IXEscapes and Escapades

Only one officer ever escaped from Beeskow Camp, and he only by the dusty and tenebrous passage of Death. He was a Rumanian, and he actually succeeded in scaling the high wall encircling theLager, but fell off into the dried moat and broke his neck.

Tunnelling under the ancient wall was the method that seemed to hold out most promise of success, and a number of efforts were made in this direction. These were all detected, however, at various stages of the mining operations. One such discovery led to a regular hue and cry and the hunt up for possible “holes.” Three or fourPosten, one of whom put a facetious finger to the side of his nose, came clattering into the reading-room on this errand, when we allheld up our feet to facilitate matters! In explanation of the gaping hole found behind a cupboard in one of the dormitories “rats” were suggested.

A newFeldwebelwho came to the camp seemed to have received strict injunction to look daily at the bars of the windows to make certain that there had been no tampering with them overnight. Thus he had a habit of dropping in at unexpected moments to the library, the dining-hall, or the dormitories, but always with an air of looking for some one or something else. Assuredly he did not wish to impute to us the using upon the windows of anything so unfriendly as a file.

One morning he came suddenly into our room, walked awkwardly and self-consciously to the window, by which was standing a deck chair; then, casting a quick, sidelong glance at the barred pane, he said smilingly in German, “A very good chair,” and so departed.

THE MARIENKIRCHE, BEESKOW

ThisFeldwebel, by the way, although he arrived in July, came in like a lion, and went out like a lamb, turning out to be the gentlestGerman of them all. He was black-bearded as Thor or Odin, and at his first parade, on the appearance of the Commandant and staff, he bellowed “Ach-tung!” in a stentorian voice, which, if it did not make us shake in our shoes, certainly caused us to smile in our sleeves. Even the camp officers were amused, and Lieut. Kruggel laughed outright. Next morning the poorFeldwebel’s“Ach-tung!” was so subdued and so robbed of its virility, that it was more stimulating to our risible faculties than that of the day before. He had obviously been requested to modify his powerful “word of command.”

One day I had been sketching the interior of the Marienkirche at Beeskow, a sentry with loaded rifle sitting by me in the silent church. He informed me that he also was an artist, but with his feet and not his hands, and that he had danced at the London Hippodrome. That night, after roll-call, the German, Lieutenant Stark, expressed a desire to see the drawing.

As it was dark, I practically impelled him for a few paces to the arc-lamp at the gate, at the very moment when three Captains courageously made an effort to pass through the building used as an office, which gives on to the garden, from whence access to the road would have been comparatively easy. A further diversion was created by a Lieutenant falling down in the court as if in a fit, though this was nothing but a feint. The office was occupied by Germans, however, and, softly and politely closing the door behind them, the trio turned back. Captain Brown, by reason of his great stature—he was six feet six inches—was readily recognized, and next morning the three officers were brought up for attempting to escape, and sentenced to three days’ confinement in the “Tower.”

Imprisonment in this old strong place, by the way, was not looked upon as a very grievous punishment. In fact, but for the disability of being deprived of the daily walk, it was an improvement on our ordinary condition. The prisoner had a room, a bed, a table, and a chair to himself; a lamp, whichhe could keep burning long after “lights out,” and meals sent up to him by a member of his mess punctually at the appointed times. Then, as librarian, I allowed certain latitudes in the supply of literature. To Captain Brown, as appropriate to his position, I sent Tighe Hopkins’ “Dungeons of Old Paris”; then, relenting, and remembering that he was a Scot and an Edinburgh man, I followed this up immediately by Stevenson’s “The Master of Ballantrae.”

THE LATE LIEUT. W. L. ROBINSON, V.C. (A FELLOW-PRISONER AT BEESKOW LAGER)

Another bid for freedom was made by Captain R., to whom for the purpose I lent a red neckerchief and a civilian cap, which had somehow escaped the authoritative eye and got through to me. R.’s scheme was to secrete himself under a table covered with a blanket, at which a quartette was playing a belated game of “Bridge” in the court under one of the lamps and in close proximity to the barbed fence, cut the wire, and lie hid in the shrubbery until such time as he might find opportunity of passing out of the gate.

We had just sat down to dinner, when the violent ringing of theAppellbellannounced to us that the plot had been detected. Next morning I met a German soldier carrying a yard or two of barbed wire—like a line newly baited—with which to replace the cutting made by the Captain, and at parade a camp order was read notifying all concerned that no more tables or chairs would be permitted in the courtyard. Almost immediately thereafter, amid the groans of the British officers, began a ruthless cutting down of the few shrubs and saplings which adorned the yard and which could conceivably afford us any hiding.

Even Lieut. Kruggel’s sunflowers and creepers, which provided a hedge of privacy for his little cottage, had to be sacrificed, to his great distress and disgust. In the afternoon three pumpkins sat forlornly upon the three steps of the Lieutenant’s cottage, all that had been left to him of horticultural adornment!

On another evening in October an officer, disguised as a GermanPosten, boldly approached the gate with the somewhat optimistic hope that he would be permitted to pass out unchallenged. He was detected bythe sentry, however, and came running back, taking off his disguise as he fled. When the guards ultimately reached his room for a search, he was playing “Patience.” Before making his venture he returned me his library book, which, I observed with interest, was the Iliad. Unhappily, there was to be no Odyssey for him on this occasion.

One morning at breakfast a civilian arrived in the dining-hall, accompanied by a sentry, to execute some repairs upon the gas stoves. He turned his back for a moment; thePostenis reported to have looked lovingly and longingly into a pot of rice, and lo, presto! a couple of pairs of pincers belonging to the plumber had disappeared. No trace of what they called the “tongs” being forthcoming before morning roll-call, a search was instituted, during which time, except for the senior officer of each room, we were excluded from our quarters. The pincers were discovered next day, but for two mornings we were deprived of our walks abroad.

There is a piece of music of amazing eccentricity and extravagance, yclept “By Heck,” by Henri. It is what is known as a “Fox Trot,” and, as recorded for the gramophone, is played by the Metropolitan Band. We were sufficiently mischievous one morning to arrange that it commence its erratic riot at an open window immediately the word “Achtung!” from theFeldwebelannounced the arrival of the Commandant on parade.

The scheme worked beyond wildest imaginings. One blow from the hammer upon the old coulter, and we tumbled out—and fell in. Simultaneously with the second stroke the door of the Commandant’s room opened, and he emerged, for all the world after the fashion of the little male figure which used to issue from the old-fashioned weather-house when the day promised fine, or foul, I forget which. It was certainly to be foul this morning.

CARICATURE OF THE CAMP COMMANDANT.By a Rumanian officer.

“Achtung!” We came to the salute, and simultaneously there came a burst of mirthful music from the window. The effect on the Commandant was electrical. Heshook his fist at the open window, and in two or three seconds had as many convulsed sentries tearing up the stairs to stop the ribald strains. Meanwhile, with thumping of timpani, drum-tap, cat-call, cock-crow, whistle, and motor-horn, the gramophone ground out its litany, until at last it was pulled up with a jerk. The Commandant had the instrument commandeered and sequestered in the tower, but later, yielding to the plausibilities of Lieut. D., he returnedit. “I think I like theatre better in the morning,” was the new interpreter’s comment.

The mere sight of our somewhat careless parade seemed sometimes sufficient to throw the Commandant into a frenzy. One morning a Lieutenant was caught smoking by the old man, who swung his arms furiously, and passed sentence of three days’ confinement in the tower. To relieve the tedium the prisoner must have taken a flute with him, for towards evening melancholy notes floated from the barred window, the air being “The Close of a Perfect Day!”

On a certain day in August, the result doubtless of our continual complaint as to conditions in theLager, His Excellency General Waldhausen, Inspector of Prisoner of War Camps, paid us a visit. Rather a soldierly type this old General, with gruffness and kindliness apparently continually contending for the mastery. He shook hands with the Colonel and some of the senior officers, and asked the name of each of the others—to what purpose I cannotconceive, as most of these names could convey nothing to him.

“His Excellency wishes that you are to gather round!” Thus the interpreter. We gathered round very intimately, something to His Excellency’s dismay, who had not anticipated such an encircling movement.

Then His Excellency opened his mouth and spoke to us, and signalled with his hand to the interpreter. The interpreter looked more than usually pallid, and more than usually uncomfortable. He began in trembling tones: “His Excellency wishes—His Excellency wishes—His Excellency wishes you to know that we consider you no longer our enemies.”

His Excellency casts glances, first at the interpreter, then at us, to see whether his magnanimity has been rightly understood.

Then he talks again, and the interpreter, with knocking at the knees and dismay in the eyes, essays to interpret.

“His Excellency wishes—His Excellency wishes—that you do obey strictly the prescriptions of the camp.” The staff smile; His Excellency looks suspicious. “Have theyrightly understood?” One of the staff suggests to him that some of the English officers are laughing. Gruffness predominates at once.

The interpreter, more visibly nervous than ever, is incited to try again. “His Excellency wishes—His Excellency wishes—His Excellency wishes that——”

His Excellency fumes; His Excellency wishes that the poor interpreter—now almost in a state of collapse—commit his message to paper before he commit further indiscretions. There is a lengthy confabulation and concoction of phrase, and ultimately the interpreter reads stammeringly:

“His Excellency wishes you to know that he considers you as no longer our enemies. His Excellency wishes you to know that he will do everything he can possibly for your comforts. His Excellency wishes you to strictly observe the prescriptions of the camp.” Thereafter His Excellency gives audience, and, as a result, it is understood that a card system of parole will be adopted; that an effort will be made to combat the plague of fleas, and that otherwise there will be immediate reform.

NARROW ALLEY, BEESKOW.

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