we escaped. I was anxious to ask him
many things, but I knew he dared not tell me. However, he came in and
sat down beside me, and the soup that he brought was steaming hot,
and he had taken it from the bottom of the pot, where there were
actual traces of meat and plenty of vegetables. Instead of the usual
bowlful, he had brought me a full quart, and from the recesses of his
coat he produced half a loaf of white bread--"Swiss bread" we called
it--and it was a great treat for me. I found out afterwards that Ted
had received the other half. The guard told me to keep hidden what I
did not eat then, so I knew he was breaking the rules in giving it
to me.

He sat with his gun between his knees, muzzle upwards, and while I
ate the soup he talked to me, asking me where I came from, and what
I had been doing before the war.

When I told him I had been a carpenter, he said he was a
bridge-builder of Trieste, and he said, "I wish I was back at it;
it is more to my liking to build things than to destroy them."

I said I liked my old job better than this one, too, whereupon he
broke out impatiently, "We're fools to fight each other. What spite
have you and I at each other?"

I told him we had no quarrel with the German people, but we knew the
military despotism of Germany had to be literally smashed to pieces
before there could be any peace, and, naturally enough, the German
people had to suffer for having allowed such a tyrant to exist in
their country. We were all suffering in the process, I said.

"It's money," he said, after a pause. "It is the money interests that
work against human interests every time, and all the time. The big
ones have their iron heel on our necks. They lash us with the whip
of starvation. They have controlled our education, our preachers,
government, and everything, and the reason they brought on the war is
that they were afraid of us--we were getting too strong. In the last
election we had nearly a majority, and the capitalists saw we were
going to get the upper hand, so to set back the world, they brought
on the war--to kill us off. At first we refused to fight--some of
us--but they played up the hatred of England which they have bred
in us; and they stampeded many of our people on the love of the
Fatherland. Our ranks broke; our leaders were put in jail and some
were shot; it's hard to go back on your country, too.

"But I don't believe in nationalities any more; nationalities are a
curse, and as long as we have them, the ruling class will play us
off, one against the other, to gain their own ends. There is only one
race--the human race--and only two divisions of it; there are those
who represent money rights and special privileges, and those who
stand for human rights. The more you think of it, the more you will
see the whole fabric of society resolving itself into these two
classes. The whole military system is built on the sacrifice of human
rights."

I looked at him in astonishment.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am just a bridge-builder," he answered, "but I'm a follower of
Liebknecht... We can't do much until the Prussian system is defeated.
There are just a few of us here--the guard who got you the blanket
is one of us. We do what we can for the prisoners; sometimes we are
caught and strafed.... There is no place for kindness in our army,"
he added sadly.

"I must go now," he said; "I heard one of the guards say we were
going to be moved on to another camp. I may not see you again, but
I'll speak to a guard I know, who will try to get the good soup for
you. The Sergeant of the guard is all right, but some of them are
devils; they are looking for promotion, and know the way to get it is
to excel in cruelty. We shall not meet, but remember, we shall win!
Germany's military power will be defeated. Russia's military power
is crumbling now, the military power of the world is going down to
defeat, but the people of all nations are going to win!"

We stood up and shook hands, and he went out, locking me in the cell
as before.

I have thought long and often of the bridge-builder of Trieste and
his vision of the victory which is coming to the world, and I, too,
can see that it is coming, not by explosions and bombardments, with
the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying--not that way
will it come--but when these have passed there shall be heard a
still, small voice which will be the voice of God, and its words
shall be--

"Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself!"



CHAPTER XVII

THE CELLS AT OLDENBURG


It was on February 3d that we were taken from Vehnemoor to Oldenburg,
and when we started out on the road along the canal, roped together
as before, Ted and I knew we were going up against the real thing as
far as punishment goes, for we should not have Iguellden and the rest
of the boys to send us things. We came out of the Vehnemoor Camp with
somewhat of a reluctant feeling, for we knew we were leaving kind
friends behind us. Ted had received the same treatment that I had in
the matter of the blankets and the good soup--thanks to the friendly
guard.

It was in the early morning we started, and as Vehnemoor was almost
straight west of Oldenburg, we had the sun in our faces all the way
in. It was good to be out again--and good to look at something other
than board walls.

Our road lay along the canal which connected Vehnemoor with
Oldenburg. Peat sheds, where the peat was put to dry after it was
cut, were scattered along the canal, and we passed several
flat-bottomed canal-boats carrying the peat into Oldenburg. They
were drawn by man-power, and naturally made slow progress.

The canal furnished a way of transportation for the small farmers
living near it, too, whose little farms had been reclaimed from the
bog, and their produce was brought into Oldenburg on the canal-boats.
We could see better-looking buildings back farther, where the land
was more fertile. At one place we saw a canal-boat with sails, but as
the day was still it lay inactive, fastened to an iron post.

The settlement seemed to be comparatively recent, judging by the
small apple-trees around the buildings, and it looked as if this
section of the country had all been waste land until the canal had
been put through.

When we arrived at Oldenburg, which we did early in the morning, we
were marched through its narrow streets to the military prison. We
could see that the modern part of the city was very well built and up
to date, with fine brick buildings, but the old part, which dates
back to the eleventh century, was dirty and cheerless.

The prison to which we were taken was a military prison before the
war, where the German soldiers were punished, and from the very first
we could see that it was a striking example of German efficiency--in
the way of punishment. Nothing was left to chance!

We were searched first, and it was done by removing all our clothing.
Then, piece by piece, the guard looked them over. He ran his hand
under the collar of our shirts; he turned our pockets inside out; he
patted the lining of our coats; he turned out our stockings and shook
them; he looked into our boots. As he finished with each article,
it was thrown over to us and we dressed again. Our caps, overcoats,
braces, belts, and knives were taken away from us. They were careful
to see that we should not be tempted to commit suicide.

When I saw my cap go, I wondered if my maps, which I had sewed in the
pasteboard, would escape this man's hawk eyes. I thought I had lost
my other maps, and wondered how we should ever replace them. But it
would be time enough to think of that--when we got out.

The guard's manner was typical of the management at Oldenburg. It had
no element of humanity in it. It was a triumph of _Kultur_. The men
might as well have been dummies, set by a clock and run by
electricity.

There was a blackboard on the wall which told how many prisoners were
in the institution and what they were getting. The strongest and
worst punishment given is called "Streng Arrest," and the number who
were getting it was three. The guard, while we were there, rubbed out
the 3 and put in a 5.

Ted and I looked at each other.

"That's us," he said.

Our two little parcels were deposited in a locker downstairs, where
other parcels of a like nature were bestowed, and we were conducted
up a broad stair and along a passage, and saw before us a long hall,
lined with doors sheeted with steel.

The guard walked ahead; Ted and I followed. At last he unlocked a
door, and we knew one of us had reached his abiding-place.

"I always did like a stateroom in the middle of the boat," Ted said,
as the guard motioned to him to go in. That was the last word I heard
for some time, for the guard said not a word to me. He came into the
cell with me, and shut the iron door over the window, excluding every
particle of light.

I just had time to see that the cell was a good-sized one--as cells
go. In one corner there was a steam coil, but it was stone cold, and
remained so all the time I was there. There was a shelf, on which
stood a brown earthen pitcher for drinking-water--but nothing else.
Our footsteps rang hollow on the cement floor, which had a damp
feeling, like a cellar, although it was above the ground floor.

Without a word the guard went out, and the key turned in the lock
with a click which had a sound of finality about it that left no room
for argument.

Well, it has come, I thought to myself--the real hard German
punishment... they had me at last. The other time we had outwitted
them and gained many privileges of which they knew nothing, and
Malvoisin had cheered me through the dark hours.

Here there was no Malvoisin, no reading-crack, no friends, nothing to
save us.

They had us!

We had staked the little bit of freedom we had on the chance of
getting full freedom. It was a long chance, but we had taken it--and
lost!

I knew the object of all their punishment was to break our wills and
make us docile, pliable, and week-kneed like the Russians we had seen
in the camps--poor, spiritless fellows who could give no trouble.

Well--we would show them they could not break ours!

        *       *       *

The eight-mile walk had tired me, and I lay down on the platform to
try to sleep, but it was a long time before I could close my eyes:
the darkness was so heavy, so choking and horrible. If there had been
even one gleam of light it wouldn't have been so bad, but I couldn't
even see a gleam under the door, and every time I tried to sleep the
silence bothered me--if I could only hear one sound, to tell me some
one was alive and stirring about! Still, I kept telling myself, I
must put it in, some way--I must--I must--I must.

        *       *       *

When I awakened, my first thought was that it was still night! Then I
remembered it was all night for me, and the thought set me shivering.
My hands were stiff and cold, and I missed my overcoat.

The waking-up was the worst time of all, for my teeth chattered and
my knees trembled, so it was hard to stand. But when I had stamped
up and down for a while, I felt better. It must be near morning, I
thought. I should know when it was morning, because the guard would
come and let me have ten minutes to sweep my cell, and then I should
see Ted. I should perhaps get a chance to speak to him--even a wink
would help!

It was a larger cell than the one at Giessen, and after sitting still
for a while I got up and walked up and down. I could take four steps
each way, by not stepping too far. My steps echoed on the cement
floor, and I quite enjoyed seeing how much noise I could make, and
wondered if anybody heard me. But when I stopped and leaned up
against the wall, I could hear nothing. Then I sat down again and
waited.

I remembered how, after the cells, the Strafe-Barrack did not seem
too bad, for we could see people and talk occasionally; and after the
Strafe-Barrack the prison-camp was comparative freedom, for we could
get our parcels and read, and see the boys, so I thought I will
pretend now that my punishment was sitting still.... I can't move a
muscle; the cut-throat guard that was over us in the Strafe-Barrack
is standing over me with his bayonet against my chest--I must not
move--or he'll drive it in.... I wish I could change my position--my
neck is cramped....

Then I jumped up and walked up and down, and tried to tell myself it
was good to be able to move! But I caught myself listening all the
time--listening for the guard to come and open the door!

        *       *       *

It seemed a whole day since we came, and still there was no sound at
the door. The guard must have forgotten us, I thought.... The guards
at Vehnemoor forgot to bring us soup sometimes.... These mechanical
toys may have run down; the power may have gone off, and the whole
works have shut down. Certainly the lights seem to have gone out. I
laughed at that. Well, I would try to sleep again; that was the best
way to get the time in.

I tried to keep myself thinking normally, but the thought would come
pushing in upon me, like a ghostly face at a window, that the guard
had forgotten us. I told myself over and over again that we had come
in at noon, and this was the first day; it was bound to be long, I
must wait! They--had--not--forgotten us.

        *       *       *

I knew exactly what I should look like when they found me. My hair
would be long, falling over my shoulders, and my beard--not red,
but white--would be down to my waist,--for people live for weeks on
water, and my nails would be so long they would turn back again...
and my hands would be like claws, with the white bones showing
through the skin, and the knuckles knotted and bruised. I remembered
seeing a cat once that had been forgotten in a cellar... It had worn
its claws off, scratching at the wall.

Then a chill seized me, and I began to shiver. That frightened me, so
I made a bargain with myself--I must not think, I must walk. Thinking
is what sends people crazy.

I got up then and began to pace up and down. Twelve feet each way was
twenty-four feet. There were five thousand two hundred and eighty
feet in a mile--so I would walk a mile before I stopped--I would walk
a mile, and I would not think!

I started off on my mile walk, and held myself to it by force of
will, one hundred and ten rounds. Once I lost the count and had to go
back to where I did remember, and so it was really more than a mile.
But when it was done, and I sat down, beyond a little healthy
tingling in my legs I did not feel at all different. I was
listening--listening just the same.

Ted and I had agreed that if we were side by side, we would pound on
the wall as a sign. Four knocks would mean "I--am--all--right." I
pounded the wall four times, and listened. There was no response.

Then, for a minute, the horror seized me--Ted was dead--every one was
dead--I was the only one left!

If the authorities in our prisons could once feel the horror of the
dark cell when the overwrought nerves bring in the distorted
messages, and the whole body writhes in the grip of fear,--choking,
unreasoning, panicky fear,--they would abolish it forever.

        *       *       *

After an eternity, it seemed, the key sounded in the lock and the
guard came in, letting in a burst of light which made me blink. He
came over to the window, swung open the iron door, and the cell was
light!

"What time is it?" I asked him in German.

He knew his business--this guard. He answered not a word. What has a
prisoner to do with time--except "do" it. He handed me a broom--like
a stable broom--and motioned me to sweep. It was done all too soon.

He then took me with him along the hall to the lavatory. At the far
end of the hall and coming from the lavatory, another prisoner was
being brought back with a guard behind him. His clothes hung loose on
him, and he walked slowly. The light came from the end of the hall
facing me, and I could not see very well.

When we drew near, a cry broke from him--

"Sim!" he cried. "Good God!... I thought you were in Holland."

It was Bromley!

Then the guard poked him in the back and sent him stumbling past me.
I turned and called to him, but my guard pushed me on.

        *       *       *

I put in as much time washing as I could, hoping that Ted would be
brought out, but I did not see him that day or the next.

At last I had to go back, and as the guard shoved me in again to that
infernal hole of blackness, he gave me a slice of bread. I had filled
my pitcher at the tap.

This was my daily ration the first three days. I was hungry, but I
was not sick, for I had considerable reserve to call upon, but when
the fourth day came I was beginning to feel the weariness which is
not exactly a pain, but is worse than any pain. I did not want to
walk--it tired me, and my limbs ached as if I had _la grippe._ I soon
learned to make my bread last as long as it would, by eating it in
instalments, and it required some will-power to do this.

Thoughts of food came to torture me--when I slept, my dreams were all
of eating. I was home again, and mother was frying doughnuts.... Then
I was at the Harvest-Home Festival in the church, and downstairs in
the basement there were long tables set. The cold turkey was heaped
up on the plates, with potatoes and corn on the cob; there were rows
of lemon pies, with chocolate cakes and strawberry tarts. I could
hear the dishes rattling and smell the coffee! I sat down before a
plate of turkey, and was eating a leg, all brown and juicy--when I
awakened.

There is a sense in which hunger sharpens a man's perceptions, and
makes him see the truth in a clearer light--but starvation, the slow,
gnawing starvation, when the reserve is gone, and every organ, every
muscle, every nerve cries out for food--it is of the devil. The
starving man is a brute, with no more moral sense than the gutter
cat. His mind follows the same track--he wants food...

Why do our authorities think they can reform a man by throwing him
into a dark cell and starving him?

        *       *       *

There was a hole in the door, wide on the inside and just big enough
on the outside for an eye, where the guards could spy on us. We could
not get a gleam of light through it, though, for it was covered with
a button on the outside.

On the fourth day I had light in my cell, and it was aired. Also, I
got soup that day, and more bread, and I felt better. I saw Ted for
a few seconds. He was very pale, but bearing it well. Though the
sunburn was still on his face, the pallor below made it ghastly; but
he walked as straight as ever.

I climbed up to the window, by standing on the platform, and could
just see over. Down below in the courtyard soldiers were gathering
for roll-call, and once I saw recruits getting their issue of
uniforms.... Sometimes the courtyard was empty, but I kept on
watching until the soldiers came. At least they were something--and
alive! During the light day, probably as a result of the additional
food, I slept nearly all day.

When I awakened, the cell was getting dark. I have heard people say
the sunset is a lonely time, when fears come out, and apprehensions
creep over them... and all their troubles come trooping home. I
wonder what they would think of a sunset which ushered in eighty-four
hours of darkness!... I watched the light fading on the wall, a
flickering, sickly glow that paled and faded and died, and left my
eyes, weakened now by the long darkness, quite misty and dim.

And then the night, the long night came down, without mercy.

        *       *       *

On one of my light days the guard forgot to bring my soup. He brought
the coffee in the morning, and went out again at once. I thought
he had gone for the bread, but when he did not come, I drank the
coffee--which was hot and comforting. He did not come near me all
day. It may have been the expectation of food, together with the hot
coffee, which stimulated my stomach, for that day I experienced what
starving men dread most of all--the hunger-pain. It is like a
famished rat that gnaws and tears. I writhed on the floor and cried
aloud in my agony, while the cold sweat dripped from my face and
hands. I do not remember what I said... I do not want to remember...

That night when I saw the light growing dim in the cell, and the long
black night setting in, I began to think that there was a grave
possibility that this sentence might finish me. I might die under it!
And my people would never know--"Died--Prisoner of War No. 23445,
Pte. M. C. Simmons"--that is all they would see in the casualty list,
and it would not cause a ripple of excitement here. The guard would
go back for another one, and a stretcher... I shouldn't be much of a
carry, either!

Then I stood up and shook my fist at the door, including the whole
German nation! I was not going to die!

Having settled the question, I lay down and slept.

When I awakened, I knew I had slept a long time. My tongue was
parched and dry, and my throat felt horribly, but my pain was gone.
I wasn't hungry now--I was just tired.

Then I roused myself. "This is starvation," I whispered to myself;
"this is the way men die--and that's what--I am not going to do!"

The sound of my own voice gave me courage. I then compelled my
muscles to do their work, and stood up and walked up and down, though
I noticed the wall got in my road sometimes. I had a long way to go
yet, and I knew it depended now on my will-power.

My beard was long and my hair tangled and unkempt. I should have
liked a shave and a hair-cut, but this is part of the punishment and
has a depressing effect on the prisoner. It all helps to break a man
down.

        *       *       *

I kept track of the days by marking on the wall each day with my
finger-nail, and so I knew when the two weeks were drawing to a
close. The expectation of getting out began to cheer me--and the last
night I was not able to sleep much, for I thought when the key turned
next time I should be free! I wondered if we could by any chance hear
what had happened on the battle-front. Right away I began to feel
that I was part of the world again--and a sort of exultation came to
me...

They--had--not--broken me!



CHAPTER XVIII

PARNEWINKEL CAMP


The key turned at last!

Entering, the guard, with face as impassive as ever, motioned to me
to sweep out. I wondered if I could have mistaken the number of days,
or if... we were going to get longer than the two weeks.

He did not enlighten me! I was taken out to wash, and filled my brown
pitcher at the tap--just as usual. Then came the moment of tense
anxiety.... Would he lock me in?

He gave me the usual allowance of bread, which I put in my pocket, as
a man who was going on a journey and wants to be on his way, without
waiting to eat.

Then he motioned to me to come out, and I knew we were free! Ted was
at the door of his cell, and we followed the guard downstairs without
speaking.

In the room below our things were given back to us. I dared not
examine my cap to see if my maps had been touched, but I could not
keep from turning it around as if to be sure it was mine. Certainly
it looked all right. Our two little parcels, still unopened, were
returned to us, and the guard from Vehnemoor who had come for us had
brought one of the prisoners with him to carry our stuff that had
been left there, blankets, wash-basin, clogs, etc.

[Illustration: Map which Private Simmons got from the Canadian Artist
at Giessen, and which was sewed inside the Pasteboard of his Cap / His
successful journey from Selsingen to Holland is indicated by the dotted
line ............ / The unsuccessful attempt is shown ---------- from
Oldenburg]

From the prisoner we got the news of the camp.

"How are the folks at home?" we asked him.

"Ninety of the worst ones--since you two fellows and Bromley
left--were taken to another camp, and when they were moving them
McKinnon and another fellow beat it--but we're afraid they were
caught."

"Why?" we asked him.

"They catch them all; nobody gets out of Germany alive."

"You talk like a guard!" Ted said.

"Well," said the boy (I am sorry I forget his name), "look here. Who
do you know that has got away? You didn't; Bromley didn't; the two
Frenchmen who went the night before you went didn't. Do you hear of
any who did?"

"Keep your ear to the ground and you will!" said Ted.

"They'll shoot you the next time," he said earnestly. "If I were you,
I wouldn't try it."

Then the guard came, and we could say no more.

Again we were taken to the station and put on the train. Our hands
were not tied this time; we were just ordinary prisoners now--we had
done ours. Besides, I suppose they knew we shouldn't run far--that
had been taken out of us by the "cells."

But our good spirits came back when the train started. We went east
towards Rotenburg, through the same sort of low, marshy country we
had travelled before, with scrubby trees and plenty of heather moor.

We passed through Bremen again, where we got a glimpse of white
sails, and then on to Rotenburg, where we changed cars and had to
wait for two hours.

Of course we were hungry--the Oldenburg prison had not sent us out
well fed to meet the world, and the one slice of bread had gone. But
we had prison-stamps, and our guard took us to the lunch-counter at
Rotenburg, where we got a cup of real coffee, some bread, and an
orange. The guard paid for what we got with his own money, accepting
our stamps in payment. Our stamps were good only at Vehnemoor Camp,
having the name "Vehnemoor" stamped on them.

I suppose we were two tough-looking characters. The people seemed to
think so, for they looked at us with startled faces, and a little
girl who was crossing the platform ran back in alarm to her mother
when she saw us coming.

We arrived at Dienstedt after nightfall, and walked out a mile along
a rough road to the camp, which was one of the Cellelager
group--Cellelager I.

We saw that it consisted of two huts, and when we entered the hut
to which we were taken, we saw nothing but Russians, pale-faced,
dark-eyed, bearded Russians. They were sitting around, hardly
speaking to each other, some mending their clothes, some reading,
some staring idly ahead of them. We were beginning to be afraid they
had sent us to a camp where there was no one but Russians, until we
saw some British, at the other end.

"By Jove, I'll bet you're hungry," a big fellow said, reaching up
into his bunk and bringing out a pasteboard parcel. "Here you are,
matey; there's a bit of cheese and biscuits. I've a bit of water
heatin', too; we'll get you something to drink. Get something into
you; we ain't bad done for 'ere with our parcels comin' reglar."

The other men brought out boxes, too,--currant-loaf, sardines,
fruit-cake, and chocolate. There were three coal-stoves in the room,
and on one of these a pan of water was steaming. They had condensed
milk and cocoa, and made us up mugs of it, and I never, anywhere,
tasted anything so good.

There were two tiers of bunks in the room, but around the wall there
was an open space where there were some little tables. Two of the
Englishmen, who were playing cards, put them away and offered us
their table.

"Here, boys, be comfortable; sit right down here and let us see you
eat."

We let them see us! We ate like wolf-hounds. We ate, not until we
were satisfied, but until we were ashamed! And still the invitations
to eat were heard on every side. We were welcome to the last crumb
they had!

When at last we stopped, they began to tell us about the camp. It
seemed that the distinguishing feature was _lice!_ It had never been
fumigated, and the condition was indescribable. "We're bad enough,"
one of the Englishmen said, "but the Russians are in holes."

Then they told us what they had done to attract the attention of the
authorities. The branch camps are never inspected or visited, as
are the main camps such as Cellelager itself and Giessen, and so
conditions in the out-of-the-way camps have been allowed to sink far
below the level of these.

"We each wrote a card to some one in England, telling them about the
lice. We would have stretched it--if we could--but we couldn't. We
drew pictures, and told what these lice could do; especially we told
about the Russians, and how bad they were. There are twenty-one of
us, and there went out twenty-one cards all dealing with the same
subject. The censor began to feel crawly, I'll bet, before he got far
into reading them, and he would not let one of those cards out of
Germany. It wouldn't have sounded very good to the neutral countries.
So along came one of the head officers. He came in swaggering, but,
by George, he went out scratching! And he certainly got something
moving. We're all going down to Cellelager to-morrow to be fumigated;
and while we're out, there's going to be a real old-fashioned
house-cleaning! You're just in time, boys. Have you got any?"

"We did not have any," we said, "when we came."

"Well, you'll get them here, just sitting around. They're all over
the floor and crawl up the leg of your chair; they crawl up the wall
and across the ceiling and drop down on your head and down the back
of your collar; they're in the walls and in the beds now. But their
days are numbered, for we are all going up to Cellelager to-morrow to
be fumigated. They're running a special train, and taking us all."

That night Ted and I slept on two benches in the middle of the room,
but we found that what the boys said was true. They had crawled up on
us, or else had fallen from the ceiling, or both. We had them!

But the next day we made the trip to Cellelager by special
train--"The Louse Train" it was called.

The fumigator was the same as at Giessen, and it did its work well.
While the clothes were baking, we stood in a well-heated room to wait
for them. The British and French, having received parcels, were in
good condition, but the Russians, who had to depend entirely on the
prison-fare, were a pitiful sight. They looked, when undressed, like
the India famine victims, with their washboard ribs and protruding
stomachs, dull eyes and parched skin. The sores caused by the lice
were deep and raw, and that these conditions, together with the bad
water and bad food, had had fatal results, could be seen in the
Russian cemetery at Cellelager I, where the white Russian crosses
stand, row on row. The treatment of Russian prisoners will be a hard
thing for Germany to explain to the nations when the war is over.

Parnewinkel was the name of the village near Cellelager I, and this
name was printed on the prison-stamps which we used. The camp was
built on a better place than the last one, and it was well drained,
but the water was bad and unfit to drink unless boiled.

As the spring came on, many of the Russians went out to work with the
farmers, and working parties, mostly made up of Russians, were sent
out each day. Their work was to dig ditches through the marshes, to
reclaim the land. To these working parties soup was sent out in the
middle of the day, and I, wishing to gain a knowledge of the country,
volunteered for "Suppentragen."

A large pot, constructed to hold the heat by having a smaller one
inside which held the soup, was carried by two of us, with a stick
through the handle, to the place where the Russians were working, and
while they were attending to the soup, we looked around and learned
what we could of the country. I saw a method of smoking meat which
was new to me, at a farmhouse near where the Russians were making a
road. Edwards and I, with some others, had carried out the soup. The
Russians usually ate their soup in the cow-stable part of the house,
but the British and Canadians went right into the kitchen. In this
house everything was under one roof--that is, cows, chickens,
kitchen, and living-room--and from the roof of the kitchen the hams
were hung. The kitchen stove had two or three lengths of pipe, just
enough to start the smoke in the right direction, but not enough to
lead it out of the house. Up among the beams it wound and curled and
twisted, wrapping the hams round and round, and then found its way
out in the best way it could. Of course some of it wandered down to
the kitchen where the women worked, and I suppose it bothered them,
but women are the suffering sex in Germany; a little smoke in their
eyes is not here or there.

The houses we saw had thatched roofs, with plastered walls, and I
think in every case the cow-stable was attached. Dairying was the
chief industry; that and the raising of pigs, for the land is poor
and marshy. Still, if the war lasts long enough, the bad lands of
Germany will be largely reclaimed by the labor of Russian prisoners.
It's cheap and plentiful. There were ninety thousand of them bagged
in one battle in the early days of the war, at the Mazurian Lakes!
The Russians are for the most part simple, honest fellows, very sad
and plaintive, and deserving of better treatment than they have had.

When the Russians had gone out to work, leaving only the sick ones,
and the English and French, sometimes there were not enough well
prisoners for "Suppentragen," for the British were clever in the
matter of feigning sickness. The _Revier_ was in charge of a doctor
and a medical Sergeant, who gave exemption from work very easily.
Then there were ways of getting sick which were confusing to doctors.

Some one found out how to raise a swelling, and there was quite an
epidemic of swollen wrists and ankles. A little lump of earth in a
handkerchief, pounded gently on the place, for twenty minutes or so,
will bring the desired result. Soap-pills will raise the temperature.
Tobacco, eaten, will derange the heart. These are well-known methods
of achieving sick-leave.

I had a way all my own. I had a loose toe-nail, quite ready to come
off, but I noticed it in time, and took great care not to let it come
off. Then I went to the doctor to have it removed. On that I got
exemption till the nail grew.

        *       *       *

One day at Parnewinkel, Edwards and I were called into the
Commandant's office, whither we went with many misgivings--we did not
know how much he knew of us and our plans.

But the honest man only wanted to pay us. Edwards had worked quite a
bit at Vehnemoor, but I couldn't remember that I had worked at all.
However, he insisted that I had one and a half days to my credit,
and paid me twenty-seven pfennigs, or six and three quarter cents! I
remembered then that I had volunteered for work on the bog, for the
purpose of seeing what the country was like around the camp. I signed
a receipt for the amount he gave me, and the transaction was entered
in a book, and the receipt went back to the head camp.

"Look at that," said Ted; "they starve us, but if we work they will
pay us, even taking considerable pains to thrust our wages upon us.
Of a truth they are a 'spotty' people."

However, the reason for paying us for our work was not so much their
desire to give the laborer his hire as that the receipts might be
shown to visitors, and appear in their records.

        *       *       *

The Russians had a crucifix at the end of the hut which they
occupied, and a picture of the Virgin and the Holy Child before which
they bowed and crossed themselves in their evening devotions. Not all
of them took part. There were some unbelieving brothers who sat
morosely back, and took no notice, wrapped in their own sad thoughts.
I wondered what they thought of it all! The others humbly knelt and
prayed and cried out their sorrows before the crucifix. Their hymns
were weird and plaintive, yet full of a heroic hope that God had not
forgotten.

One of them told me that God bottles up the tears of his saints,
hears their cry, and in His own good time will deliver all who
trust in Him. That deliverance has already come to many of them
the white-crossed graves, beyond the marsh, can prove. But surely,
somewhere an account is being kept of their sorrows and their wrongs,
and some day will come the reckoning! Germany deserves the contempt
of all nations, if it were for nothing else than her treatment of the
Russian prisoners.

When my toe-nail began to grow on, I got permanent exemption from
work because of my shoulder, and was given the light task of keeping
clear the ditches that ran close beside the huts.

I often volunteered on parcel parties, for I liked the mile and a
half walk down the road through the village of Parnewinkel to
Selsingen, where there was a railway station and post-office. Once in
a while I saw German women sending parcels to soldiers at the front.

The road lay through low-lying land, with scrubby trees. There was
little to see, but it was a pleasure to get out of the camp with its
depressing atmosphere. In Parnewinkel there was an implement dealer
who sold "Deering" machinery, mowers and rakes, and yet I never saw
either a mower or a rake working. I saw women cutting hay with
scythes, and remember well, on one trip to the post-office, I saw
an old woman, bare-legged, with wooden clogs, who should have been
sitting in a rocking-chair, swinging her scythe through some hay, and
she was doing it well, too. The scarcity of horses probably accounted
for the mowers and rakes not being used, cows being somewhat too slow
in their gait to give good results. Although Hanover is noted for its
horses, the needs of the army seem to have depleted the country, and
I saw very few. Every one rides a bicycle. I think I saw less than a
dozen automobiles.

        *       *       *

Having been exempted from work, I was around the camp all day, and
one day found a four-legged affair with a ring on the top big enough
to hold a wash-basin. In this I saw a possibility of making a stove.
Below, I put a piece of tin--part of a parcel-box--to hold the fire,
with a couple of bricks under it to save the floor, and then, using
the wooden parcel-boxes for fuel, I was ready to look about for
ingredients to make "mulligan."

There is nothing narrow or binding about the word "mulligan";
mulligan can be made of anything. It all depended on what we had!
On this stove I made some very acceptable mulligan out of young
turnip-tops (they had been brought to the camp when very small
seedlings, from a farmer's field where one of our boys had been
working, and transplanted in the prison-yard,--I only used the
outside leaves, and let them go on growing), potatoes (stolen from
the guards' garden), oxo cubes (sent in a parcel), oyster biscuits
(also sent in a parcel), salt and pepper, and water. The turnip-tops
I put in the bottom of the dish, then laid on the potatoes, covering
with water and adding salt. I then covered this with another
wash-basin, and started my fire. We were not allowed to have fires,
and this gave the mulligan all the charm of the forbidden.

When it was cooked, I added the oxo cubes and the oyster biscuit, and
mashed all together with part of the lid of a box, and the mulligan
was ready. The boys were not critical, and I believe I could get from
any one of them a recommendation for a cook's position. In the winter
we had had no trouble about a fire, for the stoves were going, and we
made our mulligan and boiled water for tea on them.

Our guards were ordinary soldiers--sometimes those who had been
wounded or were sick and were now convalescent--and we had all sorts.
Usually the N.C.O.'s were the more severe. The privates did not
bother much about us: they had troubles enough of their own.

At the school garden, where the Commandant lived, I went to work one
day, and made the acquaintance of his little son, a blue-eyed cherub
of four or five years, who addressed me as "Englisches Schwein,"
which was, I suppose, the way he had heard his father speak of us. He
did it quite without malice, though, and no doubt thought that was
our proper name. He must have thought the "Schwein" family rather a
large one!

        *       *       *

It was about May, I think, that a letter came from my brother Flint,
telling me he was sending me some of the "cream cheese I was so fond
of"--and I knew my compass was on the way.

In about three weeks the parcel came, and I was careful to open the
cheese when alone. The lead foil had every appearance of being
undisturbed, but in the middle of it I found the compass!

After that we talked over our plans for escape. Edwards and I were
the only Canadians in the camp, and we were determined to make a
break as soon as the nights got longer. In the early summer, when the
daylight lasts so long, we knew we should have no chance, for there
were only four or five hours of darkness, but in August we hoped to
"start for home."



CHAPTER XIX

THE BLACKEST CHAPTER OF ALL


When the days were at their longest, some of the Russians who had
been working for the farmers came into camp, refusing to go back
because the farmers made them work such long hours. There is
daylight-saving in Germany, which made the rising one hour earlier,
and the other end of the day was always the "dark." This made about a
seventeen-hour day, and the Russians rebelled against it. The farmers
paid so much a day (about twenty-five cents) and then got all the
work out of the prisoners they could; and some of them were worked
unmercifully hard, and badly treated.

Each night, a few Russians, footsore, weary, and heavy-eyed from lack
of sleep, trailed into camp with sullen faces, and we were afraid
there was going to be trouble.

On the night of July 3d, three tired Russians came into camp from
the farms they had been working on after we had had our supper. The
N.C.O. was waiting for them. The trouble had evidently been reported
to Headquarters, and the orders had come back. The Commandant was
there, to see that the orders were carried out.

In a few minutes the N.C.O. started the Russians to run up and
down the space in front of the huts. We watched the performance in
amazement. The men ran, with dragging footsteps, tired with their
long tramp and their long day's work, but when their speed slackened,
the N.C.O. threatened them with his bayonet.

For an hour they ran with never a minute's breathing-spell, sweating,
puffing, lurching in their gait, and still the merciless order was
"Marsch!" "Marsch!" and the three men went struggling on.

When the darkness came, they were allowed to stop, but they were so
exhausted they had to be helped to bed by their friends.

We did not realize that we had been witnessing the first act in the
most brutal punishment that a human mind could devise, and, thinking
that the trouble was over, we went to sleep, indignant at what we had
seen.

In the morning, before any of us were awake, and about a quarter of
an hour before the time to get up, a commotion started in our hut.
German soldiers, dozens of them, came in, shouting to everybody to
get up, and dragging the Russians out of bed. I was sleeping in an
upper berth, but the first shout awakened me, and when I looked down
I could see the soldiers flourishing their bayonets and threatening
everybody. The Russians were scurrying out like scared rabbits, but
the British, not so easily intimidated, were asking, "What's the
row?"

One of the British, Walter Hurcum, was struck by a bayonet in the
face, cutting a deep gash across his cheek and the lower part of his
ear. Tom Morgan dodged a bayonet thrust by jumping behind the stove,
and escaped without injury.

When I looked down, I caught the eyes of one of our guards, a decent
old chap, of much the same type as Sank, and his eyes were full of
misery and humiliation, but he was powerless to prevent the outbreak
of frightfulness.

I dressed myself in my berth--the space below was too full already,
and I thought I could face it better with my clothes on. When I got
down, the hut was nearly empty, but a Gordon Highlander who went out
of the door a few feet ahead of me was slashed at by one of the
N.C.O.'s and jumped out of the way just in time.

All this was preliminary to roll-call, when we were all lined up
to answer to our names. That morning the soup had lost what small
resemblance it had had to soup--it had no more nourishment in it than
dishwater. We began then to see that they were going to starve every
one into a desire to work.

We had not been taking soup in the morning, for it was, even at its
best, a horrible dish to begin the day with. We had made tea or
coffee of our own, and eaten something from our parcels. But this
morning we were lined up with the Russians and given soup--whether
we wanted it or not.

After the soup, the working parties were despatched, and then the
three unhappy Russians were started on their endless journey again,
racing up and down, up and down, with an N.C.O. standing in the
middle to keep them going. They looked pale and worn from their hard
experience of the night before, but no Bengal tiger ever had less
mercy than the N.C.O., who kept them running.

The distance across the end of the yard was about seventy-five feet,
and up and down the Russians ran. Their pace was a fast trot, but
before long they were showing signs of great fatigue. They looked
pitifully at us as they passed us, wondering what it was all about,
and so did we. We expected every minute it would be over; surely they
had been punished enough. But the cruel race went on.

In an hour they were begging for mercy, whimpering pitifully, as they
gasped out the only German word they knew--"Kamerad--Kamerad"--to
the N.C.O., who drove them on. They begged and prayed in their own
language; a thrust of the bayonet was all the answer they got.

Their heads rolled, their tongues protruded, their lips frothed,
their eyes were red and scalded--and one fell prostrate at the feet
of the N.C.O., who, stooping over, rolled back his eyelid to see if
he were really unconscious or was feigning it. His examination proved
the latter to be the case, and I saw the Commandant motion to him to
kick the Russian to his feet. This he did with right good will, and
the weary race went on.

But the Russian's race was nearly ended, for in another half-dozen
rounds he fell, shuddering and moaning, to the ground--and no kick or
bayonet thrust could rouse him...

Another one rolled over and over in a fit, purple in the face, and
twitching horribly. He rolled over and over until he fell into the
drain, and lay there, unattended.

The last one, a very wiry fellow, kept going long after the other
two, his strength a curse to him now, for it prolonged his agony,
but he fell out at last, and escaped their cruelty, at least for the
time, through the black door of unconsciousness.

Then they were gathered up by some of the prisoners, and carried into
the _Revier_.

        *       *       *

Just as the three unconscious ones were carried away, three other
Russians, not knowing what was in store for them, came in. We did
not see them until they walked in at the gate. They also had been on
farms, and were now refusing to work longer. They came into the hut,
where their frightened countrymen were huddled together, some praying
and some in tears. The newcomers did not know what had happened. But
they were not left long in doubt. An N.C.O. called to them to
"heraus," and when they came into the yard, he started them to run.
The men were tired and hungry. They had already spent months on the
farms, working long hours: that did not save them. They had dared to
rebel, so their spirits must be broken.

Our hearts were torn with rage and pity. We stormed in and out of the
huts like crazy men, but there was nothing we could do. There were
so few of us, and of course we were unarmed. There was no protest
or entreaty we could make that would have made any appeal. Orders
were orders! It was for the good of Germany--to make her a greater
nation--that these men should work--the longer hours the better--to
help to reclaim the bad land, to cultivate the fields, to raise more
crops to feed more soldiers to take more prisoners to cultivate more
land to raise more crops.

It was perfectly clear to the Teutonic mind. No link in the chain
must be broken. Deutschland über Alles!

At noon the Russians were still running--it is astonishing what the
human machine can stand! The N.C.O. impatiently snapped his watch
and slashed at the one who was passing him, to speed them up, and so
hasten the process. He was getting hungry and wanted his dinner. Then
an order came from the Commandant that it was to be stopped--and we
hoped again, as we had the night before, that this was the end.

We brought the three poor fellows, pale and trembling, to our end of
the hut, and gave them as good a meal as our parcels would afford.
One of them had a bayonet wound in his neck, which the N.C.O. had
given him. He had jabbed him with the point of his bayonet, to
quicken his speed. In spite of their exhaustion, they ate ravenously,
and fell asleep at once, worn out with the long hours of working as
well as by the brutal treatment they had received.

But there was no sleep for the poor victims--until the long, black
sleep of unconsciousness rolled over them and in mercy blotted out
their misery--for the N.C.O.'s came for them and dragged them away
from us, and the sickening spectacle began again.

There were just eleven of us, British and Canadians, in the camp
at this time, twelve of the British having been sent away; and it
happened that this was the day, July 4th, that we wrote our cards. We
remembered that when the men had written cards about the lice it had
brought results: we had no other way of communication with the world,
and although this was a very poor one, still it was all we had. We
knew our cards would never get out of Germany; indeed, we were afraid
they would never leave the camp, but we would try.

We went to the place where the cards were kept, which was in charge
of a Polish Jew, who also acted as interpreter. He had been in the
Russian Army, and had been taken prisoner in the early days of the
war. There was a young Russian with him who did clerical work in the
camp. They were both in tears. The Jew walked up and down, wringing
his hands and calling upon the God of Abraham and of Isaac and of
Jacob! Sometimes he put his hands over his ears... for the cries of
his countrymen came through the window.

When we got our cards, we wrote about what had happened. Some of the
cards were written to John Bull; some to the British War-Office; some
to the newspapers; some to friends in England, imploring them to
appeal to the United States Government at Washington, to interfere
for humanity's sake. We eased our minds by saying, as far as we could
say it on a card, what we thought of the Germans. Every card was full
of it, but the subject was hardly touched. I never knew before the
full meaning of that phrase, "Words are inadequate."

Words were no relief!--we wanted to kill--kill--kill.

        *       *       *

The running of the Russians went on for days. Every one of them who
came in from the farm got it--without mercy.... Different N.C.O.'s
performed the gruesome rites...

        *       *       *

We had only one hope of quick results. The Commandant of the camp at
Celle--that is the main Cellelager--had an English wife, and had,
perhaps for that reason, been deprived of his command as an Admiral
of the fleet. We hoped he would hear of our cards--or, better still,
that his wife might hear.

The first indication we had that our cards had taken effect was the
change in the soup. Since the first day of the trouble, it had been
absolutely worthless. Suddenly it went back to normal--or a little
better.

Suddenly, too, the running of the Russians stopped, although others
of them had come in. A tremendous house-cleaning began--they had us
scrubbing everything. The bunks were aired; the blankets hung on the
fence; the windows cleaned; the yard was polished by much sweeping.
Evidently some one was coming, and we hoped it was "the Admiral." At
the same time, the N.C.O.'s grew very polite to us, and one of them,
who had been particularly vicious with the Russians, actually bade me
"good-morning"--something entirely without precedent.

Every day, I think, they expected the Admiral, but it was two weeks
before he came. His visit was a relief to the Germans, but a distinct
disappointment to us. Apparently, the having of an English wife does
not change the heart of a German. It takes more than that. He did
not forbid the running of the Russians; only the bayonet must not be
used. The bayonet was bad form--it leaves marks. Perhaps the Admiral
took this stand in order to reinstate himself again in favor with the
military authorities, and anxious to show that his English wife had
not weakened him. He had the real stuff in him still--blood and iron!

        *       *       *

The running of the Russians began again--but behind the trees, where
we could not see them... but we could hear...

There are some things it were well we could forget!

The running of the Russians ceased only when no more came in from the
farms. Those who had been put out came out of the _Revier_ in a day
or so--some in a few hours--pale and spiritless, and were sent back
to work again. They had the saddest-looking faces I ever saw--old
and wistful, some of them; others, gaping and vacant; some, wild and
staring. They would never resist again--they were surely broken! And
while these men would not do much for the "Fatherland" in the way of
heavy labor, they would do very well for exchanges!

[Illustration: Friedrichsfeld Prison-Camp in Summer]



CHAPTER XX

ONCE AGAIN!


As the days began to shorten, Edwards and I began to plan our escape.
We had the maps, the one he had bought at Vehnemoor and the one I had
made. We had the compass, which we had kept hidden in a very small
crack in the sloping roof of the hut, and the Red Cross suits had
come, and were dark blue and quite unnoticeable except for the piece
of brown cloth sewed on the sleeve. Mine had Russian buttons on it,
which I had put on to have for souvenirs--and which I have since had
made into brooches for my sisters.

On the map which Edwards had bought at Vehnemoor, the railways were
marked according to their kind: the double-tracked, with rock
ballast, were heavily lined; single-tracked with rock ballast, were
indicated by lighter lines; single-tracked, with dirt ballast, by
lighter lines still. I knew, from the study of maps, every stream and
canal and all the towns between us and the border. On the map which I
had drawn myself, from one I got from the Canadian artist at Giessen,
I had put in all the railways and the short spur lines of which there
are so many in northern Germany.

We knew that when a railway line ended without reaching another line,
it was a good indication that the soil was valueless, and therefore
there would be no settlement of any account. Through such districts
we would direct our way.

We began to prepare for our flight by adopting a subdued manner, such
as becomes discouraged men. We were dull, listless, sad, rarely
speaking to each other--when a guard was present. We sat around the
hut, morose and solemn, sighing often, as men who had lost hope.

But we were thinking, all the time, and getting ready.

I had a fine toffee tin, with a water-tight lid, which had come to
me in a parcel from Mr. Robert McPherson, Aberdeen, Scotland, whose
brother-in-law, Mr. Alec Smith, of Koch Siding, was a friend of mine.
This can, being oval in shape, fitted nicely into my pocket, and we
decided to use it for matches.

Edwards had a sun-glass, which we thought we would use for lighting
our pipes when the sun was shining, and thus conserve our supply of
matches.

Our first plan was to cut our way through the wires, as we had done
at Vehnemoor, but, unfortunately, three Russians, early in the
spring, did this--and after that no cat ever watched a mouse-hole
with greater intentness than the guards at Parnewinkel watched the
wires. We saw this was hopeless!

We then thought we would volunteer for work on farms as we had done
before at Rossbach, but although French and Russians were taken,
"Engländers" were not wanted! The Englishmen in the camp not wanting
to work had given themselves a bad name, hoping that the Russians and
French would carry it on to the farmers for whom they were working,
so that they would be afraid to employ such desperate characters. One
of them had "et an ear off'n" the last man he worked for. Another one
never took orders from any one--"the last man that tried it, woke
up in the middle of a long fit of sickness!--and had since died."
Another one admitted he had a terrible temper, but he had had it
"from a child and couldn't help it--he turned blind when he was mad,
and never knew where he was hittin'!"

This all worked well for them, but when Ted and I wanted to get out,
we were refused. "Engländers" were not wanted!

The first working party that was made up to go out and work with a
guard did not give either Ted or me a chance, although we wanted to
go, but four other Englishmen volunteered. They were not anxious to
have us go with them, for they knew we were thinking of escaping,
and when there is an escape, those who were present at the time have
embarrassing questions asked them and various privileges are likely
to be curtailed afterwards.

On Saturday morning, at roll-call, a working party was asked for, and
Ted and I volunteered, and with a Welshman and some Frenchmen, we
walked out to a small village called Seedorf, about four miles away,
where we were turned loose in a field of turnips from which the weeds
had not been taken out since the turnips were planted. There were
about a dozen of us, and we were taken into the house at noon to be
fed. The farmhouse was one of the best I had seen in this section of
the country, for the pig-pen, chickens, and cow-stable were in a
separate building.

The two daughters of the house were true daughters of Germany and did
not eat the bread of idleness; the biggest one, bare-legged and with
sleeves rolled up, was attending to the stock, without pausing for
anything. She looked as strong as a man, and was absorbed in her
work--not even stopping a second to look at us. The other one worked
in the house at meal-times, but no doubt joined her sister
afterwards.

The dinner consisted of soup, potatoes, bread, and coffee, and the
soup was a real treat, entirely different from the kind we were
used to. After dinner we went back to the field and put in a fine
afternoon's work. We were anxious to establish a good record before
we left there.

We had saved up a lot of things from our parcels, thinking that our
manner of escape might be such that we could take them with us.
A working party such as we were on made it impossible to carry
anything, for we were in great danger of being searched. Whenever the
Commandant thought of it, he ordered a search. Just as the Commandant
at Giessen was keen on rings, so this one went in for searching. We
were searched at unexpected times--going out to work or coming in--at
meal-times or at bedtime.

The following day--Sunday--we sat around with our saddest, most
dejected air, like two men in whose hearts all hope had died. We had
everything ready--razor, tobacco, matches, toffee tin, toothbrush,
comb, pocket-knife, watch, soap, strong safety-pins, and some strong
string. Edwards had the sun-glass, shaving-soap and brush, and other
things to correspond with mine.

It was quite a grief to us to have to leave behind us all the things
we had been saving from our parcels. The people of Trail, British
Columbia, had sent parcels to all their prisoners, and one of mine
had followed me from Giessen to Vehnemoor and from Vehnemoor to
Parnewinkel, and at last had found me. It contained, among other
things, hard-tack biscuits, just the thing for carrying in our
pockets, and my aunts in Ontario had sent me some line dried beef and
tins of jam. At this time, also, an exceptionally good box came from
Miss Ray, of London, England, and home-made candy from Miss Dorothy
Taylor, of New Westminster, British Columbia. We had a regular
blow-out on Sunday, but were too much afraid of being searched to
risk taking anything with us beyond the necessary things, and so had
to leave our precious stores behind. Oh, well--they wouldn't go to
waste!

Monday morning we dragged our tired feet along the four miles to the
turnip-patch--with every appearance of complete submission. I had the
compass in the middle of a package of tobacco; my maps were still in
the pay-book case in my pocket.

We gave ourselves up to the joy of labor, and pulled weeds all day
with great vigor. We wanted to behave so well that they wouldn't
notice us. Of course we were not sure that any chance would come. We
might have to carry our stuff for several days before we should get
a chance.

That night we came into the kitchen again and sat down at the long
table. Every one was hungry and fell to eating without a word. No
wonder the guard thought he had a quiet, inoffensive gang whose only
thought at that moment was fried potatoes. The potatoes were good,
hot from the frying-pan, and we ate as many as we could, for we
believed it might be a long time before we again sat at a table.

The guard, at last, satisfied that we were all right, strolled into
the next room--a sort of dining- and living-room, where the family
were eating. We could hear fragments of conversation and some
laughter, and it seemed a good time to slip away! We crowded down a
few more fried potatoes, and then leisurely left the table and looked
out of the window.

A big black cloud had come up from the west, and although it was
still early in the evening it was beginning to grow dusk. Outside
there was no one stirring but the young lady feeding the pigs, and
she was not taking any notice of any one. She was a fine example of
the absorbed worker. We lit our pipes and strolled out to enjoy the
cool of the evening.

The pigs were gathered about the trough, protesting the distribution
of their evening meal, squealing "Graft" and calling for a commission
to settle it. The lady took no notice of them. They could settle it
among themselves. They did not need to eat at all if they didn't want
to. She should worry. It was take it or leave it--for all she cared!
She had gone as far as she was going to, in bringing it to them.

We looked back at the kitchen. Fried potatoes still held the
attention of the prisoners, and the guard was not to be seen.

We turned around the front of the house and found ourselves on the
shaded street. There was a row of trees along each side of the street
and the houses were built well back. It was not the main street of
the village and had more the appearance of a lane. We had concluded
that even if the alarm were given, we should only have the one guard
to deal with, for the prisoners would not pursue us, neither would
the farmer.

The big danger was in the fact that the guard had his gun, and if he
saw us would shoot, but the shady lane was deserted and still, and we
pushed on with an unconcerned stride that covered the ground, but
would not attract the attention of the casual observer.

When we came to the edge of the village, we saw the wood which we
had observed when coming in from work both days, and which seemed to
promise shelter, although the trees were small. We passed through it
quickly, and kept it between us and the village until we reached a
ditch two and a half or three feet deep and overgrown with heather.
By this time it was beginning to rain, for which we were glad, for it
would discourage travelling and drive indoors those who had any place
to go to. We crawled on our hands and knees along the ditch, whose
bottom was fairly dry and grassy, until we found a place where the
heather hung well over the edge and made a good protection. We could
look through the heather at the village, which was about six hundred
yards away!

We stayed here until it was quite dark. There did not seem to be any
search made for us. The guard would be afraid to leave the other
prisoners to come looking for us himself, and we knew none of the
village people would be keen on coming out in the rain. But there
was a telegraph station at Seedorf, and it gave us an uncomfortable
feeling to remember that the guard could wire to Selsingen and get
some one there to telephone to the camp. But the rain, which was
falling heavily, was our best hope that we were unpursued. It beat
into my ear as I lay in the heather, until I put my cap over the side
of my head.

At dark we stole out, after taking our direction with the compass
while we were in the ditch. When we came out, we observed the
direction of the wind, and started straight south. We would follow
this course until we rounded Bremen, and then it was our purpose to
go west to the Holland boundary. From our maps we knew that to strike
straight across from where we were would bring us to a well-settled
country, and the chief desire of our lives now was for solitude!



CHAPTER XXI

TRAVELLERS OF THE NIGHT


The country we travelled over in the first hours of the night was
poor and evidently waste land, for we saw no cultivation until near
morning, when we crossed through a heavy oat-field, soaking wet with
the night's rain. When we came out we were as wet as if we had fallen
into the ocean. We took some of the oats with us, to nibble at as we
went along.

We came to a wide stream, with wooded banks, which looked deep and
dangerous. So we made a pack of our clothes, and cautiously descended
into it, expecting to have to swim over. However, we found we could
easily wade it, for we had made our crossing at a ford.

On the other side we found ourselves stumbling over a turnip-field,
and very gladly helped ourselves, and carried away two of them for
provisions for the next day. When morning came we took cover in a
thin wood.

On the other attempts we had been able to carry something to eat, and
an extra pair of socks. This time we had nothing but what we had on.
I had selected from the stockings I had a pair knit by Miss Edna
McKay, of Vancouver, which were the first pair she had knit, but were
very fine and well made. We removed our socks the first thing each
morning, and rubbed our feet and put the socks in a tree to dry,
being careful not to have them so high they would be seen. We were
trying to take every precaution this time!

The first day we were near some farm-buildings, and as we lay in the
woods, pretty chilly and wet, we could hear the hens scolding and
cackling. Cackling hens always bring me back to the pleasant days
of childhood, and I was just enjoying a real heartsome visit to
the old home at Delmer... and was chasing Willie Fewster around a
straw-stack... when the farmer's dog, an interfering, vicious-looking
brute, came peering through the woods and gave us heart spasms,
barking at us for a few minutes. But we did not move a muscle, and,
seeing that he couldn't start a row with us, he went away, muttering
to himself about suspicious characters being around.

A woman passed through the wood, too, going over to one of the
neighbors--I think to borrow something, for she carried a plate. But
she did not see us, as we lay low in the scrub.

        *       *       *

We certainly found plenty of unsettled country to travel through in
the first days of our journey, for we seemed to go through one marsh
after another, covered with coarse, long hay, which would have been
cut, no doubt, but for the soft bottoms which make it impossible
to use a mower. To drain this land would furnish more work for the
Russian prisoners! In one place we suddenly stepped down a couple of
feet into a bog filled with water, but with grass on the top. We
discovered that it was a place from which the peat had been removed,
and it was the only sign of human activity that we saw all night.

On the evening of August 23d, when we started out after a fairly good
day in a spruce thicket, we could see the lights of Bremen reflected
in the sky. The lights of a city, with its homes, its stores, its
eating-places, its baths, should be a welcome sight to wayfaring men
who have been living on oats and turnips, but not for us, to whom a
city meant only capture. So when we noticed the rosy glow in the
southern sky we steered our course farther west, but still taking
care to avoid the city, which we intended to pass on the south and
east side.

Our troubles were many that night. A good-sized river got in our way
and had to be crossed. There was no bridge in sight, and we had
determined to waste no time looking for one. So we undressed on the
marshy bank and made bundles of our clothes, pinning our tunics about
everything with the safety-pins which we carried. We also used the
cord around the bundles. Ted was doubtful about swimming and carrying
his clothes, so I said I would try it first, with mine. I went down
through the coarse grass, which was harsh and prickly to my feet, and
full of nettles or something which stung me at every step, and was
glad to reach the open water. The moon was in the last quarter, and
clouded over, so the night was of the blackest. I made the shore
without much trouble, and threw my bundle on a grassy bank.

I called over to Ted that the going was fine, and that I would come
back for his clothes. At that, he started in to meet me, swimming on
his back and holding his clothes with both hands, using only his
feet, but when he got into the current, it turned him downstream. I
swam toward him as fast as I could, but by the time I reached him he
had lost the grip of his clothes, and when I got them they were wet
through. As we were nearer to the bank from which he had started, we
went back to it, for we were both pretty well blown. However, in a
few minutes we were able to strike out again, and reached the other
bank in safety. Poor Ted was very cold and miserable, but put on his
soaking garments, without a word, and our journey continued.

This was another ditch country--ditches both wide and deep, and many
of them treacherous things, for their sides were steep and hard to
climb. The darkness made it doubly hard, and sometimes we were pretty
well frightened as we let ourselves down a greasy clay bank into the
muddy water. Later on we found some corduroy bridges that the
hay-makers had put over the ditches.

All night we had not found anything to eat, and when we arrived at
a wood near morning, we decided to stay, for we could see we were
coming into a settlement, and the German farmers rise early in
harvest-time. So, hungry, muddy, wet, and tired, we lay down in the
wood, and spent a long, uncomfortable day!

My watch stopped that day, and never went again. Edwards's watch was
a better one, and although it stopped when it got wet, it went again
as soon as it had dried out.

That day we had not a mouthful of anything. But we comforted
ourselves with the thought that in this settled country there would
be cows, and unless these farmers sat up all night watching them, we
promised ourselves a treat the next night.

At nightfall we stole out and began again to get over the distance
that separated us from freedom. The country was drier and more
settled, but the cows, we saw, were all in farmyards, and we were
afraid to risk going near them. About midnight we almost stumbled
over a herd of them, and one fine old whiteface arose at our request
and let us milk her. Ted stood at her head, and spoke kind words to
her and rubbed her nose, while I filled our tin again and again. She
was a Holstein, I think, though we could not see if she was black or
red--it was so dark, we could only see the white markings. We were
sorry to leave her. She was another of the bright spots in my memory
of Germany.

We crossed a railroad, a double-tracked one with rock ballast, which
my map showed to be a line which runs to Bremen, and a little later
we came to the Weser. This river brought up pleasant recollections of
the Pied Piper of Hamelin, who drowned the rats in the Weser by the
magic of his pipe. But there was no romance in it as we came upon it
in a gray and misty dawn. It was only another barrier to our freedom.

There were bunches of willows on the water's edge, and some fine
beeches, whose leaves were slightly tinged with yellow, farther back.
We selected a close bunch of willows for our hiding-place, and after
spending a short time looking for a boat, we gave up the quest, and
took cover.

We were feeling well, and were in a cheerful mood,--no doubt the
result of our pleasant meeting with the Holstein,--and when we saw
some straw in a field not far from the willows, we went over and got
two armfuls of it, and made beds for ourselves. Fresh, clean straw,
when dry, makes a good bed, and no Ostermoor mattress was ever more
comfortable. We burrowed into it like moles, and although it rained
we had a good day.

Waking up in the afternoon, we decided on a general clean-up, and,
dipping water from the Weser in a rusty tin pail without a handle, we
washed our faces, cleaned our teeth, shaved, and combed our hair.

My socks were in fine shape, but Ted's began to show signs of
dissolution. The heels were gone, and the toe of one was broken and
going. His feet were sore and blistered, and he sat long looking
at the perfidious socks which had failed him so soon. Then he had
a plan--he would make himself a pair out of the sleeves of his
undershirt. To me was given the delicate task of cutting off the
sleeves with rather a dull knife, which I managed to do with some
difficulty, and, with a thorn for a needle and wool from the socks
for thread, a pair of socks were constructed. The thorn was too soft
and doubled back, so Ted sharpened a piece of hard wood, and with it
made the holes for the yarn.

From our shelter in the willows we could see a ferry-boat carrying
people across the river, and sometimes people passed along the sandy
shore quite near to us, but the willows were thick and we were not
discovered. Two big freight steamers also passed by us.

That night we went cautiously down the bank looking for a boat. We
could swim the river, but a boat would suit us better, for the night
was chilly and dark. Before we had gone far, we found one tied in the
rushes. But the oars were locked to the bottom of the boat, and we
had to cut them loose with our pen-knives, which took quite awhile,
for the wood was hard!

When we got across the Weser we found plenty of cows. Some of them
were fickle jades who would let us almost touch them, and would then
sniff at us in disapproval and leave us. Others would not consider
our case for a moment. They were not going to run any danger of
giving aid and comfort to the enemy! But one good old one with a
crooked horn took pity on us, and again we felt better.

The fields were divided by hedges, made of a closely-leaved green
shrub, somewhat resembling--in the leaf--our buckthorn. It was very
thick and very green, and we crawled into one of these on the morning
of the fourth day, glad of such a good shelter. However, there was no
room to move--or stand up. The hedge being low made it necessary to
lie down all day. Still, we were well satisfied with the hot milk,
and slept most of the day.

Waking up suddenly, I heard a whistle, and, without moving, could see
a man's legs coming toward us. Then a dog, white with black markings,
darted past him, and, to my horror, stood not six feet from me. We
stopped breathing--we shut our eyes for fear we might wink--we
effaced ourselves--we ceased to be--I mean we wished we could.

The dog came nearer--I could hear his soft footfalls--I knew the
brute was stepping high--as they do when they see something. I knew
his tail was going straight out behind--he was pointing!

The man walked by, whistling--but the dog stayed!

Then I heard the man call him--insisting that he come--making remarks
about his lack of sense. It sounded like "Come here, you fool!" The
dog, with a yelp of disapproval, did as he was told, but I could hear
him barking as he ran along--in a hurt tone. His professional pride
had been touched!

That afternoon as we lay in the hedge, we saw a company of
school-children running toward us. I think it was the afternoon
recess, and they came running and shouting straight for the hedge. I
could only see their feet from where I lay, but it seemed to me that
there were a large number. They stopped in the field on the right of
where we lay, and played some game--I was too excited to notice what
it was. Sometimes it brought them close to the hedge, and then they
ran away again. It may have been a ball-game.

We were cold and hot by turns, watching the feet that advanced and
receded, and were coming at us again, racing this time as if to see
who would reach the hedge first, when a sudden downpour of rain came
on--and they ran back! We heard the voices growing fainter in the
distance, and registered a vow that if we got out of this place alive
we would not trust in a hedge again. Dogs and children seemed to be
our greatest dangers!

When we began our journey that night, we crossed a light railway, one
of those which on the map was indicated with light lines, and which,
sure enough, had only dirt ballast. Ahead of us was another railway
track with lights, which we determined to leave alone. The lights of
the two towns, Delmenhorst and Gunderksee, shone against the western
sky, and we kept to the south to avoid them. The going was difficult
on account of the settlement, and we had to be watching all the time
for travellers. There were a lot of people out that night who might
better have been at home--and in bed!

We were glad to take refuge before daylight in an extensive wood. We
had a few turnips, which we ate. The day was spent as usual trying to
dry our socks and get our feet in shape for the night, but the rain
came down hard, and when we started out at dusk we were soaking wet.

We at once got into a forest, a great dark, quiet forest, where
fugitives could hide as long as they liked, but which furnished
no food of any kind. In the small clearings we came upon herds of
cattle, but they were all young, with not a cow among them. This was
one of the planted forests of Germany, where a sapling is put in when
a big tree is taken out, to conserve the timber supply. No one would
know that it had been touched by man, except for the roads which ran
through it. There was no waste wood; there were no stumps, no hacked
trees, no evidences of fire--such as I have often seen in our forests
in British Columbia. The Germans know how to conserve their
resources!

There was no wind or stars, and there were so many roads crossing
and dividing, that it was hard for us to keep our direction. Toward
morning it began to rain, and soon the wet bushes, as well as the
falling rain, had us wet through.

We stopped at last to wait for daylight, for the forest was so dense
we believed we could travel by day with safety. We lit our pipes in
the usual way, to conserve our matches. One match would light both,
when we followed this order. The lighted one was inverted over the
unlighted one. Into the lighted one Ted blew, while I drew in my
breath from the unlighted one. This morning, something went wrong.
Either the tobacco was soggy or I swallowed nicotine, for in a few
minutes I had all the symptoms of poisoning, I wanted to lie down,
but the ground was too wet. So I leaned against a tree, and was very
sorry for myself. Ted felt much the same as I did.

Then we tried to light a fire--we were so cold and wet, and, besides,
we had a few potatoes, carried from a garden we passed the night
before, which we thought we could roast. Hunger and discomfort
were making us bold. Our matches would not light the damp wood,
and we could find no other. We chewed a few oats, and were very
down-hearted. It looked as if lack of food would defeat us this time!

We had so far come safely, but at great expense of energy and time.
We had avoided travelled roads, bridges, houses, taking the smallest
possible risk, but with a great expense of energy. Our journey had
been hard, toilsome, and slow. We were failing from lack of food.
Our clothes hung in folds on us, and we were beginning to feel weak.
The thought of swimming the Ems made us shudder! One thing seemed
clear--we must get food, even if to get it imposed a risk. There was
no use in starving to death.... The recklessness of the slum-cat was
coming to us.

The weather had no mercy that day, for a cold, gray, driving rain
came down as we leaned against a tree, two battered hulks of men,
with very little left to us now but the desire to be free.

        *       *       *

If this were a book of fiction, it would be easy to lighten and
vary the narrative here and there with tales of sudden attacks and
hair's-breadth escapes. But it is not a fancy story--it is a plain
tale of two men's struggle, with darkness, cold, and hunger, in a
land of enemies. It may sound monotonous to the reader at times, but
I assure you, we never, for one minute, got accustomed to the pangs
of hunger, the beat of the rain, or the ache of our tired legs, and
the gripping, choking fear that through some mishap we might be
captured.

The country was so full of bogs and marshes that we had to stick to
the road that night, but we met no person, and had the good fortune
to run into a herd of cows, and drank all the milk we could hold.
Unfortunately we had nothing in which to carry milk, so had to drink
all we could, and go on, in the hope of meeting more cows.

While we were helping ourselves, the storm which had been threatening
all night came on in great fury, and the lightning seemed to tear the
sky apart. We took refuge in an old cow-shed, which saved us from the
worst of it.

That morning we hid in a clump of evergreens, thick enough to make a
good shelter, but too short for comfort, for we could not stand up!
Ted was having a bad time with his feet, for his improvised socks
did not work well. They twisted and knotted and gave him great
discomfort. This day he removed his undershirt, which was of wool,
and, cutting it into strips five or six inches wide, wound them round
and round his feet, and then put his boots on. He had more comfort
after that, but as the weather was cold the loss of his shirt was a
serious one.

That night we came to a river, which we knew to be the Hunte, and
looked about for a means of crossing it. We knew enough to keep away
from bridges, but a boat would have looked good to us. However, there
did not seem to be any boat, and we decided to swim it without loss
of time, for this was a settled district, and therefore not a good
place to hesitate.

On account of our last experience in crossing a river, we knew a raft
to carry our clothes on would keep them dry and make it easier for
us. So, failing to find any stuff with which to make a raft, we
thought of a gate we had passed a short time back. It was a home-made
affair, made of a big log on the top, whose heavy root balanced the
gate on the post on which it swung. We went back, found it, and
lifted it off, and although it was a heavy carry, we got it to the
river, and, making two bundles of our clothes, floated them over on
it. I swam ahead, pushing it with one hand, while Ted shoved from
behind. Our clothes were kept dry, and we dragged the gate up on the
bank. We hope the farmer found it, and also hope he thought it was an
early Hallowe'en joke!

That day, August 31st, we took refuge in the broom, which was still
showing its yellow blossom, and, as the, sun came out occasionally,
we lit our pipes with Ted's sun-glass. The sun and wind dried our
tobacco and our socks, and we started off that night feeling rather
better.

It was a fine night for our purpose, for there was considerable wind,
and we kept going all night, mostly on the roads. At daylight we took
refuge in an open wood. The day was cloudy and chilly, and we found
it long. At night, we had not gone far when we found three cows in a
small field. We used all our blandishments on them, but the lanky one
with straight horns was unapproachable and aloof in her manner, and
would not let us near her. One of the others was quiet enough, but
was nearly dry. The third one was the best, and we filled and drank,
and filled and drank, until her supply was exhausted too. On account
of the field being near the house, we were careful not to let the
stream of milk make a sound in the empty can, so left some milk in
the can each time, to deaden the sound. However, the owners of the
cows were safe in bed, and asleep. We wondered if they would think
the cows were bewitched when they found they would give nothing next
morning!



CHAPTER XXII

THE LONG ROAD TO FREEDOM


When we had taken all the milk we could extract from the cows, we
moved off quietly to the corner of the field farthest from the
buildings, to get back to the road. We were going over the fence as
gently as possible, when we saw two men whom we knew from their
uniforms to be French prisoners. They were evidently escaping, like
ourselves, but had been more fortunate than we, for they had packs on
their backs. We tried to get their attention by calling to them, but
the French word for "friend" did not come to us, only the German
"Kamerad," and when they heard that, they took us for Germans and ran
with all speed. We dared not pursue them, or even call, for fear of
being heard; so had to see the two big packs, which no doubt had
chocolate, sardines, bread, and cheese in them, disappear in the
darkness. However, it may have been just as well--two escaping
prisoners are enough, for safety.

September 2d was a fine day, with several hours of sunshine. From
where we had taken refuge in a high spruce thicket, we could look out
across a wide heather moor, all in bloom and a glorious blaze of
color, amethyst, purple, mauve, with the bright September sun pouring
down upon it. Our spirits always rose when the sun came out, and sank
again when the day grew dark.

[Illustration: A Prison Post-Card from Friedrichsfeld bei Wesel /
The group includes soldiers from Canada, Newfoundland, England,
Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa,
France, Belgium, Italy, Russia, Serbia, and Roumania.]

Since these experiences of battling bare-handed with the elements I
can understand why primeval man fell into sun-worship, for on the
caprice of the sun with its power to give or withhold, the happiness
and well-being of the roofless traveller depends.

We stayed closely in the dark shadows of the heavy evergreens that
day, although just beyond was the golden sunlight with its warmth and
comfort, for we were afraid to show ourselves in the open. That night
we came upon a potato garden, and dug out some with our fingers,
filling our pockets and our handkerchiefs with them. We had a good
night, and shoved the miles behind us. We had promised ourselves a
fire just at dawn, and the thought of it, and the potatoes we should
bake, was wonderfully cheering.

Just at the beginning of the dawn, in that gray, misty light, a fire
can scarcely be seen, for the air is something the color of smoke,
and there is enough light to hide the fire. At night the fire shows,
and in the daylight, the smoke, but in the gray dawn it is not easy
to see either. So on the morning of September 3d, we gathered dry
sticks and made our first fire. There was a blue veil of haze on the
horizon, and a ragged gray mist hung over the low places. The air was
sweet with the autumn smell of fallen leaves and wood bark, and as we
sat over our tiny fire, we almost forgot that we were in a world of
enemies. The yellow beeches and the dark green spruces bent over us
in friendliest fashion, and a small bird chased a hawk above the
trees.

Still, we were not beguiled by the friendliness of our surroundings
to take any chances, and, instead of waiting for ashes or coal to
roast our potatoes, we put them right on the fire. What if they were
burnt on the outside? We scraped off part of the charcoal and ate the
rest. We knew about charcoal tablets being good for digestion, and we
believed ours could stand a little assistance, for green apples and
new milk are not a highly recommended combination.

We kept track of the number of potatoes we ate that morning. It was
twenty-five! What we couldn't eat we put in our pockets, and held in
our hands--for the warmth. That day, September 3d, was the brightest
and warmest day we had.

Toward evening we crept out to the edge of the wood to see what sort
of country we were in--and found there was a village quite near
us. But as we had heard not a sound all day, and as there was not
a flutter around it now,--not a soul stirring or a cow-bell
tinkling,--we thought it must be a deserted hamlet. The old and now
almost indistinct paths through the wood where we sat seemed to tell
of a departed people.

We sat in one of these old paths, watching the shafts of sunlight
which filtered through the woods as we waited for the dark. Then Ted
began to fix the strips of cloth around his feet, and I lay down upon
my back, across the path, looking up at the sky, which was shot over
with mackerel-back clouds, giving promise of settled weather.

Suddenly, around a bend in the path, came a man and a dog. The man
carried a gun across his shoulder, and evidently had been shooting
birds. I swung myself off the path and motioned to him to go by--for
he had stopped in surprise. Ted did the same. Our gestures were
polite--but I think had something suggestive in them too--almost
commanding.

He passed by, merely bidding us "good-evening," and remarking in
German that Ted's feet were sore!

He walked on, as a peaceable old fellow who had no desire to get into
trouble, and although he must have seen the yellow stripe down the
seams of our trousers, and the prison numbers on our tunics, he kept
on going.

We watched him through the trees, as far as we could see him, but
only once did he turn and look back--and then only for a minute. He
was not going toward the village, but we decided to keep away from
it, anyway, and at nightfall we made a wide detour to avoid it. The
night clouded up, too, and we pushed along with thankful hearts that
the old man with the dog knew when to keep quiet.

A rare piece of good luck came to us that night. We came to a
settlement, evidently a new one, for the houses were of modern
design, and the farm-buildings, too, were fresh and newly built.
There was evidently a creamery somewhere near, and beside the road we
found a can full of milk set out, to be gathered up in the morning.
The cream had risen to the top of it, and with our toffee tin we
helped ourselves. Later on, we found others, and helped ourselves
again. It was a very satisfactory arrangement for us to have the
refreshment booths scattered like this along the way. Then we ate
some of the burnt potatoes and an apple or two, had a few drinks of
cream from another can, and the night passed pleasantly. From the
apple-trees beside the road we replenished our pockets, and felt this
had been a good night.

It was a good thing for us that the night had started so well, for
along toward morning, probably two hours before daylight, we crossed
a peat-bog. There was a road at first which helped us, but it ran
into a pile of cut peat, drying for the winter. There were also other
roads leading to peat-piles, but these were very misleading, and as
the night was of inky blackness, with scarcely any breeze, it became
harder and harder to keep our direction. Consulting the compass so
often was depleting our match supply, and I tried to depend on
the faint breath of a breeze which sometimes seemed to die away
altogether. This bog, like all the others, had tufts of grass and
knolls of varying size coming in the most unexpected places. Over
these we stumbled, and fell, many times, and as we felt fairly safe
from being heard, it was some relief to put into language what we
thought of the country and all its people, past, present, and future.
I believe we were especially explicit about the future!

It was nearly morning when we got off the bog, and as the rain was
falling we took refuge in a tumble-down hut which had probably been a
cowherd's. We soon saw that it was a poor shelter, and when a woman
came along and looked straight at us, we began to get gooseflesh! She
actually smiled at us, and we tried to smile back reassuringly, but I
am afraid there was a lack of mirth in our smiles which detracted
from their charm.

She walked away--stopped--looked back at us--and smiled again, and
went on, nodding her head as if she knew something. We were rather
afraid she did, and hastily decided to push on. We were afraid of
the lady's patriotism, and determined to be moving. There was a
thick-looking wood just ahead, and to it we went with all speed,
taking with us two large gunnysacks which we found in the hut. They
were stamped "Utrecht" and had the name of a dealer there.

All that day we were afraid of the lady who smiled and nodded her
head, but perhaps we wronged her in our thoughts, for the day passed
without any disturbance. Probably she, too, like the old man with the
dog, knew that silence does not often get one into trouble.

That day we shaved, but, there being no stream near, we had to empty
the rain-drops off the leaves into the top of the box which held
Ted's shaving-stick. It took time, of course, but what was time to
us? We had more time than anything else.

Although we tried to reassure ourselves with the thought that there
were probably no soldiers near, and that the civilians were not
likely to do any searching, still we were too apprehensive to sleep,
and started away at nightfall, with eyes that burned and ached from
our long vigil.

The night was cloudy at first, with sprinkling rain, but cleared up
about midnight into a clear, cold autumn night. The cold kept me from
getting sleepy, but when I got warm from walking my sleepiness grew
overpowering. Ted was more wakeful than I, and took the lead, while
I stumbled along behind, aching in every joint with sleepiness. The
night was clear and starry, and Ted steered our course by the stars.

No one who has gone through it needs to be told about the misery of
sleepiness. I fought against it--I pulled open my eyes--I set my
will with all the force I could command, but in spite of all I could
do, my eyes would close and I would fall over, and in the fall would
awaken and go on, only to fall again. At last we stopped and lay
down, sorry to lose so much of the darkness, but the cold soon
awakened us, and, chilled and shivering, with numb fingers, we
struggled to our feet and went on. But when, with the walking, we
were warmed again, with the warmth came the sleepiness.

At dawn we crept into a thick bush, but the ground was damp and cold,
and our sleepiness had left us. We ate some of our cold roast
potatoes, and tried to sleep, for we dreaded to spend another night
like the last one. In the afternoon the sun came out and warmed the
air, so we had a fairly good sleep and started away at nightfall.

The night was clear and starlight, so the peat-bog which we
encountered did not bother us so much, for we could see the holes and
ridges. After the bog, we came into a settlement, but the people were
in villages and had their cows stabled, so there was no chance for
thirsty and hungry travellers. To the north we could see the huge
searchlights above Oldenburg, and we thought of the cells--and
shuddered! But our hunger was making us cold again, and we determined
to go into the next village we came to, to find some apples.

The first one we came to was a large one, and compactly built. The
night was lit by the stars, and therefore not quite so good for our
purpose, but we had to have something. We cautiously entered a garden
gate which some one had obligingly left open, but when we got in, we
found that the trees were high, and apparently well looked-after, for
not an apple could be found! We were only a few yards from the house,
behind whose darkened windows the family slept, not knowing that the
alien enemy were so near.

We slipped out of the open gate--we could see now why it had been
left open--and went into the next garden--with the same result. Every
apple had been gathered. We started down the street again, walking
cautiously on the grass, and slipping along as quickly as possible.
We carried the sacks, which we had split open, over our shoulders,
and as they were of a neutral shade, they were not so easily seen as
our dark-blue suits would have been.

Suddenly there was the sound of a door opening, ahead of us, on the
other side of the street, and two soldiers came out! We lay flat on
the street where we were, and "froze." The sacks which were wrapped
about us helped to conceal us, or at least made us look less like
men. The soldiers passed along the middle of the street, chatting and
laughing; we could hear their spurs clanking! Coming out of the light
had probably dulled their sight, and they did not see us. We lay
there until their footsteps had died away. Then we got up, and got
out!

We were not hungry any more--at least we were so much more frightened
than hungry that we only knew we were frightened, and we pushed our
way on as fast as we could. That night was the first on which we had
seen the moon. The shelter we found was another group of Christmas
trees, and as we still had a couple of roast potatoes we ate them,
and got a little sleep.

The next night the villages kept getting in our way. When we tried to
avoid one, we got into another, and in one we saw a light twinkling
in an upstairs window, where some woman, probably, sat late at her
work or watched by the bedside of a sick child. As usual, there were
no street lamps, and I think the light inside was a coal-oil lamp!
But not a dog barked, and we came safely out on a road which led in a
westerly direction.

In the morning, when the east began to redden, we got shelter in a
thin wood, and, having found some potatoes outside of one of the
villages, we determined to run the risk of having a fire to roast
them. We didn't roast many, though, for the dawn came on too swiftly,
and we had to extinguish our fire, for there was a farmhouse not a
hundred yards away, and the people were beginning to stir.

That day there were people working all around us, and one old chap,
with a red shirt on, was so ambitious about getting his turnips
lifted that I don't believe he even knocked off for noon. We thought
he would never quit at night either. We called him the "work-hog!"

In the afternoon, as we lay in the woods, an old man, a shepherd,
came with a flock of white sheep which followed close behind him.
The old man wore a velvet cloak, knee breeches, and buckles on his
shoes, and he had a sheep dog with him--a small-sized tricolored,
rough-haired collie. It was exactly like a picture! We were not in
any mood to enjoy the beauty of it, for some of the sheep wandered
through the wood, almost stepping on us, and when the shepherd came
after them, he must have seen us. But the old man belonged to the
peaceful past, and knew nothing of wars and prisoners, so went out of
the wood as quietly as he came. He was as innocent-looking as the
sunshine, or the white clouds in the blue sky!

Still, we were two suspicious men who trusted no one, and we thought
it best to move. I took the potatoes in my sack, and Ted, to be ready
for emergencies, provided a stout, knotted club for himself, and we
stole out of the wood, being careful to keep it between us and the
"work-hog," who never lifted his eyes--but still we took no chances,
even on him!

There was a better wood a short distance away, and to it we came. We
saw nobody, and, coming into a dark cover, lit a fire, for we thought
the smoke would not rise to the tops of the trees. On it we roasted
our remaining potatoes, and we got a drink in a narrow, trickling
stream.

We started again, at dark, and before long came to a railway, which,
according to our map, was the line which runs parallel to the river
Ems. We knew we were coming near the Ems, and at the thought of it,
drew a long breath. It seemed a long time since we had stood on its
bank before and heard the sounds from across the Holland border. We
kept going all night, avoiding the roads, and about three o'clock
reached the river. There it was!--a much smaller river than when
we had last seen it, but plenty large enough yet to fill us with
apprehension. We found a good hiding-place before daylight, and then
went back to a potato-field we had passed, and put about a pailful in
our sacks before settling down for the day in the wood.

Just before dawn we made our fire and roasted the potatoes. They
tasted fine, and as the day was warm and bright, we began to feel
more cheerful. That day we heard the deep-booming whistles of
steamboats, and the shriller notes of the canal-boats. Although we
knew the river boats were passing up and down just below us, we
restrained our curiosity and stayed closely hidden.

Just before it got dark we crept to the edge of the high ground
overlooking the river. The other side of the river was flat, and
seemed to be settled. I knew from a map I had seen that there was
a canal a short distance beyond the river, and that it, too, would
have to be crossed.

Looking down to the water's edge, we saw a fence enclosing some
pasture land, and were glad to see another gate, for we wanted a
raft for our clothes, and we thought this would do. It was a heavy
brute of a gate. We could hardly launch it. Perhaps we were getting
weaker--that may have been the reason it seemed so heavy. Anyway,
when we got it to the water's edge, we had to rest before undertaking
to swim the river. The current was not so strong as we had feared,
and we reached the other side in safety.

We did not pull up the gate, but let it go drifting down the stream.
Perhaps this also is accounted for by the fact that we were getting
weaker: also, we considered that we were harder pressed for time than
the German farmer--he could make another gate.

After we had dressed and had walked for about an hour, we came to the
canal. Unfortunately for our purpose, the night was clear and the
stars were out in thousands, and, to make matters worse, the young
moon, just a crescent, but still capable of giving some light, came
out. We had been longer than we expected on our journey, and now, at
the most critical time of it, when there was the greatest need of
caution, we had moonlight nights to face! Still, every night was
getting worse than the last, so we must go forward with all speed.

The canal was about sixty feet wide, and I felt certain it would be
guarded, for it was so near the border. We went to the edge, and
looked across--and then up and down--to see if we could find any
trace of a guard; everything was quiet.

We knew it was a time for great haste. We went back quickly and
undressed. I grabbed my bundle and let myself cautiously into the
water, taking care not to make the slightest splash. When I reached
the other side, I threw my clothes on the sand and came back far
Ted--he was waiting for me. I took his clothes, and together we swam
across!

We got quietly out of the water. I picked up my own bundle, and we
started for the trees on the other side of the road. There was an
excavation there where sand had been taken out. Seeing it, we slipped
into it noiselessly. We were not a moment too soon, for when we stood
still and listened, we heard the regular footsteps of a man, and in
twenty seconds the patrol marched by! Then we dressed and got out of
our fortunate hiding-place, and went on.

We still had a couple of hours before daylight, but the danger was
growing greater every minute, for we knew we were approaching the
border. At that thought our hearts beat wild with hope. The border
would be guarded--there was nothing surer--any minute we might be
challenged. We had talked it over, and were determined to make a dash
for it if that happened. The patrol would shoot, but there was a
chance he might not shoot straight; he would hardly get us both!

Soon we came to a marsh, with an edge of peat, and as we advanced we
saw the peat was disappearing, and it did not look good ahead. The
moonlight showed us a grassy mat, level as the top of a lake, and
without a shrub or tree to indicate a solid bottom. It was evidently
a quaking bog, a hidden lake, and only the fear behind us drove us
on. It swayed beneath our feet, falling as we stepped on it fully a
foot, and rising again behind us. There would be little danger of
guards here, for the place would be considered impassable--and maybe
it was--we should see!

Our feet were light--fear gave them wings--and we raced over the
bending, swaying, springing surface! The moon was not bright enough
for us to pick our steps--there was no picking, anyway--it was a
matter of speed! At every step the grass mat went below the surface
of the water, and we could feel it rising over our boot-tops--cold
and horrible. If we had hesitated a second, I know we should have
gone through; but we had every reason for haste. Behind us was the
enemy--cruel, merciless, hateful--with their stolid faces and their
black cells. Under us--was death. Before us--was freedom--home--and
the ones we love!

At the other side there was more peat, some of it cut and piled.
We were puffing hard from our exertions, but were afraid to rest a
second. The border must be near!

In a few minutes after leaving the bog we came to a small canal,
which surprised me--there had been no other canal indicated on any
map I had seen. It puzzled me for a minute; then a great joy swept
over me! The maps I had seen were maps of Germany. This canal must be
in Holland!

But I did not say this to Ted, for I wasn't sure. We undressed
again--the third time that night--and swam the canal, and, dressing
again, went on. Soon we found a finely settled country, with roads
which improved as we went on, all the time. There were no trees, but
the darkness still held, and we kept going. Toward morning we took
refuge in a thicket, and spent the day.

That day was September 9th, and although we thought we were in
Holland, we were not sure enough to come out and show ourselves. So
we lay low, and ate the green apples that we had found on a tree
between the river and the canal the night before. We slept a little,
though too excited to sleep much.

Beside the thicket where we were hidden, a boy worked in a field with
a fine team of horses, ploughing stubble. We tried to listen to what
he said to his team, to see if there was any change from the German
"Burrrrrrsh," but he was a silent youth, and so far as we could make
out, said never a word all day. So we could not prove it by him!

But the good horses gave us hope--horses were scarce in Germany!

At dusk we started out again, and kept going straight west, for one
fear still tormented us. Our maps showed us that one part of Germany
projects into Holland, and for this reason we kept straight west, to
avoid all danger of running into it; for the uncomfortable thought
would come that to escape from Germany and then walk into it again
would make us feel foolish--not to mention other emotions.

It seemed to be a fine country that we were going through, and the
walking was easy, although we were not on a road. I had been telling
Ted that the first railway we came to would be a single-tracked one,
with dirt ballast, and then we should be sure we were in Holland. I
had seen this railroad on the map, and knew it was a few miles from
the border. To me, this would be sufficient proof that we were safely
out of Germany.

Soon we saw a fringe of houses ahead, and we thought we were coming
near a canal, for we were in the country of canals now, and the
houses are built on their banks. There were lights in a few of the
houses, for it was only about eleven o'clock, and some of the people
were still up. The houses looked to be rather good ones, and they
were built in a row. It was the backs of them we were approaching,
which we did with extreme caution, for we had no desire to have some
snarling dog discover us and give the alarm.

So intent were we, watching the houses for any sign of life, that we
did not see what was just before us until we had walked up to it.
Then we saw--

It was a railroad, single-tracked, with dirt ballast!

Without a word, Ted and I shook hands! We were in Holland!



CHAPTER XXIII

OUT


Immediately we set out to find a road. There would be no more
skulking through fields for us. We were free again, entitled to all
the privileges of road and bridge.

We soon found a good wagon-road leading to a bridge over the canal.
Across the bridge we boldly went, caring nothing for the houses at
our right and left, whose windows were lighted and whose dogs may
have been awake for all we cared. It seemed wonderful to be able to
walk right in the middle of the road again! Ted said he wanted to
sing, but I advised him to curb the desire. We were a little hazy as
to the treatment accorded prisoners by a neutral country.

We still kept west, thinking of the bulge in the German boundary to
the south of us. The road was smooth and hard, and we felt so good
that we seemed to be able to go as fast as we liked. Fatigue and
hunger were forgotten. A man on a bicycle rode past us and shouted
a greeting to us, to which we replied with a good, honest English
"Good-night," instead of the sullen grunt we had hitherto been using
to hide our nationality.

Cows were plentiful that night, and we got apples, too, from the
orchards near the road. The only thing that troubled us was that our
road had turned southwest, and we were afraid that it might lead
us into the little strip of Germany. However, we went on a short
distance.

Then we came to a place where there were many canals, some of them
very large, and the straggling houses seemed to indicate a town.
Afterwards we knew it was the town called Nieuwstadskanaal.

We took a poor road, leading west, and followed it over a heather
moor, which changed after a mile or two into a peat-bog with piles of
peat recently cut. We kept on going, until about five o'clock in the
morning we came to a house. It looked desolate and unoccupied, and
when we got close to it we found that it had been badly damaged by
fire. But it made a good shelter for us, and we went into what had
been the living-room, and lay down and slept. The floor was even and
dry; it was the best bed we had had for twenty nights, and, relieved
as we were from the fear of detection, we slept for hours.

        *       *       *

When we awakened, the sun was pouring in at the curtainless windows,
and we were as hungry as bears. "Now for a potato-feed," Ted said,
looking out of the window at a fine field of potatoes across the
road. The field had been reclaimed from the peat-bog, and some of the
potatoes had already been dug and put into pits.

In looking around for material to light a fire, I saw scraps of
newspapers, which I examined closely and found they were Dutch papers,
one bearing the name of "Odoorn" and the other "Nieuwstadskanaal."
This supported us in our belief that we were in Holland.

We got potatoes from the field and roasted them in the fire which we
built in the fireplace.

A young Hollander, fired with curiosity, came to the door and looked
in at us. We hailed him with delight and asked him to come right
in, and be one of us! He came in rather gingerly, looking at us
wide-eyed, and we were sorry to find he could not speak English.
There were certain things we wanted to know!

We were drying our matches by the fire, for they had become rather
damp, and our supply was getting low. Also our tobacco was done. So
we said, "Tabac," showing him our empty pipes, and from the pocket
of his coat he brought out a pouch, and we filled our pipes. I don't
know whether he knew we had been prisoners or not. He drifted out in
a few minutes, but I think he told others about us, for after we had
had our smoke, and had gone to the canal to fix up, we found some
interested spectators.

At the canal we washed, shaved, cleaned our teeth, combed our hair,
and went as far as we could in getting ready to see people. Ted had
his Canadian soldier's tunic, with the regular prisoner's dark-blue
trousers such as the British Red Cross supplies. His tunic was torn
in several places and his hair was unkempt and in need of cutting. He
had cut the heels out of his boots, several days before, because they
hurt him. I had the regular prisoner's suit, dark-blue cloth, and had
cut off the yellow stripe which had been sewed down the legs of the
trousers; I had also cut off my prison number. My boots had held
well, and there was not even a hole in my socks. My hair was getting
shaggy, and I suppose we were both looking fairly tough. Our clothes
were wrinkled and crushed and dirty.

        *       *       *

There was one older man who watched us, with many exclamations of
friendliness, who, when we had concluded our efforts, made us
understand that he wanted us to come with him to have something to
eat. He could speak no English, but he made us understand. We went
back to the deserted house, gathered up our things, and went with
him. Two young fellows came along, too, and we were taken to a
canal-boat near by.

The woman who waited on the breakfast table in the canal-boat, and
served us with rye-bread, margarine, and coffee, gave us hard
looks, which made us think her heart was still in the fatherland.
Conversation was naturally difficult, because no one of them could
speak English, but we began to ask about Rotterdam, for we knew that
that would be the port from which we should sail, and we were anxious
to know how to get there. One of the young men, a fine-looking fellow
with a frank, pleasing countenance, said something and made gestures,
which made us think he would take us there in his boat.

We started out with him and his companion, not sorry to leave the
sour-faced lady who glared at us, and walked along the road beside
the canal. We were on the outskirts of Odoorn, a town whose chief
industry is the shipping of peat. It being Sunday, nobody was
working, and the people, especially the children, came out to see
us. The young man took us to one of the houses and introduced us to
his father and mother, who welcomed us kindly and wanted us to have
something to eat. But we declined.

We were then taken by him along the road, and the crowd of children
that followed us seemed to be growing bigger every minute. Our
friend, anxious apparently to do the proper thing, took out his
mouth-organ and played "It's a Long Way to Tipperary"--and it
certainly hit the spot with us.

He conducted us to the home of the gendarme--and for a minute our
old fear of being interned came back to us! The gendarme was plainly
bored--he had been having a Sunday-afternoon sleep, and had not
finished it. He yawned as he spoke.

The young man talked to him very earnestly, and at last he invited
us in. Up to this time we had not heard a word of English. The
gendarme's wife, a nice-looking, well-dressed woman, brought in a
tray and gave us tea, and little cakes with seeds on them, and soon
a young man who could speak English came in to act as interpreter.

He began to question us, but we soon turned the conversation by
questioning him. We asked him if there was any danger of our being
interned? He told us we could be interned if we liked, but we
hastened to assure him we should not like it.

Then he said we could stay in Holland and work, but again we
declined. We wanted to go to England, we said.

He tried to dissuade us. Why go to England? That would mean going
back into the army. Holland was the best and safest place!

We insisted that we wanted to go to England, and he warned us that if
we wanted to change our minds we must do it now; because we couldn't
change after we had "signed the paper." We were still sure we wanted
to go!

The gendarme then went upstairs and came down in his uniform and took
us out with him. We didn't know where he was taking us, but supposed
it was to some place to make arrangements for our passage to England.
When we came out of the house we found some women gathered there
waiting for us, and a very poorly dressed woman, with a fine face,
stepped up and gave us a small sum of money, which she had evidently
collected for us. We thanked her warmly, and with sincere gratitude.
Then we set out across country about four miles to Borger, where we
were taken to the Burgomaster's house.

The Burgomaster's house was one of the best in the little town, and
when we went in, we found there a young man, evidently calling on the
daughter of the house, and he could speak English.

We were taken downtown to the Burgomaster's office, and official
papers were made out, and we signed them. This was what the
gendarme's interpreter had been telling us, about not being able to
change our minds after we had signed the paper!

The Burgomaster evidently told the gendarme to take us to the hotel
and have us fed, and by this time, after our walk, we were quite
ready for something. When we offered them money for our meal--which
was a good one--it was politely refused.

We were then taken to the home of one of the Borgen gendarmes where
we stayed for the night. His name was H. Letema. We ate with the
family and were treated with great kindness. The white bread and
honey which we had for tea were a great treat to us. One of the other
gendarmes gave Ted a pair of socks, and he was able to discard the
strips of underwear. We had a bed made of straw, with good blankets,
and it seemed like luxury to us.

The next morning Mr. Letema gave us each a postal-card addressed to
himself, and asked us to write back telling him when we had safely
reached England. Then another gendarme walked with us to Assen, which
seemed to be a sort of police headquarters. We stayed there all day.

In the afternoon a Belgian girl came to see us, and although I tried
hard to understand what she said, she talked so fast I could not
follow her, although I knew a little French. She brought us some
cigars, and we could see she wanted to show us her friendliness. When
she went away, I deeply regretted my ignorance of the French
language. But the Belgian girl came back in a little while,
accompanied by a Holland woman who could speak English, and then we
found out about her.

She had fled from Antwerp at the time of the bombardment, and was
supporting herself by needlework at Assen, where she was the only
Belgian person, and I suppose she was tired of "neutrals" and wanted
to see us because we were of the Allies. She urged us to tell her
what she could do for us, and we asked her for some postal-cards, so
we could tell our friends that we had escaped. She sent them to us by
her friend the interpreter, who also gave us some English books and a
box of cigars.

That night a young gendarme took us upstairs to his room, which was
nicely decorated with flags and pennants, and he told us the Germans
could never conquer Holland, for they would cut the dykes--as they
had done before. He showed us the picture of his fiancée, and proudly
exhibited the ring she had given him.

The next day we were taken by another gendarme to Rotterdam by train,
passing through Utrecht and in sight of the Zuider Zee. Arriving
there, we were taken to the alien officer, who questioned us and
wrote down what we told him. Then the gendarme took us to the British
Consul, and left us there. The Consul shook hands with us and
congratulated us on our escape, and put us in charge of a
Vice-Consul, who was a Hollander.

We stayed at the "Seaman's Rest," which was in the same building as
the British Consulate. There we met two Americans, who were very
friendly and greatly interested in our escape. They encouraged us to
talk about the prison-camps, and of what we had seen in Germany, but
it was not long until we became suspicious and careful in our
answers. One of them had an American passport, which seemed to let
him have the freedom of the city; the other one had no passport, and
complained that he could not get one, and it was causing him no end
of inconvenience, for he found it impossible to get a job at his
trade, which was that of "trimmer" on a vessel. He went every day to
the docks, looking for a job, and acquired considerable information
about ships and their time of sailing. At night, he and his friend
were together, and the knowledge was no doubt turned over.

Mr. Neilson, Superintendent of the Sailors' Institute, very kindly
invited us to go with him to The Hague, to see the Peace Temple, and
it was then that we made bold to ask for some spending money. The
Vice-Consul, the Hollander, was a thrift-fiend so far as other people
were concerned, and it was only after Mr. Neilson had presented our
claim, and we had used all the arguments we could think of, that we
got about two dollars each.

Our clothes--too--had not yet been replaced with new ones, and we
felt very shabby in our soiled uniforms. We mentioned this to the
Vice-Consul, and told him that we believed the Canadian Government
would stand by us to the extent of a new suit of clothes. He murmured
something about the expenses being very heavy at this time. We
ventured to remind him that the money would be repaid--Canada was
still doing business!

The next day our American friends invited us to go to a picture show
with them. We went, but at the door a gorgeously uniformed gentleman,
who looked like a cross between a butler and an admiral, turned us
back--that is, Ted and me. We had no collars on! The public had to be
protected--he was sorry, but these were his orders.

Then we sought the Vice-Consul and told him if he did not get us
decent clothes, we should go to the Consul. The next morning we got
the clothes!

        *       *       *

On the sixth night we sailed from Rotterdam, and the next morning, in
a hazy dawn, we sighted, with glad hearts, the misty shores of
England.

As we sailed up the Tyne, we saw war shops  being built, and women
among the workmen, looking very neat and smart in their working
uniforms. They seemed to know their business, too, and moved about
with a speed and energy which indicated an earnest purpose. Here was
another factor which Germany had not counted on--the women of the
Empire! Germany knew exactly how many troops, how many guns, how many
ships, how much ammunition England had; but they did not know--never
could know--the spirit of the English people!

They saw a country which seethed with discontent--Hyde Park agitators
who railed at everything British, women who set fire to empty
buildings, and destroyed mail-boxes as a protest against unfair
social conditions--and they made the mistake of thinking that these
discontented citizens were traitors who would be glad of the chance
to stab their country to the heart. They knew that the average
English found golf and cricket much more interesting than foreign
affairs, so they were not quite prepared for that rush of men to the
recruiting offices at the first call for volunteers! Englishmen may
abuse their own country, but it is a different matter when the enemy
is at the door. So they came,--the farmer, the clerk, the bank boy,
the teacher, the student, the professional man, the writer, the
crossing-sweeper, the cab-man,--high and low, rich and poor, old and
young, they flocked to the offices, like the land-seekers in the West
who form queues in front of the Homestead offices, to enter their
land.

I thought of these first recruits--the "contemptible little
army"--who went over in those first terrible days, and,
insufficiently equipped as they were, went up against the
overwhelming hosts of Germany with their superior numbers and
equipment that had been in preparation for forty years.... and how
they held back the invaders--though they had but one shell to the
Germans' hundred--by sheer force of courage and individual bravery...
and with such losses. I thought of these men as I stepped on the
wharf at Newcastle, and it seemed to me that every country lane in
England and every city street was hallowed by the unseen presence of
the glorious and unforgotten dead!



CONCLUSION


I have been at home for more than a year now, and cannot return to
the front. Apparently the British Government have given their word to
the neutral countries that prisoners who escape from Germany, and are
assisted by the neutral countries, will not be allowed to return to
the fighting line. So even if my shoulder were well again, I could
not go back to fight.

Ted and I parted in London, for I came back to Canada before he did.
He has since rejoined his family in Toronto. I have heard from a
number of the boys in Germany. Bromley tried to escape again, but was
captured, and is now at a camp called Soltau. John Keith and Croak
also tried, but failed. Little Joe, the Italian boy who enlisted with
me at Trail, has been since exchanged--insane! Percy Weller, Sergeant
Reid, and Hill, brother of the British Reservist who gave us our
first training, have all been exchanged.

        *       *       *

I am sorry that I cannot go back. Not that I like fighting--for I do
not; but because I believe every man who is physically fit should
have a hand in this great clean-up--every man is needed! From what
I have seen of the German people, I believe they will resist
stubbornly, and a war of exhaustion will be a long affair with a
people so well trained and organized. The military class know well
that if they are forced to make terms unfavorable to Germany, their
power will be gone forever, and they would rather go down to defeat
before the Allied nations than be overthrown by their own people.
There is no doubt that the war was precipitated by the military class
in Germany because the people were growing too powerful. So they
might as well fight on, with a chance of victory, as to conclude an
unsatisfactory peace and face a revolution.

The German people have to be taught one thing before their real
education can begin. They have to be made to see--and the Allied
armies are making it plainer every day--that war is unprofitable;
that their army, great though it is, may meet a greater; that heavy
losses may come to their own country. They need to be reminded that
he that liveth by the sword may die by the sword!

The average German thinks that only through superior military
strength can any good thing come to a nation. All their lives they
have been taught that, and their hatred of England has been largely
a result of their fear of England's superior strength. They cannot
understand that England and the other Allies have no desire to
dominate German affairs. They do not believe that there is an ethical
side to this war. The Germans are pitifully dense to ethical values.
They are not idealists or sentimentalists, and their imagination is
not easily kindled.

Added to this, they have separated themselves from religion. Less
than two per cent of the men attend church, and if the extracts we
read from the sermons preached in their churches is a fair sample
of the teaching given there, the ninety-eight who stay at home are
better off than the two who go!

[Illustration: Post-Card sent by Private Bromley from the Prison-Camp
of Soltau, Germany, in July, 1918 / The crosses mark the graves of
prisoners who have died at this camp]

All these things have helped to produce a type of mind that is not
moved by argument or entreaty, a national character that has shown
itself capable of deeds of grave dishonesty and of revolting cruelty;
which cannot be forgotten--or allowed to go unpunished!

But if their faith in the power of force can be broken--and it may be
broken very soon--the end of the war will come suddenly.

        *       *       *

The people at home are interested and speculative as to the returned
soldiers' point of view. Personally, I believe that as the soldiers
went away with diversity of opinions, so will they come home, though
in a less degree. There will be a tendency to fusion in some
respects. One will be in the matter of coöperation; the civilian's
ideas are generally those of the individual--he brags about his
rights and resents any restriction of them. He is strong on grand old
traditions, and rejoices in any special privileges which have come to
him.

The soldier learns to share his comforts with the man next him; in
the army each man depends on the other--and cannot do without him:
there is no competition there, but only coöperation. If loss comes to
one man, or misfortune, it affects the others. If one man is poorly
trained, or uncontrolled, or foolish, all suffer. If a badly trained
bomber loses his head, pulls the pin of his bomb, and lets it drop
instead of throwing it, the whole platoon is endangered. In this way
the soldier unconsciously absorbs some of the principles of, and can
understand the reason for, discipline, and acquires a wholesome
respect for the man who knows his job.

He sees the reason for stringent orders in regard to health and
sanitation. He does not like to get into a dirty bath himself, and
so he leaves it clean for the next man. In other words, the soldier,
consciously or unconsciously, has learned that he is a part of a
great mass of people, and that his own safety, both commercially and
socially, depends on the proper disciplining of the whole people.

The returned soldier will take kindly to projects which tend to a
better equalization of duties, responsibilities, and pleasures. He
will be a great stickler for this; if he has to work, every one else
must work too. He will be hard against special privileges. He will be
strong in his insistence that our natural resources be nationalized.
He will go after all lines of industry now in the hands of large
corporations, and insist on national supervision if not actual
ownership.

In religion, he will not care anything about form. Denominationalism
will bore him, but the vital element of religion, brotherly love and
helping the other fellow, will attract him, wherever he finds it. He
knows that religion--he believes in it.

The political parties will never be able to catch him with their
worn-out phrases. Politicians had better begin to remodel their
speeches. The iniquities of the other party will not do. There must
be a breaking-out of new roads--old things have passed away!

The returned man will claim, above all things, honest dealing, and
for this reason the tricky politicians who "put it over" in the
pre-war days will not have so easy a time. "Guff" will not be well
received. The leaders on the battle-field have been men who could
look death in the face without flinching, so the political leaders
at home must be men of heroism, who will travel the path of
righteousness even though they see it leads by the way of the Cross!

        *       *       *

There is a hard road ahead of us, a hard, steep road of sacrifice,
and in it we must as a nation travel, although our feet are heavy and
our eyes are dim. The war must be won; human liberty is worth the
price--whatever the price may be!

We do not travel as those who have no hope, for we know, though we
cannot see it, that at the top of the mountain the sun is shining
on a cleaner, fairer, better world.

THE END





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Three Times and Out" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.